musician disguise

“You know what else stands out on a busy Chicago street? A timber wolf.” “Thought of that,” I said, and produced a roll of fabric from my duster’s large pockets.
“You’re kidding,” Will said.
I smiled.
“And what’s in the guitar case?”
I smiled wider.
A FEW MINUTES later, I was sitting on the sidewalk with my back against a building, an old secondhand guitar in my lap, the case open beside me with a handful of a change and an old wadded dollar bill in it. Will settled down beside me, wearing a service dog’s jacket, resting his chin on his front paws. He made a little groaning sound.
“It’ll be fine, boy.”
Will narrowed his eyes.
“Just keep your nose open,” I said, and started playing.
I started with the Johnny Cash version of “Hurt,” which was pretty simple. I sang along with it. I’m not good, but I can hit the notes and keep the rhythm going, so it more or less worked out. I followed it up with “Behind Blue Eyes,” which gets a little harder, and then “Only Happy When It Rains.” Then I followed it up with “House of the Rising Sun,” and completely mangled “Stairway to Heaven.”
There wasn’t a ton of foot traffic on a weekday evening on this street, not in a fairly brisk late March, but nobody really looked at me twice. I made about two and a half bucks in change the first hour. The life of a musician is not easy. A patrol car went by and a cop gave me the stink-eye, but he didn’t stop and roust me. Maybe he had things to do.

Brief Cases, Jury Duty, Page 339-340