Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

When I was eleven I broke my arm investigating a new house being built in our family's subdivision. It
spent the summer in a cast, like an itching, tormenting worm burning with pink fiberglass strands, and I
thought the weeks would never pass - but then they did, and I remember forgetting about that cast not
even six hours after having it removed (Oh, the cool air!) And so it was with Jason.
Once he entered my life, I promptly forgot all my years of putting on a brave face while browsing at
bookstores until closing time, and of having one, two, three beers while watching crime shows and CNN.
I completely forgot the hateful sensation of loneliness, like thirst and hunger together pressing on my
stomach.
A few times my old single friends came over to eat with Jason and me at our dumpy but happy little
place, and I could tell that they were planning to politely remove themselves from my life. All those great
women who went with me to Mel Gibson movies and two-for-one Caesar night at the Keg - I trashed
them out of my life. And I could see the fear in their eyes as they realized that they were, each of them,
just one more notch alone in the world. Sometimes my lonely single friends would wait until Jason was
out and then they'd come visit me, sitting and ranting for hours about how brilliant they were, and yet the
world was screwing them over, and the core of their being was hollowing as a result. I was prideful - I
was glad I wasn't lonely. I wanted to insulate myself from lonely people and, to be honest, so many other
forms of human suffering.
Heather, you bitch, betraying your friends for some man.
Jason! You're not just some man. You're my only guy, but you're fading on me, like a waning crescent
moon going behind Bowen Island around sunset. The next day you may well be there, but I won't be
seeing you.
Monday (four days later)
And so here I am at work in court. I'll be quitting this afternoon. I told Larry I'd fill in just this one shift
and then I'm gone. God only knows who'll ever read these words. Here's what happened:
I was in the car outside Allison's, nodding off around 8:30 in the morning, when I saw the daughter pull
out of the driveway in a red Ford Escort like every other car on earth. In a spasm of efficiency I got my
car revved and I trailed her down Mountain Highway, then over the Second Narrows Bridge, where she
pulled onto Commissioner Street, which follows the canning factories and docks as they approach
downtown: wheat-choked CN trains covered in graffiti, with haloes of pigeons; plastic tubs full of fish
offal, scuffed and bloody; forklifts; concrete mixers. Mount Baker was like the Paramount logo in the
south toward the U.S., and the gulls and geese were seemingly dancing in the flawless blue sky for my
enjoyment. It was a cold, clear October day. I don't think I ever remember feeling quite so alert as I did
following Allison's daughter.
The harbor was flat as a cookie sheet, and I had a déjà vu that went on for almost half an hour. Usually
a déjà vu, like happiness, vanishes the moment you recognize it, but not during that particular drive. And I
didn't feel alone. Someone was in my car with me - a ghost? Who knows? Funny, but whoever it was, it
wasn't Jason. It was - oh, hooey. I don't go in for that stuff anymore. Not after what happened.
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