Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

Oh, God, I think I'm looped right now - but it was only one tequila shot, and my period was a week
ago, so I don't know why I'm so wound up. It's going to be light soon. It'll be a clear, cool day, like
summer, but the sun's too low on the horizon.
Seasons have always had a strong effect on me. For example, everyone has a question that assaults
them the moment they're awake in the morning - usually it's "Where am I?" or sometimes "What day is
it?" I always wake up asking "What season is it?" Not even the day but the season. A billion years of
evolution summed up in one simple question, all based on the planet's wobble. Oh, but I wish it were
spring! And oh - if only I could smell some laurels in the path outside the building! But then, on the other
hand, if I'm honest, I have to remember that it takes bodies longer to decompose in fall and winter. Oh,
Jason, I'm so sorry, honey, I'm sorry I just thought of you like you were merely biomass like potting soil
or manure or mulch. That's obviously not true. I don't know what happened to you, but you're still just
Jason. You haven't turned into something else yet.
And Allison, you evil cheesy witch. You won't pick up the phone. How dare you. I'm going to find you.
Yes, I'm going to find you.
Tuesday morning 11:00
I'm writing this directly into the courtroom's system. Who cares?
A half-hour ago the unthinkable happened: my cell phone went off in the middle of a cross-examination.
Whole years go by without people even noticing we exist. We're not supposed to draw attention to
ourselves - and so there I sat looking like a twit to everybody in the room, phone bleeping away.
Granted, it was probably the most interesting thing to happen in that courtroom since the double murder
trial back in '97, but people are staring at me, willing my cheeks to flush red, trying to make me know
that they know about me. If you were looking at me as I write this, you'd never know that all I want to
do in this world is kidnap Allison and tie her to a rack and demand that she tell me what's going on with
Jason.
As I turned off the phone, I checked the call display, and of course it was Allison, finally. It's all I can do
right now to not climb the walls with my teeth.
Oh, God. Look at these men. What drudgery are these dirtbags discussing now? They're all crooks.
You can't imagine all the mining and real estate and offshore crap that wends through this room. You'd be
shocked. They'll bankrupt widows and they'll only get a minimum fine and some golf tips from their
lawyers. I bet Allison was married to one of these guys. What was his name? Glenn. Uh-huh. Glenn,
who probably had a 23 handicap, a cholesterol count of 280, and a handful of semitraceable shell
corporations. I've met enough Glenns in my time. Some of them hang around at the end of the day and
try to pick me up, which I didn't use to mind because it meant that at least I wasn't invisible. But now?
Glenn. Now I hate Glenn, because Glenn is connected to Allison, and Allison is a witch.
Oh Lord, when is this morning's session going to end?
And Heather, aren't you the one who's up the creek, paddle-free, once they read this transcript? Screw
it. Nobody ever does.
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