Harold's appreciation for Janet had grown as she proved herself not only an expert musician, but an increasingly savvy judge of commercial talent. Her departure was a bombshell, one we were powerless to do anything about. The fighting couldn't have helped, but it did seem the overriding cause was Janet's need to take a break from cello.

"Serious" musicians, I grumbled to myself. The least among them can pluck a few strings or blow over a reed and work their magic to the untrained ear. But to themselves, they are never good enough. I'd known enough not to try to persuade Janet of any other way.

It was, as she said, a leave of absence, offering a small hope that she might return some day. Harold and I put little stock in this and went on with our work. She stayed only a few more days at the office, and we never saw her as she spent her remaining weeks planning her trip.

Fortunately, we had enough business to keep us occupied without screening any new bands. It seemed a good time to clean up the office and we filled several boxes with demo tapes archived in rough chronological order. As I cleared the shelves, I remembered that envelope I had seen on my first day, the one from San Pueblo. It was nowhere to be found.

"Harold, there was an envelope here I meant to ask you about and forgot."

"I think I know the one you mean. I didn't want to lose it, so I took it home about a month ago."

"Janet told me about it. There was a tape and I was curious."

"You'd enjoy it, I think, now that you mention it."

"Yeah, I was..."

"Well, it's all the way across town now, but let me tell you. It was sent by a nine-year-old kid. An enterprising lad to be sure," he noted jocularly. "I expect to cross paths with him again."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the only thing I can't figure out is whether he'll grow up to be a client of mine or a competitor. He plays electric bass with his family band, and for a nine year old, for any age really, he's good enough. But sending that tape to me like he did... I think that kid may have the business in his blood. It's hard to say."

"Electric bass! I played... It's a funny coincidence, I'm sure I played an instrument before my amnesia and I have a feeling it was bass."

"Interesting. So anyway, his family band has a pleasant vibe and I can tell they work hard at it. It's not really up my alley, unfortunately. Not sure what to do with it. Now you, Reuben," he ribbed, "you have a way with all kinds of bands. Maybe I ought to get you guys together."

Our conversation moved on to the preparation for the Woodstock Festival. As I knew already, and Harold realized over time, it was going to be a massive cultural event. Harold had decided he'd take a trip to see it, fact finding, he insisted, though I began to think he was a bigger fan than he let on. I would hold down the fort while he was away.

There were months left till the festival and we got on with our routine. I found myself with enough free time to enjoy my modest success. Having a car made a huge difference and I took long drives along the coast as well as inland to places like Joshua Tree. Whatever my old life had been, real or imaginary, whether those dreams were a real time and place or some coded message concocted in my own mind, I vowed to live in the present. I spent a lot of time with people as part of my work but I had no close friends. I wondered if it had always been that way.

The big day was here for Harold, and he was gathering his things to prepare for his flight back east. What a sight, I thought, the hard-nosed businessman pushing 35 years old reverting back to a wayward youth. It turned out he had missed the Monterey festival in 1967. Why spend half a day driving up the coast, he reasoned at the time, when he had all the music he needed right where he lived? It was a calculation he made to his lasting regret and determined not to repeat.

I pointed to the festival poster with guitar neck and bird. I couldn't help needling him.

"So Harold, ready for three days of peace and music? Walking around without seeing a traffic light or skyscraper? Flying a kite and sunning yourself? Cooking your own food and breathing unspoiled air?"

"Now that you mention it Reuben, I am. Some of that anyway. But it is for fact-finding and I plan to make a lot of contacts, gauge crowd reactions, see what's getting big and what's on the way out. No reason I can't combine that with, uh, an Aquarian exposition."

"Hope you brought a tent. Boots? Raincoat at least?"

"You're going all in on the mud, aren't you Reuben? I guess we'll see."

I spent the next day talking to some of my bands. I was representing nearly as many as Harold now and there were several gigs happening while Harold was away. With Janet gone, I had moved more of the meetings back to the office, including with Carolyn. She asked about Janet and I explained.

"So that's why I never see her around school. I wanted to talk to her."

My panic got the best of me. "You're not thinking of leaving the band?"

"Reuben, the band is the wildest thing that ever happened to me in my entire life. No, I'm sticking with it."

"Glad to hear that." I said, feigning indifference.

"Just, Janet really listened to my playing, and that meant a lot. I thought I could have a real..." She caught herself. "I mean an academic musician to talk to."

"What about your teachers?"

"I meant a friend."

"We all miss Janet. I understand."