Henslowe called me at 11pm and asked if I wanted to go sit on a park bench with him. He had downed two 40s of Miller High Life in a dark room, alone. Then he had eaten an entire jar of spaghetti sauce...

As we sat there on the bench, I joked about what would happen if there were suddenly a drive-by shooting. He said that the bullets would miss him. I said, 'nah, with your luck they'd rupture your spleen.'

"No, with my luck they'd miss me." He then went on to explain that he can't imagine doing all of this for the next 30 years. He told me that 47 seemed like a good age to die. He then imagined being interviewed when he turns 101 years old...

"What's your secret to old age?"

..."I prayed for death every day."

Let me paint for you a picture. Imagine a small man, perhaps 5'5'' in height, with a frail build. A mess of tangled dark curls sit upon his head. Wire-rimmed glasses, strong cheekbones, and a perpetual grimace are the notable features. He wears a dark polo shirt beneath a brown, black, or gray sweater. Dark trousers and black socks, and worn black shoes. In his hand he carries a blue canvas satchel, overflowing with papers and books.

This is Henslowe.