Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

We were in the Keg at the foot of Lonsdale when she told me her stance, and I told her of my
counter-decision. For the first time since I'd known her, she froze me out. For Kent's funeral she'd
showed me forgiveness, but that night in the restaurant? She went crazy with a calm face, justifiably so.
We'd shared so much, and to have our bank of memories turned against me? Ruth had no idea that even
though I was sitting there with zucchini sticks and dipping sauce in front of me, blinking my eyes, in my
mind I was already dead, and I was standing at the gates of heaven, the way I'd always imagined the first
part of death to be like, being shown a film clip version of my life - a naïve vision, but one common to
men of my age. Even after all I'd been through, I'd still assumed I'd sail through those gates; such
presumption is itself a sin. But as Ruth listed smaller reasons for leaving me, I knew I was further away
from the gates than I'd ever dreamed. I had always believed I'd been leading an upstanding life, immune
to all forms of interrogation, but among other things, Ruth told me I thought like an infant, that I was
confusing what I thought was right with what God thought was right, and that I was harder to please than
God, and who exactly did I think I was? And then she told me that she was leaving, and that once she
was out the door I would never be loved by anybody ever again, and that I'd brought all of this upon
myself.
Have you ever known what it's like to be loved by nobody? Maybe you have, but no, that's not
possible, because your mother never failed you. Me? I didn't know what to do - I was shattered, and in
a moment of weakness I phoned your Heather. I arrogantly assumed that because her family all lived far
away, she must feel equally unloved from her side - and in this I was correct, but she said I didn't have to
feel guilty for calling her for that reason.
It's strange, but once you begin to confess your weaknesses, one confession leads to another, and the
effect is astonishingly liberating. At my age, it was a little like having food poisoning - all that bile and
poison sprayed out of me in every direction - a process that took a few weeks as Heather and I tried to
find you. It wasn't until I felt emptied of lies and weaknesses that, as with recovering from a poisoning, I
felt mending begin.
Heather.
I want to discuss that false psychic you paid to bring Heather messages from the dead. It was a
thoughtful idea, but one that backfired and then, ultimately, in its own way, frontfired, giving Heather
more hope than you'd imagine. But, Lord Almighty, did that psychic woman pull a number on Heather!
Right from the get-go she began extorting money - thousands. People like that woman make it clear just
how asinine it is to believe that human beings have some kind of built-in universal sense of goodness.
These days I think that everybody's just one spit away from being a mall bomber. People say sugary nice
things all the time, but believe none of it. See how many weapons people have stockpiled; inspect their
ammo cache; read their criminal records; get them drunk and bring up God; and then you really know
what it is you have to protect yourself from. Forget intentions - learn the deeds of which they're capable.
Anyway, in the end, Heather twigged onto this psychic's game plan. In doing so she told me about your
characters; I had no idea you had this other world inside your head, and if you ever read these words, I
imagine you'll blush as you do so, but don't. Froggles! Bonnie! Gerard! The characters are pure delight -
they're lime sherbet and maraschino cherries -they're almost holy. Your characters - that was the sort of
thing I ought to have been telling you at bedtime rather than squeezing out of you your daily list of
trespasses. God, I was a grim old sucker. Just so you know, Heather quit her job at the courts, and she's
now working full-time making children's books using your characters. They're good little books, and one
might even be published locally. Heather and Barb allow me to read them to the twins, so I come out of
this a winner. And again, I have to say how much the twins resemble you. I wonder what Kent would
have thought? He's fading from my memory, you know. Sometimes I have to work to conjure up his face
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