Then, one fateful afternoon, after a long, hard day of shaving and polishing the ice surface to glistening perfection, Ken went to his locker and changed out of his spiffy zamboni driver's uniform into the only suit he owned, and prepared to go home to his tiny rented garret for a humble meal of crusts and whey, and to write a long letter to his mother, by the light of a single flickering candle (although he didn't know if the letter would reach Mom, who was traveling on the professional roller derby circuit, and might not have made bail after assaulting that referee in Waterford). But, conscientious employee that he was, he couldn't leave without one last look at the rink, so he walked back out and stepped onto the ice . . .