At one time in my past I was witness to the systematic torture and abuse of new employees in a manufacturing environment. The initiated would always initiate the new blood.

Speaking of blood, one of these rites involved having a hemophiliac girl sort broken silicon wafers (glass) and rusted razor blades that had been discarded during the manufacturing process. There was no sense to it—no reason behind it—it was something that was done to pass the time during our long journey into an otherwise boring twelve hour shift through the wee hours of the night. Sure, there were innocent things: filling up the drinking fountain by carrying huge buckets of water from a spigot conveniently located far, far away from the fountain so we would have time to laugh in between trips. Filling it up consisted of trucking this huge bucket to the fountain and pouring it down the drain. You’d think everyone would know that a drinking fountain has its own water supply; however, if you thought that, you would be wrong.

There were also huge water fights that would account for people staying completely soaked for eight hour stretches—drying just in time to walk past the management types that had no idea what kind of a zoo they were running in their absence.

There was once a quote attributed to the president of the company that was something to the effect of a monkey being able to do the jobs on the floor. A monkey probably would have shown some restraint.

When I was in third or fourth grade, I joined a little league baseball team at my school in Lynchburg, Ohio. I had never played any form of organized sport before—I actually remember the coach, Gary Smaltz, asking that very question.

“You ever played any type of organized sports before?” he said.

“No, sir,” I replied.

In all actuality, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to play this time either. I’m not quite sure at what point I decided I wanted to or even why. I think it was a combination of wanting to make my father to take notice and my friend, P.J., being on the team.

To a child, Smaltz was very scary. I believe he was in the National Guard and kept his hair cropped very short. He was also one of those outdoorsy types that like to repel off the sides of cliffs and, in my fragile seven or eight year old mind, probably blow things up. Thinking back on it now, he has also become a caricature of the stereotypical, cartoon coach; a screaming, tobacco chewing, huge mouth in gray polyester coach shorts with veins throbbing underneath his mesh cap.

Having never played baseball before, I was not the keenest eye in the batter’s box and it was merely a matter of time before the ball and I had our first dance. A few weeks after joining the team and trying to level out my wildly arcing swing, Smaltz decided it was time to put me in against someone other than my friend P.J.—he wanted me to attempt to hit off of Richard Vilvens—the devil himself in a little league uniform, or so I thought at the time.

Richard liked to throw the ball and he had two pitches at that time—fast or hard. I’m not sure which one he threw at me. Wait, did I say at me? The ball made contact with my left cheek and everything turned white. That little Rawlings baseball peeled all the skin from my left cheek and I sported those seam marks for weeks.

Needless to say, practice was over for me that day and I didn’t want to play anymore—ever. I was certain the next time my head would come completely off. My father made me go to the next practice and the coach could tell I was afraid of the ball after the experience I had a few days earlier. To get me over my fear, he had me put on the catcher’s gear and had the entire team throw baseballs—at me.

So there was a Henry Rollins spoken word show on Friday in West Palm Beach. Gwendolyn attended the event and didn’t hang around the incredibly small venue to meet Mr. Aging Alternative Rock Icon afterward.

The following morning I may have been insensitive to the fact that she really wanted to do it but came home without because she was worried I would be angry. I may have joked about how I would have made sure to have met the person after the show. I may have gotten carried away in doing so and actually hurt her feelings. I may have. And I did.

Saturday we drove up to Orlando for my father’s birthday party. We arrived around 5:00 P.M. and soon after the party was in full swing. I knew that Henry was doing a show at the House of Blues in Orlando, so I suggested she drive down with my cousin and meet him there. Normally these from the hip approaches don’t work out for me—or for her—but this time was a little different.

What’s the moral of the story? Don’t be a dickhead or you will have to drive 240 miles to track the fucker down to undo your dickheadedness.