He came.
He stood.
He supervised.

A quiet baby.
An alarming presence.

Family accounts describe Gary as a quiet baby. He slept well. Ate well. Required a concrete pad.

His first word was “Pending.”

While other babies reached for a rattle, Gary reached for a chain of command. His nursery mobile had four ducks and a clearly documented reporting structure. One duck was on probation.

At preschool, he refused to color outside the lines, then opened an investigation into who had drawn them. For show-and-tell he brought a clipboard. There was nothing on it. Several children nevertheless improved their behavior.

He showed an early gift for standing. By age three, he was standing at a level usually associated with monuments.

His mother hoped he would become a doctor. Gary felt that involved too much moving between rooms.

A splashy career.
Limited upward mobility.

In Gary’s telling, his years at Rexburg Rapids began with a simple mission: stand beside the lazy river and spray people who had made peace with being dry.

He approached the job with discipline. Children passed. Parents passed. Inflatable tubes passed. Gary maintained his post and treated every single one as a training opportunity.

He developed a signature technique called “You Thought You Were Out of Range.”

Visitors laughed and screamed. Gary recorded this as strong community engagement. He called the water pressure his “outreach budget.”

He never took a lunch break. This was less impressive after someone pointed out that he did not eat lunch.

The lazy river taught him patience, persistence, and that if you wait long enough, the same employee will come around again.

For a while, that was enough. Then somebody said he had been doing a great job and Gary made the mistake of believing this was a promotion track.

One autumn.
One vacancy.
No vacancy, actually.

One autumn, the Robinson family began preparing Christmas lights at the Rapids. Gary observed ladders. Extension cords. People saying “almost done” in a tone that suggested a deeply flexible relationship with time.

A clear leadership vacuum.

His application consisted of a single sentence: “I understand you have an outdoor operation.” His cover letter was the same sentence, bolded.

He conducted his own interview. Asked himself where he saw himself in five years. Answered “here.” Strong eye contact. Hired on the spot.

The Robinsons discovered the appointment when a meeting invitation arrived titled “Quick Alignment.” It was ninety minutes long.

His first act was to rename “standing around” as “site observation.” His second was to ask every extension cord to identify its five-year goals.

His third was to establish the Department of Twinkle Assurance, staffed by himself and a traffic cone he described as “promising.”

The cone has since been promoted. Please respect its privacy.

The hiring arrangement now includes exposure, a statue for a supervisor, and non-negotiable donuts. Gary would like to clarify that the donuts report directly to him.

A natural leader.
Of deeply patient people.

Gary has reviewed every bulb without learning how electricity works.

“I don’t need to know how it works,” he explains. “I need to know who reports to me.”

His first customer-facing assignment was the ticket window. The show is free. Gary proposed twelve dollars.

We explained that “free” meant no charge. Gary nodded, wrote “pricing resistance” on his clipboard, and asked whether the twelve dollars included parking.

Later, he claimed a seat at a comedy show without paying for it. He described the visit as a mandatory site inspection. His expense report listed “being present.”

His greatest challenge remains the music. When the lights move to the beat, Gary suspects coordinated insubordination. When they stop, he suspects low morale.

He is not difficult to work with. He is difficult to work around. The antlers make that literal.