What a weird, weird thing that junior high ’shop class’ thing was, and what was the point really? Of all of the nonsense that I created in shop class, none of it could have held a spec of worthiness compared to ‘home ec’ (home economics). You have to cook to eat or sew to keep your clothes in one piece but nobody needs a coffee pot wall-hanging made out of a coat hanger…nobody. But ‘home ec’ was for girls and ’shop’ was for boys and I’d say the girls came out ahead on that sexual pigeon hole.

So I created that coffee pot wall hanging masterpiece pretty much the way I did everything in shop class; half-ass and half-awake. I had cut all the necessary pieces of the coat hanger and after bending them in the proper direction I would finally solder the joints, apply the paint, and then some overly grateful mother would be displaying the thing on the kitchen wall and, inexplicably, be proud of it!

But there was a hitch in this particular project because while preparing one of the coat hanger pieces I had a little mishap.

I had one of the long parts, about 7 inches, pointing straight up, inserted and tightened in the vice, and was about to bend the thing by bludgeoning it with a ball-peen hammer. At the same time I was goofing around with the kid next to me who was working on the same project.

While I was talking to him and not paying attention to detail, I took a wild swipe at the top of the hanger and, taking my eye off the target, hit the back of my hand, driving it down onto the sharp metal like a hunk of chicken on a Shish Kabob.

My hand is now impaled and I’ve literally become part of the project. I’m staring at it, in shock that I did such a thing, and I frantically start loosening the vice to get the hanger out since it has my hand attached to it.

All the guys around me are sort of creeped out and I am too except I’m noticing there’s no pain associated with this accident and it calms me down. It looks bizarre and feels strange but that’s about it, so I start towards the shop teacher’s office to get some help, but when I get closer I see a line around the outside of the glass-enclosed office where kids are waiting to have their projects evaluated.

So, I got in line.

I know, you’re saying to yourself right now, ‘cut the line you dope’, this is an emergency! But my orderly sensibilities were telling me to ‘wait your turn and then he will tend to your situation’. I know, I know, it doesn’t make any sense but that’s what I did, that is until I acknowledged to myself that this was a really long line and I’d be waiting for a while. Finally I tapped on the glass and nonchalantly held up my hand with the hanger piece stuck in it.

His eyes got wide as 3/4 inch washers and he jumped out of his chair and came running out to get me. We immediately headed for the principal’s office where my mother was phoned to come and pick up her overly creative son and get to the doctor.

However, on the walk to the office, that calm caused by the lack of pain gave me an unusual freedom to do some physical schtick on the way there. So, as we’d pass open classroom doors or other students in the hallway, I’d be holding up my new hand accessory and pointing at it with some goofy look plastered all over my face; a move solely designed to freak other kids out.

Eventually my mother made it up to the school and took me right to our family doctor who looked at it very matter of factly, like dumb kids were running in and out of his office all day long with pieces of metal stuck in them. Who knows? Maybe they were. The first thing he did was submerge my hand in the examining room sink with some Epsom salts. I must admit, his placid affect kept me somewhat at ease because my imagination was beginning to get concerned with what it was going to feel like coming out. Maybe we could just leave it there and I could live out the rest of my days with a totally unique appendage.

I soaked in the sink for about 10 minutes and then the doctor came back in, examined the traveling shop class project then, before I even knew what happened, he wrapped a towel quickly around his hand, slammed the bottom of the hanger to push it through and, just as quickly, grabbed the other end, pulling it out of my wounded palm.

I was stunned. I didn’t even have a chance to get tensed up and weirded out because it was all over in the blink of an eye and I remember thinking; ‘holy shit, what just happened?…this guy’s good…real good’.

I required the usual tetanus shot and got to spend the rest of the day at home watching cartoons and wondering how I could milk this for multiple days off, but I was screwed. The weapon of mitt destruction was gone and all I had left were a couple of puncture wounds and those weren’t enough to delay my schooling.

The next day I returned with some notoriety but not the acclaim I’d hoped for and I had to go back to being just another shop class schlep, but at least I got a good solid out-of-the-ordinary day of physically entertainment.

Considering the current cultural climate of piercing amongst teenagers and young adults, I was way ahead of my time. I was ‘old school’ baby! Nothing but a vice, a coat hanger, a ball-peen hammer, some bad aim and ‘bingo’, there’s your fashion statement.

Probably years from now when I’m languishing in some nursing home somewhere, I can stop an orderly, who’s managed to insert a car axle through his head, and say, “You wanna talk piercing? Did I ever tell you about the time I was in shop class…?”