I stayed at the library till closing and got a late dinner. It had been an eye opener to be sure, even if it still didn't make much sense. The year was 1969. Of that there was no doubt.

I made sure it wasn't a dream. Wondering if you're dreaming, I'll grant, is normally the first sign you are. In this case, I read a passage in a book, read it over, and read it once more for good measure. The words were the same every time. This was not the transient, half-formed writing I saw in my dreams. No, this was reality, the thing that does not go away (as I'd heard it defined) when you stop believing in it.

At least I wouldn't be making any more foolish mistakes. No matter what I think I should find around me, I had a good enough roadmap for what I would find. And I was sticking to the map. Everything else would have to sort itself out. I was happy to think I had a place to sleep, enough cash to get by, and a new job starting tomorrow. I got some rest and woke up with a clear head, ready to meet the day.

As I approached Harold's office, I heard two voices, neither of which was Harold's. There were two women in the office. One was becoming animated.

"You see, half of them can't play at all..." (I noticed the way she said "half") "and the rest... well, half of them could bloody well use some more lessons before wasting my time. After that, you have the ones completely strung out, I mean not just high, like everyone these days but strung out on God knows what. Now, what are we down to, an eighth? This is where you finally ask if anyone wants to listen to what they're playing. I've got an answer for that too..."

"Janet" said a voice, also British but with a deeper timbre, "This is a dream job. You get to come here and listen to bands all day, and all you do is complain. I can't believe you."

I knocked.

"Sorry." said a voice I recognized as Janet's, opening the door. "I get a little excited sometimes. You're Reuben, are you? Harold's told me about you. You must have heard me from outside. It's not as bad as all that. There are some good bands in this lot."

"Pleased to meet you, Janet. And..."

"This is Sylvie, my dear friend from uni."

"Pleased to meet you too Sylvie. Is Harold here?"

"He's not, as far as I know, but Janet could tell you more. I better get going now, or I'll miss my flight to Kingston. Janet, you must come visit Jamaica. It's not a desert like your Los Angeles."

"My Los Angeles? It's not mine. It's not even a proper city. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here in the first place." Janet softened a bit and crinkled her eyes. "Then I think, oh yes, Harold and his tapes. Where would he be without me?"

"Janet," Sylvie interrupted, "I really do have to go. It was lovely." They hugged briefly and Sylvie was gone.

Janet forged ahead, absent her friend. "Actually, this isn't my real job. I'm a cellist. Mum and Dad are in the Philharmonic, and of course they expected me to study on the continent, but I thought with all the opportunities for session musicians, LA was really the place for a modern girl like myself."

I was lost on how to respond to all that.

She switched to the worst American accent I'd ever heard. "Anyway, that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it."

"Well, I'm sure there are a lot of opportunities. I was hoping to talk to Harold."

"Harold'll be in later. I come in early sometimes. He trusts me with this, you know. Lucky me." She dangled a key. "I have your tapes and Harold asked me to help you get started."

"That'd be great."

"Mind you, if it were up to me, I'd have this office cleared in an afternoon. I doubt there are ten demos here worth considering. If Harold would let me, I'd toss the rest. Instead he has these ditto sheets to fill out."

"Yes, I've seen one of those."

"His 'system'. A waste of ink if you ask me. And he ought to get himself a proper mimeograph machine at the rate he goes through his little worksheets."

She explained what was expected of me. It didn't strike me as that unreasonable. Anyway, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I was a man without papers in a city that seemed both strange and familiar. This was my one chance to get established.

"We've got a second tape player here." She pointed. "There's not much room, but with headphones we can work at the same time if we need to. You'll have the place to yourself when I'm off practicing, which is a fair bit. Harold comes in and out. Your tapes are over there on the shelf."

Next to the tapes, I saw a manila envelope. The return address said "San Pueblo." Where was that? I felt I should know.

"This envelope."

"That's not with your tapes. Actually, Harold just keeps it as a souvenir. A boy from up north mailed it to him. I don't know how he managed to track down a real agent. Clever."

I let her continue.

"It's all quite adorable really. He plays in a family band. He made the recording without telling anyone. They're not half bad, you know."

"I'd like to listen."

"Well, let's talk to Harold first. He gets very possessive. There's no commercial potential, but like Harold says 'Who knows? That kid could be my client when he grows up.' Harold's mostly business, but he does have a heart."

"Yeah." I agreed. "He seems like a decent guy."

"My ears are burning." said Harold as he burst through the door. "So what are you kids up to?" Harold was at least a few years my junior and conscious of the irony.

"Tapes." I said.

"Yes, tapes, what else is there really?" added Janet.

"Indeed." agreed Harold. "But Reuben told me something about some festivals coming up, and I thought that might be worth delving into first. That one in New York, do you know something about it I don't? I only heard Creedence might have signed at this point, and that's pure rumor mill."

Now I got nervous. I better just keep my mouth shut because there is no way I could know what I did. I deflected.

"Well, it's true, I have a sixth sense about these things." And I put my fingers to my scalp, closed my eyes, and concentrated. "I'm seeing a vision right now."

Harold and Janet looked quizzically.

"I'm seeing... I'm seeing naked hippies, and they are... completely... covered... in mud. Yup, there's your festival Harold."

They laughed and Janet turned to me, genuinely amused. "Well, that doesn't take a bloody psychic, does it?"

"Harold, you're a lot better connected than I am. I was bluffing a little. Whatever I knew must be old news by now, but we should definitely keep track of this one."