Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

"I could help you out, maybe."
"Couldyou?"
I said, "Sure. It's probably going to cost less than you thought. I can set you up with my repair guy,
Gary, down on Pemberton Avenue."
"That'd be kind of you."
"So can we meet tonight?"
"I think so."
I asked, "What time works for you?"
"Seven o'clock"?
"Where? How about my place?"
"Oh . . ."
"Allison - is everything okay?"
"It's just that seven is when I usually eat dinner."
We agreed to meet at a slightly formal Italian place on Marine Drive. When I arrived, it was evident
she'd been there a while, as only the dregs remained in what I already saw was a bottle of the restaurant's
priciest merlot. She told me I looked relaxed, which is always a successful ploy, because it invariably
relaxes the person you say it to. I asked if she liked the wine; she did - she'd better - and she ordered
another bottle, although you'd never imagine such a tiny dragon could hold her booze so well.
Heather, try to be nice to this woman. You're only jealous because Jason chose to speak through her
and not directly to you.
As soon as there was wine in my glass I asked her what message Jason had given her, but she raised her
hand in a warding-off motion (very professional) and said, "It's not good to mix eating with the spirit
world." It was all I could do not to throttle her. She talks about the afterlife like it was Fort Lauderdale.
As Allison didn't want to contaminate her perceptions by asking me about my life, I learned - over the
appetizer, the lamb entree, and some Key lime sorbet - about Glenn, who had worked for the Port
Authority's inspection division, further details of which make me ache for sleep. She has three ungrateful
daughters, all in their twenties, who seem to shack up with anything on two legs. To hear Allison's side of
the story, her life has been nothing but person after person abusing her sweet, generous nature. Of
course, I don't believe her for a moment, but that doesn't get me anywhere. She's got the sole existing
phone line to Jason, and I'll be damned if some passive-aggressive menopausal old bat is going to cheat
me out of hearing what Jason's been saying to me.
When the dishes were cleared, Allison did what I used to do back in college, which was keep a sharp
eye attuned to the restaurant's till so as to see when the check might be arriving, and once the check was
in motion toward the table, flee to the bathroom. When she returned, she found me putting on my
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