I wondered how long I had been on that park bench. Even with the mask over my eyes, it couldn't have been more than a few hours, but I had no idea how I got there. I'd figure that out later. Right now I needed to eat. I reached for my wallet. Nothing. No car keys either. Just a crumpled business card that had gone through the wash. I could barely read it. This was going to be... wait... something in my jacket, a pen and a thick envelope. Inside, there was a letter and another envelope.

I read the letter. It was from Danny, whoever he was. He wanted to know where I had been, why I had left. He was sorry he took my money. He was sorry he left his family behind and could I please tell them if I see them? It went on like that. All he ever wanted, he said, was to bring music to people and make them happy. He was doing it as an agent now and I had taught him everything he knew. He hoped I was doing well.

Money! OK, the rest was touching, but right now a cheeseburger would fit the bill. Let's see what's in the envelope. Some kind of plastic badge. Huh? And a stack of crisp $100 bills. Whoa! I guess that was the money Danny owed me. All right then, Danny. Call it even. No hard feelings wherever you are.

But what was the rest about? The gist was I was his manager when he was in a band. It hit me that I knew more about music than I knew about my own identity, so that part rang true.

I took a quick inventory. Based on the letter, my name was Reuben Kincaid. I had a pen monogrammed RK, a crumpled business card that might have been mine or anyone's really, and well, enough cash to get me by for a little while. Across from me was a newspaper box. According the LA Times, the year was 1969. That struck me as wrong. All the same, I struggled to come up with an alternative.

What next? It's "time to go downtown, where the agent man won't let you down" I quoted reflexively. Well, I was the agent man, or close enough. Maybe I had an office downtown. I was out of other leads.

I was nervous about paying for lunch with such large bills, so I hoofed it through LA on an empty stomach. I had an idea of where my office should be, but when I got there I didn't recognize the buildings. Hunger won out, and there was a lunch counter. First things first.

As I walked in, a man called out, "Reuben." Finally! I walked up to him.

"Hi. Do you know me? I mean, do I know you?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Well my name is Reuben..."

"Catchy." He cracked a smile. "I'm just ordering the sandwich."

Boy did I feel embarrassed. But at least we were talking.

"Best east coast deli menu in LA." He observed. "Just shoot if you see them reaching for an avocado." He formed his hand into a pistol.

"Oh. I wonder if you can help me. I'm trying to make a start."

He winced. "If you have a demo tape, bring it to my office. I don't do business here." He added "Say, aren't you a little old for this?"

"Demo tape. No. Are you a music agent? Seriously? That's what I am, or was, or should be." Limply, I explained, "I can't find my office."

"Really. Well that's new. As long as you don't have a demo tape. Not yours, not anybody's. Promise?"

Automatically, I felt my pockets again. "No tape. That's a promise I can keep."

"I have an hour to kill, sandwich man, and against my better judgment I find you amusing. You ordering?"

"One problem. All I have is this." I pulled out my stack of $100s.

"You really did fall off the turnip truck! Waving that around in Los Angeles? Put it back."

"Well I thought I could cover both bills." I caught myself.

The funny thing is, I was sure two lunches would bring it above $20 at least and I'd get change back. Then I saw the prices. We could both have sandwiches, sides, and drinks and barely make it past $5. What kind of amnesia was this? There were things I knew and a lot of things I'd need to learn.

"Eh, hold onto your money. I'll spot for lunch. I had a good week. You ought to get yourself a bank account if those bills are real." He paused. "So you want to be an agent? I don't hear that line often."

We got our orders and sat at a table. He had a briefcase with him and took out a ditto sheet. With that old-fashioned purple printing. Who still used that? The sheet had a list of rock bands in alphabetical order.

"Those are the bands you represent?" I blurted.

"Yeah... yeah, that's right." Under his breath: "Turnip truck."

"No, of course they're not." I blushed. "But..."

"See, when I work with a new band, I try to get a sense of their influences, styles, who they know they're copying, who they don't know they're copying. It's my system and I carry copies of this sheet to make notes every time I hear a tape."

"OK..."

"Well, I thought I'd use it to give you a quiz. Take a look at this list and tell me what you know about these bands."

I looked over the names and couldn't help myself: "The Byrds and the Airplane did fly..."

"Right, but that's just a song lyric. Got anything else?"

"Well, the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967 ..." I began, suddenly feeling like a walking encyclopedia.

"Were you at Monterey?" He interrupted.

"No." I conceded. "I was not. But... but a guy I knew was and he made a tape. I don't know how many times I listened to that. I must have read everything I could find about that festival." (And now I wondered how much could have been written in two years.) "I know Monterey like I know the back of my hand."

"Go on."

I went through the entire festival from beginning to end, named every band and told him everything I knew. He seemed satisfied. "It's a damn shame about Otis Redding." I finished.

"Yep. OK. You know your stuff. No question. That makes you a fan, not an agent. Still, you got my attention."

Now he wrote down the name of a band he did represent. "What do you know about this one?"

"Well, they were successful for about two years. Came close to charting. Then the lead singer cashed out and moved up to Napa to start a vineyard..."

"Uh, what? They're cutting their first single tomorrow! I got them the contract. That's why I'm in a good mood if you hadn't noticed." He looked straight at me. "You know, you're right the lead singer said he wants to retire to Napa. It's a liability. I never gave it much thought."

"Right." I hastily backpedaled. "I was just... um... speculating. I give them about two years, solid performance, not star potential. Then they break up."

"That's awfully specific for speculation. But OK." And maybe that was just how my agent mind worked. It's like I had a memory of them folding in 1971, but it couldn't be a memory, just a hunch.

I looked back and shrugged.

"Tell you what. I have a backlog of tapes. You want give 'em a listen and tell me what you think? I can't pay much, but we can work something out on commission... If you're good enough. Looks like cash flow isn't your problem anyway. Get that money in the bank before you get mugged."

I started to reply. He cut me off.

"I'm serious."

Not a bad day, I thought, for waking up on a park bench. Tomorrow I'd get started on those bands.