The band had a gig. Except it wasn't quite music, it was more like hockey. Somehow, I had befriended a legendary figure who lived around town. He was a cross between Doc Watson and Gordie Howe. I planned to drop by his place to borrow a plastic face mask. I called him from my car, fumbling with an old flip-style cell phone and skidding around through snow. His wife answered. I was suddenly unsure of his first name, but I asked for him anyway, guessing at a name —I can't remember what. She said he was out. I said, "Tell him I called." I was spooked that I'd be playing tonight without a mask. I returned to the band house and told Chris W., "Fuck it, plenty of guys have played without a mask. So neither will I."