I made a quick return to LA. Two thoughts weighed heavily. The first was my failure to prevent the stabbing at Altamont, and the second was how to break it to Harold.

For all that, it wasn't a wasted trip. I had, after all, managed to keep those kids from going near the stabbing. If my dream was any guide, this prevented a far worse outcome. But how could I be sure the two were even connected? History, it seemed, had proceeded on schedule. That dream was just a dream. There's no proof anything bad would have happened if the kids kept to their plan.

The problem with Altamont went far beyond a single incident. The whole vibe was just peculiar. It was hard to pin down exactly. Drugs? Well, this was par for the course, but maybe the drugs themselves were different. There wasn't a sense of togetherness. Obviously it didn't help to have constant scuffles with bikers. Judged purely as a concert with top name bands, you might ignore the rest and pronounce it a great success. Much of the early reporting did just that, which is probably what Harold had heard.

I went to the office the next morning and found Harold already at his desk reading a book. Nothing unusual there. His interests were eclectic. But as I walked in, he pointed to a page excitedly.

"That's it! I've been trying to find it for months."

"Really, what's that?" I asked.

"Well, there was this kid I met at Woodstock..."

He'd been starting a lot of stories this way since he'd returned, and there was no letup in sight. To say he'd experienced an epiphany those four days in August would be an understatement. He continued.

"I don't think I told you about him. Real straight arrow, and a philosopher too, just finishing college. He came with friends. He was there for music and fun, not into drugs at all, not that he was judgmental about it. It wasn't his thing."

"And you found something he told you in that book?" I prompted.

"Well, sort of. I was struck by how he saw the goodness in people. All people. I thought, if this is the next generation, we might really be onto something big."

Now I felt a pit in my stomach with the way this story was heading. Despite my confusion and patchy memory, I had an idea of what the next decade would bring and it wasn't what Harold was hoping. I kept listening.

"Anyway, the next day, I see him again, he's on the ground with his hands over his eyes and he's thrashing."

"What?" This wasn't the story I was expecting after all.

"Turned out, he'd been dosed."

"Dosed?"

"Yeah, you know some people were slipping acid into food and drinks. Some really low quality acid too. I mean, I'm not gonna go all Joe Friday on the kids who want to experiment with psychedelics, but it was just wrong, tricking people like that, maybe putting them in danger."

"OK..."

"So he keeps saying 'Merton. Merton was right!' and sometimes he's laughing, sometimes he's screaming. A few volunteers came by to talk him down from his trip. Good people. The festival would have been a complete disaster without them. Once he calmed down, he was sitting up straight and making more sense, but he wouldn't take his hands off his eyes.

"It was always about this Merton. Merton says this, Merton says that. I forgot most of it, but there was one part he repeated." Harold read from his book. "'There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun ... If only we could see each other that way all the time.' So, he gets back to how Merton was right, and he's all excited about this. Only, and this is the thing that's bothering him.

"'Merton never warned me that the light would leave me blind.' He kept his hands over his eyes and he just started crying."

"Well," I said. "Bad trip. Who knows what it means?"

"I know what it means. Don't you get it? This guy was so sensitive, he could see the essential goodness of human beings directly. It wasn't an abstraction. But even with that, his mind had a barrier for his own protection. The acid broke down that barrier. Seeing it all at once was too much to bear."

I was starting to get really nervous now. Harold had remained a great boss and an excellent music agent since returning, but now I wondered if he was coming unhinged. He went on.

"It turns out this Merton was Thomas Merton, a Trappist Monk. He died about a year ago in an accident."

"You're religious, Harold?"

"No, no. Anyway, it's not my religion. Merton talks about it in Catholic terms, God and Christ and all, but what if he's right about the core of our beings? I found something here, where he talks about a light in every person."

Harold quoted, "if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun."

"You believe that?"

"Well, I was reminded of when I was young they were doing a lot of atomic testing. You must remember. There was an expression 'brighter than a thousand suns' and of course the scientists always needed heavy eye protection. And I just wondered, what if that poor kid was right. If we saw each other as we truly are, would we go blind?"

"Well, if that's what's bothering you..." It seemed an odd concern, but important to Harold. A thought came to me. "Do you remember how I told you about how I woke up on a park bench?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm not sure I mentioned, I woke up with a mask over my eyes. When I took it off, the sun was so bright, it really did blind me. But here's the point. It only blinded me because I was used to the darkness. Do you think maybe your friend has discovered the same thing? The blindness is only temporary. It takes time to adjust to the light."

"Reuben, that's a really beautiful thought. You know, I will try to think about it that way. I believe you may have solved the whole riddle."

"Glad I could help," I replied with a crooked grin. It seemed crazy to me, but I was relieved that it worked.

"Now, tell me about Altamont," Harold said with a smile. "I want to hear all about how it went."

The pit in my stomach came back.