Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

It's a bit later again, still here in the truck, looking again at the invitation to Kent's memorial this evening.
A year ago today, I got a phone call from Barb, your mother, who had married my rock-solid brother,
Kent, to much familial glee in 1995. I was driving home along the highway from a Hong Konger's home
renovation at the top of the British Properties, and it was maybe six-ish, and I was wondering what bar
to go to, whom to call, when the cell phone rang. Remember, this was 1998, and cell phones were a
dollar-a-minute back then - hard to operate, too.
"Jason, it's Barb."
"Barb! Que pasa?"
"Jason, are you driving?"
"I am. Quitting time."
"Jason, pull over."
"Huh?"
"You heard me."
"Barb, could you maybe - "
"Jason, Jesus, just pull to the side of the road."
"Sorry I exist, Eva Braun." I pulled onto the shoulder near the Westview exit. Your mother, as you must
well know by now, likes to control a situation.
"Have you pulled over?"
"Yes, Barb."
"Are you in park?"
"Barb, is micromanaging men your single biggest turn-on in life?"
"I've got bad news."
"What."
"Kent's dead."
I remember watching three swallows play in the heat rising from the asphalt. I asked, "How?"
"The police said he was gone in a flash. No pain, no warning. No fear. But he's gone."
Page 29