by Shawn Inmon
Whatever the reason, those original few hundred copies of the 45 were all that were ever made.
Of course, the three of them didn’t wake up one day to find their dream had ended. It died one day at a time, one small rejection after another, as many dreams do.
For the first of those days, they remained optimistic, knowing that their next big break was around the corner. Curlee heard a rumor on the street that Monterey Pop was going to ask them to perform, and on the main stage, where the big acts played. The call for that gig never came, at least partially because they didn’t have a telephone in The Hovel.
Curlee then decided that the trick was to get them more live gigs. They ran into the fact that most of the nightclubs were looking for music that made people dance, get sweaty, and buy more booze. Blowin’ in the Wind did not accomplish that.
They spent the rest of the Summer of Love on the sidelines, watching as it happened.
In August, Billie heard from a friend in Los Angeles, who assured her the music scene was happening down there. A week later, Billie was on an airplane, packing everything she owned into two suitcases.
That had several immediate repercussions in Cassandra’s life. First, it meant that New Generation was no more. One guy with a guitar and a gal singer didn’t make for much of a band. Second, since neither Curlee nor Cassandra had a job, it meant they were going to have to move.
Even if they found jobs immediately, they didn’t think they could afford a place like The Hovel. They were going to have to lower their sights.
And so they did.
Cassandra, who had once waitressed just for fun when Jimmy was going to school in her first life, found that job again.
Curlee, meanwhile, found a job working in a store that sold used stereo and music equipment.
They found another, smaller, apartment within walking distance of both of their jobs and moved in. It didn’t have the high ceilings, two bedrooms, or the bay window that looked out onto the vibrant street below. It did have its own bathroom, four walls, a ceiling and a floor.
For a time, they talked of putting together a new band. On those rare days when they both had the day off together, they would walk to one of the local parks with a picnic and try to write music.
As the weeks and months passed, they had to admit that their hearts weren’t really into it anymore. They became hangers-on on the fringes of the music scene. They weren’t has-beens, they were never-beens.
Still, they had friends, and they had drugs. There was a saying at the time that friends will get you through times of no drugs better than drugs will get you through times of no friends.
There were times when both Curlee and Cassandra found that to be reversed.
No matter how carefully they managed their money, they fell further behind. In November, they weren’t able to pay their rent. Their landlord was not a hippie. He was a capitalist. He told them he needed the rent by the 20th of the month or he was going to rent to someone else.
It broke her heart, but Cassandra put an ad in the San Francisco paper offering the Mustang for sale. She thought of putting an ad in the local Haight-Ashbury Midtown Record, but most of the people she knew were like she was—broke.
She spent her day off vacuuming and washing it until it shone like new. They still didn’t have a phone, so she made sure to say that any interested parties had to come knock on their apartment door.
An hour after the paper hit the street, there was a knock on her door and a man asked her one question. “Is that the Mustang right down the block?”
When she said it was, he handed over the cash for the full amount she had asked for, which made her think she hadn’t asked enough.
Curlee went to work at the stereo store. Cassandra smoked a joint, sat in the apartment, and cried. She wasn’t materialistic, but that Mustang had been her last connection to Middle Falls. To home.
In her first life, she had never sold the Mustang, and it had been sitting in pristine condition in her garage when she had died in 2018.
Then, as she often did, she dried her tears, picked herself up, and walked to her landlord’s place to pay the rent.
That night, when Curlee came home, he held a tract that espoused the virtue of freeing yourself by freeing your thoughts. This was not a particularly original idea, but the pamphlet dressed up that idea with a lot of nice words, including at least a few that Cassandra was sure weren’t really words at all.
Curlee was fired up about the teachings of the guru who was quoted extensively in the booklet.
Cassandra was less than interested. She was still mourning the loss of her car.
At that moment, they were sitting on the same couch, but there was much distance between them.
Chapter Forty-Five
Cassandra and Curlee had been together for less than six months, but it had been an intense period. They felt like they knew each other better than was to be expected of a couple who should still be in their honeymoon period.
Living together in The Haight, coming so close to their dream and then missing the golden ring, and finally living as the working poor, pushed them quickly through the phases of a relationship.
Cassandra put her head down and worked as many shifts as she could get at the little café where she waitressed. She hadn’t told Curlee how much she had sold the Mustang for, even though he had asked. Her car had been her final fallback position. Now that she had sold it, she felt like she was walking a tightrope with no net.
Also, she had a fear that if Curlee knew how much money she had, it would go to recreational drug use. The longer they lived in The Haight, the more their horizons expanded as to what was acceptable drug use.
So far, Cassandra had been able to get up and go to work no matter how bad she felt after a party the night before, but it was getting harder and harder. She was feeling like an increasingly old nineteen-year-old woman.
Curlee, meanwhile, became more and more entranced by the swami whose teachings he brought home more and more often. He talked about the swami every day and had begun asking Cassandra to think about moving to the commune he had discovered, a hundred miles south of San Francisco.
He brought it up again one night in October. They had shared a modest dinner of Indian takeout from the restaurant across the street and were lighting up their first joint of the night. Curlee had brought home an old stereo from the shop where he worked and a copy of The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds was on the turntable.
“I think I want to go, Cass.”
“Go? Honestly? To this ashram, or whatever he’s calling it?”
“Yes. I talked to a guy today who had visited for a week and he just came back to empty out his apartment, then he plans to move there. He said the swami is truly enlightened. It’s just a small commune now, but it’s growing every day. I don’t want it to happen without me.”
Cassandra looked around their tiny, dingy apartment. It certainly wasn’t much, but it was theirs. And, it was in a community where everyone looked out for everyone else. The music scene was still happening, even if she wasn’t part of it. On any given night, she could wander down to The Fillmore or The Avalon and see The Steve Miller Band, Moby Grape, or Quicksilver Messenger Service for almost nothing.
When she thought of the ashram, she envisioned a man with a long beard sitting on a mat, surrounded by acolytes in orange robes, with more acolytes sweating in endless fields, growing beets. None of that appealed to her.
Curlee, on the other hand, still appealed to her very much. He had let his hair grow long and wore it lose around his shoulders. He had shucked off the more buttoned-down persona he’d had when she had first met him in front of Sproul Hall. He’d gone full hippie now, with rose-colored sunglasses and love beads around his neck.
And through it all, he’s still beautiful.
Cassandra sighed.
Can living and working on an ashram be any worse than the way we’re living now? They probably grow good grass there, too.
“Let m
e guess. They want you to donate all your worldly goods. Or, sell it all off and donate the money toward the higher consciousness of Swami Pastrami or whatever his name is.”
“It’s Swami Bahrti.” He narrowed his eyes at Cassandra. “And you know it. No, they don’t ask you to do any of that. It’s about raising consciousness, not raising money.”
That would have been a deal-breaker for me. I’m not going to sell the Mustang then give all the money from it to some dude who only wants to add another Rolls Royce to his collection. No, wait. I think that was some other guy. That was in Oregon, and it hasn’t happened yet this lifetime. It’s so easy to get it all confused.
“You’re much more excited about this than I am. But I don’t want to hold you back, either. I know you’re interested in this stuff.”
“Stuff? It’s human consciousness. Enlightenment.”
“Right. Pardon me, Swami Curlee. I know you’re interested in human consciousness and enlightenment.” She paused, then quietly said with a small smile, “And stuff.”
“That’s it!” Curlee said, jumping from the broken-down chair, across the three-legged coffee table which had once had four legs, and enveloping Cassandra in a bear hug.
Cassandra giggled and semi-struggled to get away. “Maybe you can find a way to convince me to see things your way.”
He did.
Chapter Forty-Six
For the third time in six months, Cassandra prepared to move. They hadn’t put deep roots down in The Haight, but they had acquired more belongings than she’d had when she had said goodbye to her roommates that spring.
Most of those belongings were either street finds, like their couch and coffee table, or gifts from neighbors who were moving away. They reversed the procedure now that they were moving and gave away everything they had received.
Within a week, they were reduced to a few suitcases, boxes, Curlee’s guitar, and a few of Cassandra’s painting supplies. It all fit easily in the trunk and back seat of Curlee’s old Ford.
They left San Francisco on the fourth Thursday of November, 1967. It was Thanksgiving, but they hardly noticed. They were busy packing and saying goodbye to friends and then they were on the road.
The Ashram was only a hundred miles south of San Francisco, but during the last few miles, the road deteriorated to a point that they were driving at walking speed. They would have quit and turned around, but then they saw a sign that said, “Peace and love, directly ahead.”
It was dark, cold, and raining when they finally spotted a hand-painted sign on a leaning fence post that said “Sri Bahrti Ashram” illuminated in their headlights. Beneath that, another sign read “All are welcome here.”
“Well, the weather’s not welcoming us, but the sign is,” Cassandra said. She had done her best to maintain a positive attitude, no matter how lost they felt they might be.
They drove on another half mile past fields that looked like mud and straw until they found a series of low-slung buildings which surrounded one much larger building, built to look like an Indian temple.
“I’d say we’re here. Now what, Kemosabe?”
Curlee shrugged. “Lone Ranger did not think of anything beyond getting here, faithful companion.”
The illumination of their headlights picked up a young man running toward them from the shelter of one of the long, low buildings. Curlee rolled his window down.
“Are you seekers?”
Cassandra was tired, and that earnest question made her giggle, but she did her best to hide it behind her hand.
“We are. Seekers of enlightenment,” Curlee said.
I have no idea how he can say those things and keep a straight face.
The young man pointed to an area ahead and to the left. “Park there, then come inside and dry off. We have a fire going in the communal fireplace and I’ll get some towels for you.”
“Should we bring our suitcases in?”
“No need. Just leave your keys in the car and I will have someone fetch them in for you.”
As they pulled forward, Cassandra said, “I can’t help but wonder what the poor guy did that’s going to fetch our suitcases. Did he fall off the path to enlightenment? Now he’s on enlightenment probation?”
Curlee shot her a look but didn’t say anything.
“Okay, I’ll try and do better about taking this seriously. I promise.”
They parked and ran through the downpour to the one building that had lights on. By the time they made it inside, Cassandra and Curlee found that they did indeed need the towels proffered by the young man who had directed them outside.
They stepped into one large room with a number of doors leading off it. In the center was a massive river rock fireplace with a roaring fire. Scattered around the fire were a few dozen people lounging on pillows, mats, or just sitting on the floor. A few glanced at Curlee and Cassandra, but most were lost in conversation. A number sat in various meditation poses, eyes shut.
It took a few moments for it to soak in to her tired brain, but eventually Cassandra noticed.
Women are talking to women. Men are talking to men. There are no couples together.
“Is Sri Bahrti here?” Curlee asked.
The young man shook his head. “He is resting.” He pointed upward, and Cassandra thought for a moment that the great man had died during the time it had taken them to drive there. When she followed the young man’s pointing finger, though, she saw there was a second story catwalk that looked down on the great room.
“My name is Max,” the young man said, placing his palms together in front of him and bowing slightly. “Namaste. We are pleased to have you with us.”
Curlee introduce himself and Cassandra, then said, “I’m sorry, we’re tired after the long drive. Is there any way you can show us to where we’ll be sleeping?”
Max smiled. “Of course! I should have realized. We will do your orientation in the morning. For now, we will show you to your rooms.”
“Oh, we’re together,” Curlee said. “We only need one room.”
“We do not mingle sexes here,” Max said. “It is one of our key precepts.”
Cassandra was not as surprised as Curlee. She poked him in the ribs. “Maybe you should have checked that out, oh enlightened one.”
Max pretended not to hear that. “I will lead you to your room, and Allison will be along to take you to yours, Miss Cassandra.”
“That will be fine,” Cassandra said.
Maybe a few weeks or months with no sex will help Curlee figure out how Fruit Loops this place is.
Curlee disappeared outside, trailing Max, but casting a long look over his shoulder at Cassandra.
I don’t even care. I am so exhausted, I just want to go to bed. I wouldn’t object to a good meal, a hot bath and a joint first, but I’ll settle for the bed.
A moment later, the woman named Allison appeared. Cassandra had an image of a young woman in her mind, but Allison was an older woman with long, silver hair that she wore loose down her back. Like Max and everyone Cassandra had seen at the ashram, she wore a pale-yellow robe and sandals.
Allison smiled kindly at her. “I know it can be overwhelming when you first get here. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
She led Cassandra out and through a covered walkway to one of the one-story buildings. Inside, there was nothing but row after row of bunk beds. Allison pointed to a bunk near the front door and said, “This will be yours.”
Cassandra glanced at the bunk, then the close proximity of the front door and the howling wind outside.
“Yes, new acolytes get the bunks nearer the door. The longer you are here, the farther away your bunk will be.”
Just the motivation I need to turn my brain off and accept the teachings of this guy.
The bunk wasn’t made, but sheets, a blanket and a pillowcase were in a neat pile at the foot of the bed.
Cassandra set to making the bed. When she was finished, she noticed a long yellow night gown
was folded on the floor beside the bunk. She picked it up and let it unfold.
Stylish. Whatever. Too tired to worry about it.
She stripped to her bra and panties. She never slept in her bra, but the sheerness of the nightgown and the fact that she would be sleeping with three dozen of her new best friends made her reconsider. She slipped the gown on and climbed into the bottom bunk.
For a moment, her mind slipped back to the princess bedroom she’d had in the Collins Estate.
Comparison is the thief of joy. Who said that? Maybe it was wise man Bahrti.
Chapter Forty-Seven
It didn’t take long for Cassandra to acclimate to life in the ashram.
The holy man, Bahrti, was serious about not commingling men and women. They slept in separate quarters, worked different duties, and even ate at different times.
The only time Cassandra saw Curlee was by accident—across a room or walking from one building to another.
I don’t know about him, but I’m not liking this at all. The only reason I came here was to be with him.
Cassandra made a few friends, of course. She always made friends. However, she didn’t make any friends that she truly bonded with, like she had with her roommates back at Berkeley. There was something oddly remote about all the women here, as if their eyes were on a different path than hers were.
I suppose I’m failing at this, like I’ve failed at everything else since I got back to 1966.
That first morning she had woken up in the ashram, a pale-yellow robe—the acolyte’s robe—had been laid across the foot of her bed. Her clothes, which she had taken off and folded at the bottom of her bed the night before, were gone. In fact, all of her civilian clothes, with the exception of her undergarments, were gone. Her underwear had been placed in a small box which slid under her bunk.
Her days were filled with drudgery. She felt like she was beginning her job at the bowling alley again, where her Uncle Al had tried to make her quit by giving her the worst jobs. He had only done that for a few days. Here, Sandra, who seemed to be in charge of all the women, continued to pile them on her day after day.
