A/N: This was going to be a Ginger/Professor fic. No, really, it was. But then Gilligan somehow worked his way in. This doesn't mean it's a love triangle story or anything. (There's only one woman for Gilligan and that's Mary Ann!) It's more of a story about how Gilligan and Ginger both disrupt the orderliness of Proffy's life in their very different ways.
I don't want to leave anyone out of the dedications, so this is for ALL of you. If your eyes are on this right now, that means you. (Milk Glass Chicky) :)
Chaos and Beauty
The Professor stared at the mess around him. Gilligan had done it again- destroyed an entire experiment. Everything lay strewn across the floor- bamboo pipes and tubes and coconut bowls and cups filled with liquids that now soaked into the sand and would have to be concocted all over again. Meanwhile Gilligan stood off to one side, twisting his hands together, his mouth opening and closing, momentarily speechless, shocked into silence by his own ability to cause such chaos, time and time again.
oOoOoOo
Journal of Prof. Roy Hinkley
Journal Entry April 9 1967
It's not Gilligan's fault that he's over-enthusiastic. In his eagerness to help he becomes all fingers and thumbs, then compounds the problem by knocking things over in a vain attempt to restore them to the way they were before he knocked them over. It's not Gilligan's fault that he's curious- for what is the driving force behind all scientists, if not the need to know? But surely some of the blame must lie at Gilligan's feet. The fact that he knows this happens every single time and yet he still does it. No matter how many times he's politely asked to stay away, the door to the Supply Hut flings open and in he comes, a flash of red, drawn to trouble like a magnet.
Today Gilligan outdid himself. Today he overturned the table completely. He went underneath it to retrieve something that wasn't even important- an empty bowl, for goodness sake- which he dropped when he tried to move it out of his way, which was in his way because he was standing too close to the table in the first place, which he was doing because Gilligan can't look at or observe anything without being right up in front of it, poking and prodding and picking things up that are nothing to do with him. And he does this, because while Gilligan is an affable, kind and friendly young man, his understanding of other people's personal space is limited. He stands right beside me, leaving me no room to manoeuvre, to think, or even to breathe. His hands get in the way of my hands, his non-stop chatter drives all rational thoughts from my own mind, until suddenly I find I'm thinking about bubblegum cards and sandcastles and ten foot long licorice whips and trying to work out a formula for inventing ice cream that won't melt in the sun instead of thinking about what I should be thinking about. Ways to get everyone off the island.
As my precious experiment tumbled off the table and disintegrated in slow motion before my eyes, and just as I was about to finally give him the piece of my mind I've been saving and saving for a time like this, Gilligan pulled that face. That face that says he's sorry, he's really sorry, he's really really sorry and it won't ever happen again. Ever. Never, ever. Because next time he'll sit quietly in the corner and he won't say a word, he'll just watch. Scout's Honour. He'll be good next time. You can count on it, Professor.
There is nothing you can say to that face that won't make you feel like you've entirely overreacted to the trouble he's caused. Because all he wanted to do was help. And even though I was reluctant to let him off the hook completely, I once again told Gilligan it was all right, the experiment wasn't important anyway, even though it was. I kept all the rest of my thoughts to myself, those thoughts that I knew might hurt him, those off-the-cuff remarks we all make and then instantly regret. The last thing I want to do is punish someone who only wants to make themselves useful. Or worse- to subdue the curiosity of someone who really, truly cares, despite the chaos that ensues wherever he goes.
Finally that face disappeared and Gilligan treated me to the other face. The one bursting with happiness and relief that I didn't yell at him to get lost like the Skipper might, to go find something else to do, something that would only get him chased away from there, too. The differences in the two faces are remarkable- as though a dark cloud has lifted away from the sun.
But still, I refused his offer to help clean up.
oOoOoOo
The Professor escorted Gilligan from the hut and closed the door firmly behind him, watching him pointedly from the window until he had gone. Then he turned around and faced the mess that the first mate had left behind. He shook his head sadly. Another whole day's effort wasted. It would take as long to clean the mess up as it had to set up the experiment in the first place. Everything had to be cleaned and sterilized and packed away in its proper place, and anything that had broken would need to be replaced. How one man, and not even a big man, could cause so much havoc was beyond his comprehension. Was it even measurable, the trouble Gilligan caused?
The Professor was on his knees putting his precious items back into a large box when he heard the Supply Hut door creak open.
"If that's you, Gilligan, I'll..." he began, not even looking up.
"You'll what?" came the voice from behind him, which was definitely not Gilligan's voice- not unless Gilligan had suddenly switched gender and learned the art of seduction in the half hour since he had been ejected from the hut.
The Professor looked back over his shoulder to see Ginger standing there in a classic photoshoot pose, her left hip turned towards him and her hand resting lightly on her thigh.
"Hello, Ginger," he smiled. "As you can see, Gilligan has already been here today."
oOoOoOo
Journal Entry April 9 1967
cont'd...
As if I didn't need any more distractions, she showed up.
I'm being terribly impolite of course, in referring to Ginger Grant, star of stage and screen, as 'she' in my introductory sentence. But in my opinion, there can be no better example of the pronoun 'she' (as the direct opposite of 'he'), than Ginger. She stood blocking the doorway like a red-haired Amazon in her gown with the slit up one leg, pinning me with those half-closed emerald eyes. She stood there with her red hair aflame, waiting for me to react like a chemical in a test tube to which a catalyst had been added.
I'm not saying that I'm emotionally affected by Ginger's beauty, rather I find it scientifically intriguing to such a degree that I cannot help but stare. I fear Ginger mistakes this for romantic interest on my part- rest assured it isn't. I have no more romantic interest in Ginger than I do in Mary Ann- or Mrs. Howell for that matter. Ginger Grant is a woman who just happens to have her physical attributes in just the right ratio and just the right proportions for her overall appearance to be deemed attractive by the general populace. (36- 22- 36, as it happens.)
It has also been scientifically proven that symmetrical features in an oval shaped face (at least in women), are what most people find attractive. These are scientific facts- whether I agree with them is not the issue, and I will heartily refute anyone who suggests otherwise.
Ginger saw me on my hands and knees and immediately offered her assistance. I told her it would not do for her to be crawling around on the floor getting her gown dirty. She thought about this for a moment and then agreed. Instead she held the box for me while I sifted through the wreckage, shaking her head in sympathy as I related the story of how it all happened. She said that I didn't need to tell her, that it was obvious from the moment she'd seen Gilligan skulking away from the hut and me shutting the hut door firmly behind him. There's never a moment's peace, is there Professor?
Ginger once confided in me that she thought she had wasted her life as an actress and should have done something more important, like being a nurse. But what Ginger doesn't realise is that even though she became an actress, her caring side is still there and it comes out at times like this, when she's helping me. She will happily stay with me all afternoon, setting up my 'props', as she calls them, and even donning one of my spare lab coats and pair of empty spectacle frames to get herself into character. She has no idea how touched I am by these gestures of hers. How impressed I am that she would go so far as to 'become' my assistant, to really throw herself into the part. I suppose it's one way for her to fulfil that other ambition she had, her ambition to be a nurse and help people. But I suspect she also does it because she wants to. I imagine she enjoys the challenges of the role.
I've listened to many of Ginger's stories about Hollywood and the men that pursued her there. I can't say that I particularly enjoy them all, but for the most part it sounds as though she handled herself rather well in that world of so-called glitz and glamour, where people are prepared to do anything for even a small taste of fame. I do think Ginger misses her old life greatly- the cameras, the adoring fans, the parties and the parade of different escorts, night after night after night. But sometimes, for purely selfish reasons, I find myself feeling rather glad that she's here, on the island, away from all that. Away from men who only want her as a beautiful trophy to boost their own egos. Away from a life that preys on young starlets like Ginger and can destroy them if they're not careful. I believe she's safer here, with people who care about her, where she isn't threatened daily by predatory movie producers and leading men flaunting their sexual virility.
oOoOoOo
The Professor put the last of the spilled items into the box that Ginger was holding and stood up, wincing as his legs and back muscles uncramped.
"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered with a lopsided grin.
"Don't be so silly," Ginger laughed. "There's years left in you, yet."
"Years that Gilligan is wearing away at quite a significant rate," the Professor smiled. He took the box from Ginger's outstretched arms. "Thank you for your help, Ginger. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Any time, Professor," she purred, heading for the door. "And don't worry about Gilligan knocking the years off you. I'd be more than happy to help put them back on!"
oOoOoOo
Journal Entry April 9 1967
cont'd...
Ginger let me take the box and went to the door as if to leave. I made a casual remark about Gilligan taking years off my life and she replied that she'd be 'more than happy to help put them back on'. I stood there with the box hugged against my chest and thanked her again, and she asked me if I knew what she meant.
I told her I believed I did know what she meant. That she could help rebuild what Gilligan had destroyed. She laughed at that, and shook her head. You're funny, Professor, she said. One day I'll show you what I meant.
Although I was still slightly puzzled, I decided to join in with her little joke. I told her I looked forward to it. She stared at me for a moment, and then her smile grew wide with delight. As she went out the door she wiggled those well-proportioned hips and blew me a kiss, leaving me with an imprint on my mind that turned into a sudden, rather unexpected burst of imagination that made me realise exactly what she meant.
Startled, I dropped the box. As I watched in dismay as all of the contents spilled out and redistributed themselves across the floor, I found myself profoundly grateful that neither Gilligan nor Ginger were there to see me do it.
End