The Reset Life of Cassandra Collins

by Shawn Inmon

  So, she had just shown up at his door one Monday morning, and they resumed their friendship. She wasn’t sure if he had noticed she had been gone. Even Ethan was gone, now, back to the Midwest to spend the holidays with his family.

  The campus wasn’t completely empty, of course. No school the size of UC Berkeley ever goes fully dark. It was close, though. The dorm rooms remained open for students who, for one reason or another, also felt like they couldn’t go home. Almost everything else—all the great halls, the libraries, the student gathering spots—were closed and dark.

  Cassandra had taken a part-time job, clearing tables and washing dishes at The Golden Bear. It didn’t pay much, but she was going through her cash reserves far too quickly and knew that something would have to give sooner rather than later.

  The Golden Bear was closed for the holiday, though, and that left Cassandra at loose ends. She cooked a small ham for herself, but once it and the mashed potatoes were done, she felt too sad to eat them. Instead, she sat them on the counter to cool off, so she could put them in the refrigerator for later.

  A ham sandwich will be just the thing, soon enough.

  She picked up the guitar she had bought at the pawn shop a few weeks before and began strumming some chords. She played the chords and hummed the tune of Eve of Destruction, over and over.

  Without a conscious thought, she set the guitar down and walked into the kitchen where the phone was. There was a small notebook where each person who made a long-distance phone call was supposed to write the date and time down, along with the number called.

  Cassandra jotted down December 25, 4:30 p.m., followed by her parents’ phone number. Before she lost her courage, she dialed the number and listened as a tinny ringing sounded in her ear. It rang so long that she was sure no one was going to pick up. Just before she set the handset down, there was a click and her mother’s voice said, “Yes? Collins residence.”

  “Hi, Mom,” Cassandra said, and was surprised that she couldn’t quite keep the quaver out of her voice. After all these years, and even from this many miles away, you still scare me a little, Mom.

  “Cassandra! We thought we’d lost you. We haven’t heard from you since you left.”

  Cassandra heard her mother move her mouth away and cover the receiver, but she still could hear her say, “It’s her.”

  Dad, no doubt. Is he glad to hear from me?

  “We’ve been so worried about you.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m sorry. There’s been a lot of stuff going on here.”

  “Oh, don’t I just know it, though. We got some mail for you last month. We thought it might give us a clue as to your whereabouts, so we opened it. It was a citation and summons to appear in court! What in the world is that all about?”

  Damn. Why in the world would they send it there? Then, an image of the tired, impatient police officer taking her Oregon Driver’s License and writing the address down. Of course. I should have expected that.

  “We were protesting the war, Mom, and they arrested us. It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal? The only Collins to ever be arrested, but no big deal? And protesting, Cassandra?”

  The way she said the word protesting, Cassandra could tell it tasted bad in her mouth.

  Really, Mom? Ever? No horse thieves or fast-talking card sharps lingering about on the lower branches of our family tree? I think you are practicing a revisionist history. Families don’t tend to be as wealthy as we were without bending a few rules here and there.

  “Is that it, then? I call home for the first time in months and all you want to do is yell at me? Merry Christmas to you and Dad, too.”

  In the background, she could hear her father fuming. “I knew this is what would happen when she went there. What else could we expect? Even the professors are commies and liberals.”

  I know those two things—commies and liberals—are the same thing to you. I get it. I guess even if I had come home to Middle Falls, I wouldn’t be welcome at the Collins dinner table. That’s okay, I don’t think I want to be there anyway.

  Her mother’s voice softened a little. “Of course not, we’re just worried about you. Tell me, what’s your phone number, so we can call you?”

  No caller ID or Star 69 yet in 1966, is there, Mom. Since I called you, the number won’t even show up on your bill.

  “I don’t think I want to tell you, Mom.”

  “That’s rude, Cassandra Marie. I won’t brook rudeness from my youngest child.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to.”

  Cassandra softly hung up the phone, then sat at the table and cried.

  She felt very alone.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  After the phone call and the rest of a lonely break, Cassandra’s life fell into an easy rhythm in the first few months of 1967. She worked three days a week at The Golden Bear. With the little dollop of money she got from that, she calculated she could live until August or September before she was stone cold broke. That was worrisome, but it fell under the category of things she could worry about another day. Perhaps the fact that she had never wanted for anything lessened her fear of not having enough to eat.

  On days she didn’t work, she often spent them with Ethan, painting and talking about painting.

  She continued her activist ways, attending various protests, both at the university and at the deployment center for the U.S. Army in nearby Oakland. She marched, carried signs, and raised her voice in protest. She felt good about it, but nothing magical, like getting up in front of thousands to sing, happened again.

  When she had said goodbye to Billie and Curlee the night of that first protest, Curlee had said they would see her again, but in the ensuing months, that had not proven true. She had begun to believe she would never see them again.

  It was a good life, but not quite what she had dreamed of. That elusive dream had evaporated like mist in morning sunshine, and no new fantasy had yet stepped forward to replace it.

  One Saturday evening in March, Cassandra was sitting on the couch, working on the chord progression for a folk song she was trying to write. She had a title—Come Together for Change—and even had most of the chorus, but she was missing the lyrics and bridge.

  Several of the other women were gone, but Barbie and Carol were fighting over space in the bathroom. They were both trying to get ready to go out.

  A sharp, rhythmic knock came on the door. Cassandra ignored it. She knew it wasn’t for her.

  Carol skipped across the living room, wearing shorty pajamas and with her hair pulled up, makeup half-applied.

  She answered the door. Cassandra heard a man’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. Carol said, “Uh, yeah, sure. Hang on!”

  She poked her head around the wall that separated the small entryway from the living room and made a surprised face at Cassandra.

  “There’s someone here for you, and oh, baby, he is somethin’ else!”

  Cassandra frowned, then set her guitar down. She poked her head around the wall and found herself eyeball to eyeball with Floyd Curlee.

  “Curlee!” she said, unable to keep the happiness out of her voice. “What are you doing here?”

  Curlee smiled his twinkly smile and shrugged.

  “Wait. How in the world did you find me?”

  “Ve haff our vays,” Curlee said in an awful Boris Badenov accent.

  “Eeesh. Please, promise me you’ll never do that again.”

  “Promise,” he said. “It took me a while, but I managed to find somebody who knew somebody, who knew who Dara was and that she was your roommate. And now, here I am. Berkeley is a big campus, but it’s still like a small town. Most everybody knows most everybody else.”

  Cassandra made a show of peeking over his shoulder. “Where’s Billie?”

  “Paris? Poughkeepsie? Albuquerque? I have no idea.”

  “I didn’t know that night if you guys were a couple or not.”

  “We were. Then we weren’t. Then wer
e, and then we weren’t again.”

  “And now?”

  “Weren’t. Wait that’s bad English, isn’t it? Hey, was that you playing guitar that I heard?””

  “Maybe...”

  “Don’t be shy. You sounded pretty good.”

  “Pretty good?”

  “Isn’t that just like a woman, able to jump from modest to overconfident in a blink.”

  “You are a frustrating man, Floyd Curlee.”

  Curlee winced. “Please. Only my mother and sisters call me Floyd. I’m just Curlee.”

  “Fine, Curlee. What are you doing, aside from stalking vulnerable young women.”

  “That’s all I’ve got on the agenda for tonight. Well that, and seeing if a certain vulnerable young woman might want to go to a club and hear this band I know tonight.”

  “Who’s the band?”

  “Jimmy Robinson and the Crows.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “I wouldn’t expect that you had.” He held his hand out for her to shake. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Jimmy Robinson.”

  “I thought you were Curlee.”

  He shook his head. “That’s the real me. On stage tonight at The Wild Onion, in beautiful downtown Berkeley, I will be the legendary Jimmy Robinson. Wanna come?”

  Cassandra did. “One minute. Let me get changed.”

  “No rush. It’s not like they can start without me, for I am Jimmy Robinson.”

  Cassandra shook her head at him, then ran into Carol and Barbie’s bedroom.

  Carol was there, changing. “Who’s that, and where have you been hiding him? He’s a dream.”

  “That’s Curlee. Or Jimmy. Depends, I guess. But, he wants to take me out to where he’s playing—”

  “—Oh, he’s a musician?” Carol interrupted.

  “—and I don’t have anything to wear. I’ve sold all my cute clothes.”

  “Always a strategic error. Don’t worry. I’ll fix you up. Do you know where you’re going?”

  “He said it was something called The Wild Onion.”

  “Got it. Okay. The Onion is a pretty hep place,” Carol said, digging through a pile of clothes on the floor. “Put this on.” She tossed Cassandra a short black miniskirt, then looked at her legs. “Way too pale. Here, you’ll need these.” She pulled a pair of cinnamon-colored panty hose out of a drawer. “Perfect. Now, where’s that sweater.” She pulled something up off the floor, gave it the sniff test, then shrugged her shoulders. She grabbed some perfume off the dresser and sprayed it liberally on the sweater. “There. Put that on. Let’s do your hair down and loose, and let me put some dark eyeliner on you. You’ll be ready to go.”

  Five minutes after she walked into the bedroom, Cassandra emerged as if changed by a fairy godmother.

  Curlee took her in, from the knee-high boots, to the miniskirt and tight-fitting sweater. He whistled long and low and smiled with just a touch of wolfishness. “It’s going to be a good night. Your carriage awaits, m’lady.”

  “Oh, you’ve got your own car?”

  Curlee looked slightly injured but recovered quickly. “You’ve been dating too many young boys, I think. Of course I have a car. What kind of a knight in shining armor picks up his lady without a steed?”

  Cassandra thought of Ethan, and said, “You’d be surprised.”

  “If this is what impresses you, wait until you see me up on stage.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Curlee’s car was a non-descript Ford four-door. Cassandra contemplated asking if he’d rather take her Mustang but thought that might be a mistake.

  Men like to be in charge. And women like to let them think they are.

  Curlee started the engine and turned the heat on high to banish the winter air.

  “Do you really not know where Billie is?”

  “At this moment? I do not.”

  “How about in general?”

  “I suppose she’s somewhere in San Francisco. I haven’t seen her for a few weeks.”

  “I really liked her,” Cassandra said.

  “So did I. Are we really going to talk about Billie all night?”

  “I suppose not.”

  I’d just like to know where I stand. That’s not too much to ask, I don’t think.

  “Tell me about this band, Robby Jimson and the Ravens, or whatever.”

  Curlee shot her a wounded look. “The worst part is, I think I like that name better than the one I came up with. This is our first gig. It’s two guys I’ve known for a while and me. I handle most of the lead vocals and they do the harmonies. We’ve only been playing together for a few weeks, so we’re a work in progress.”

  “What kind of music are you playing?”

  “Folk music, of course. The only kind of music worth playing right now. We’re mostly doing cover versions, but we like to give them a little twist, make ‘em our own.”

  Cassandra nodded. “Okay, now I’m a little excited to see you play.”

  “Wait. My dimples, curly hair, and dazzling smile weren’t enough to get you excited?”

  “No, not at all. I was initially attracted to your modesty.”

  Curlee winced. “I may be overmatched here.”

  “And you’ll do well to remember that,” Cassandra said with a smile.

  Curlee pulled the car into a mostly-empty parking lot beside The Wild Onion. He glanced around and said, “Looks like a big crowd.”

  “The word of Jimmy Robinson’s fame is only now beginning to spread. Someday people will look back at this gig like they do the Beatles playing The Cavern Club.”

  “Thanks for the pick-me-up.” He grabbed his guitar case out of the trunk and they made their way to the front door. A doorman sat on a stool, checking IDs.

  Cassandra’s blood ran a little cold. Oh, this will be great. I won’t be able to get in, Curlee won’t be able to take me home, and I’ll have to sit in the car until he’s done playing. And, probably, he’ll be done with me.

  Jimmy nodded at the man, then at Cassandra. “She’s with the band.”

  The man didn’t so much as glance at Cassandra, just waved a hand at them.

  “By the way, I never asked how old you are. So how old are you?”

  “I graduated from high school last May, so I’m sure you can do the math.”

  “Ah.” Curlee slipped his arm protectively around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the wolves in the night.”

  Like the fox guards the henhouse, I’ll bet.

  Curlee led Cassandra to a table near the front, but off to stage left. “You’ll be close enough that you can shout the lyrics to me if I forget them. Want anything to drink? They’ve got mixed drinks, beer, the works.”

  Should I order a sixties classic? A Harvey Wallbanger, maybe? Better keep it simple.

  “I’ll have a bourbon rocks, please.”

  “That’s not a little girl drink.”

  “I am not a little girl.”

  “I’m starting to figure that out. Be right back.”

  Curlee walked to the bar, stopping to say hello to several couples who were already seated. A few minutes later he was back.

  “I think Freddy’s gonna bring his girlfriend, too. She’ll probably sit here with you, okay?”

  Cassandra nodded. His girlfriend, too. That’s interesting. An hour ago, I thought I’d never see you again, now you off-handedly say I might be your girlfriend? You move pretty fast, don’t-call-me-Floyd.

  The other members of The Crows showed up—Freddy Bitzkin and Dick Radford. Freddy had indeed brought his girlfriend, Valerie, a flower child who sat with Cassandra and made friendly conversation with her.

  Cassandra nursed her drink, talked with Valerie, and waited for the band to play.

  This feels better than sitting at home, doing nothing. And being around Curlee is interesting. Gonna have to keep an eye on him. He could be dangerous.

  A slightly overweight man in a sports coat and tie, looking out of place, walked onstage
under the hot lights. He tapped on the microphone. He glanced at a piece of paper in his hand, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, The Wild Onion is proud to present Robby Jimson and the Ravens.”

  Curlee, Freddy, and Dick walked on stage, Curlee in the lead. He looked directly at Cassandra and winked.

  Robby Jimson and the Ravens indeed. You are definitely one to watch, Robby Jimson.

  They opened with a rousing, fast-paced version of This Land is Your Land, then segued into Baby, the Rain Must Fall.

  That night in the stairwell, Cassandra had noticed that Curlee had a nice voice, but something happened to him when he stepped up to a microphone in front of a crowd, even one as modest as was present at The Wild Onion. He came alive. His eyes danced and his voice took on a whole new timbre. He was born to sing in front of people.

  Freddy and Dick seemed happy being in the background. Curlee and Dick both played acoustic guitars and Freddy played the stand-up bass.

  They ran through a set of traditional folk song classics, dressed up, as Curlee had promised, with their own spin on things. After they had played for an hour, Curlee stepped to the microphone and said, “We’ll be back in just a few. Now we need to wet our whistles, too.”

  All three set their instruments in their cases at the back of the stage and made their way to the table.

  Up close, Cassandra noticed that Curlee had a sheen of sweat. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and dabbed at his face. Curlee smiled and leaned closer to her, making it feel like a more intimate gesture.

  The man who had introduced them came over with a tray of drinks. “On the house,” he announced. “You guys sound good. Do you have enough to do another set?”

  Curlee didn’t even look at the other two members of the band. “You bet.”

  And, they did. They played Dylan, The Limelighters, Woody Guthrie, and Pete Seeger. The audience wasn’t huge—to be expected for an unknown group—but those who were there were enthusiastic.