When I wasn’t wondering why Julie McIntyre had so decisively curb-stomped my 10th-grader heart, I spent most of high school working kitchen duty at Gaylord Hospital in my quintessentially suburban Connecticut hometown of Wallingford, or “Wally-world,” as all the cool kids called it.

I recently learned that one of my esteemed colleagues, a man who surpassed all others in terms of sheer grime, is on a leave of absence because he’s dying of alcoholism. For the sake of anonymity, we’ll call him “Peter Magnum,” which is coincidentally the pen name I use when writing erotic fiction. And although I can hardly think of Sir Magnum’s lack of hygiene without shivering so violently that people mistake me for a Missouri campaign ad, at the same time, he deserves our utmost respect.

Pete was a husky man of about 55 who smoked Camels so relentlessly that his moustache was constantly stained yellow, and he could run circles around the rest of us when it came to pot scrubbing. I always scored higher on employee reviews, though, because I actually lathered up with soap once in a while. One might think that any self-respecting kitchen worker would diligently follow hand-washing guidelines, but Pete was a rebel of sorts in that respect. I don’t remember seeing him do it once.

In all likelihood, he could have gotten away with such neglect if he’d ever worn gloves when stripping uneaten food off of the patient trays … but, alas, no cigar. Pete was unashamed by the fact that the oft-regurgitated leftovers of geriatric stroke victims’ pancakes were lodged under his finger nails, and guess what he didn’t do in between this gloveless fiasco and the subsequent putting-away of clean dishes? That’s right! Wash his hands.

However, no one could deny that Pete’s work ethic was incredible. He restocked milk cartons to the brim, which is always commendable in the food service industry, and his mastery of steam table mechanics made me wonder if he was more intelligent than previously indicated. It wasn’t hard to imagine that there was something deeper swirling around in ol’ Pete’s head when you’d walk outside after breakfast and find him at the edge of the loading dock, his Camel smoke painting shadow puppets on the early morning asphalt while he aimed a 1,000-yard Marine stare at … the employee daycare across the street. Um, never mind.

He consistently smelled like fermented crotch.

But I list the failings of a dying man for a reason: Pete just didn’t give a fuck. He was chided many times for his endeavors in filth, but he waltzed in the next day smelling worse and contaminating more food than ever. This was the freest man I’ve ever encountered, even if such freedom came at the expense of my olfactory sense, and for this I salute him. We hardly knew ye, Peter Magnum, but at least you won’t die without ever having your balls licked by a prostitute — a fact that, bless your heart, you had no problem declaring to a roomful of co-workers.

– Greg Narajka is a freshman English major. If he were you, he wouldn’t eat hospital food.