Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

But I hadn't killed Yorgo.
I stopped and processed this thought. I could have killed him, but I didn't.
Huh.
I was happy, but I was also annoyed. Maybe in spite of all my attempts to block it, my father's sense of
will had become my own. Oh, dear God.
The stars above looked milky, like they only do in summer. I saw some sheet lightning off somewhere in
the mountains. And then I felt the chunk of concrete hate fall from my chest. A part of my life was over, I
realized. I was now in some new hate-free part, and I began to hear the highway's pale drone. To the
east was an overpass with a gas station.
Once there I checked to find that I had on me about two hundred bucks Canadian, in twenties that all
shared the same serial number. I got change for one and looked at the Pirelli calendar behind the box of
Slim Jims; it told me that I'd had that first beer with Jerry five and a half days ago. I phoned in to collect
my messages - eleven; as I retrieved them, each push on the pay phone's keypad was like waiting for a
punch to the gut. I braced myself for anything.
The first message was from Barb, in tears and without much to say but that she was missing Kent.
Following this were calls from my mother, in varying states of sobriety and asking about Joyce's diet,
which was her way of saying she was running out of money.
The next was from Kim, asking if I knew where Les was.
Next was Les saying, "Buddy, I owe you big time on this one. I wouldn't donate a kidney for you, but
something pretty close. Take tomorrow off, and I still can't believe you let that cute little sales chick sell
you that clown suit. Man, she brings you those little cappuccinos with a sprinkle of cinnamon, they play a
song you like on the sound system, and before you know it you're looking like a balloon twister at my
kid's birthday party."
The next message was from Reg, still at the hospital. "Jason, don't hang up. It's your father, yes, your
father. They found something inside me that's not quite right, so they've been holding me here longer.
Thank you for bringing in my things. I know you didn't have to do it. I've been considering your reaction
to my words. No, I don't think one of Kent's twins is a monster. But then what does happen when the
self splits? What happens when a cell splits five times, with quintuplets? Each has a unique soul. And
what if they made a thousand clones of Frank Sinatra? Each would have a unique soul. So then by
extension, Jason, let's say we were to clone an infinite number of souls from one starter soul - yours or
mine or the Queen's; whoever's - and say we filled up the universe with this infinite number of cloned
souls. Wouldn't this mean that each human soul is infinite as well as full of unimaginable mystery? I leave it
at that, son. I've never wanted anything more for you than the Kingdom. Good-bye."
Bastard.
The gas station clerk stared at me. I said, "Bad day," and he said, "Taxi."
"Huh?"
"Your taxi's here."
Page 73