Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

We dumped the truck in the long-term parking lot and headed to the terminal. Customs preclearance
was a snap. Barb was bawling as she showed them the engagement ring Kent had given her, and they
waved us through with Parisian-style shrugs and smiles. The ticket clerk had passed along the message to
the flight crew that we were going to get married; inside the plane it was broadcast, and we were
upgraded to business class while everybody whistled and cheered, making Barb cry all the harder. The
drinks, meanwhile, kept coming and coming, and Barb kept drinking and drinking, and on the ground she
was one big wobble; escorting her from one gate to the next at LAX was like trying to propel a shopping
cart full of balloons on a windy day, and on the second flight she simply cried for most of the trip. We
landed just after midnight.
In the decade since my first trip there, Las Vegas had been rebuilt from the ground up. Pockets of
authentic sleaze peeked out here and there, but the city's aura was different, more professional. I could
look at all the new casinos and imagine people sinning away like mad, but I could also envision
management meetings and cubicles and photocopiers tucked away in the bowels of the recently spruced
up casinos.
I asked the driver to take us to the stretch of chapels between Fremont Street and Caesars Palace, a
piece of the Strip that had remained unmolested by progress. The chapel where Cheryl and I had been
married was still there. I paid the cabbie while Barb got out. We didn't say anything as we went into the
chapel, and I was disappointed that the old guy who'd performed the first ceremony was no longer there.
A couple from Oklahoma was in front of us. We witnessed for them, and they witnessed for us, through
a secular version of a wedding ceremony that did good service to the term "quickie." Within fifteen
minutes we were wed, and another cab drove us to Caesars Palace, which had also been renovated in
the intervening decade.
We checked in as husband and wife, and we were walking through the lobby to the elevator bank when
we heard someone calling our names. I had the same sick feeling I had when I was twelve and got caught
pilfering raspberries from the neighbors' patch. We turned around. It was Rick, this guy I'd gone to high
school with. He'd aged faster than most, and was much larger than I'd remembered. His head was shiny.
"Rick. Hey, hi."
"Hi, Jason. Hi, Barb. Jason, I thought you were Kent for a second there. Did all you guys come down
together? I can't believe how cheap everything here is during the off-season."
I didn't know how to reply, but Barb said, "I like blackjack, but the guys are more into craps."
Rick said, "I'm a blackjack guy, too. Craps is for the real hotshots. I like to stretch my losses out over a
few days so I can savor the experience. When did you guys get here?"
"Just today."
"You're staying at Caesars?"
I said we were.
"I'm at this motel off the Strip. Twenty-nine bucks a night, with free coffee and croissants in the morning.
Talk about a deal. You guys want to come play with me?"
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