Free Hey Nostradamus! by Douglas Coupland Page A

“Just after two o’clock,” one of them said.
    I didn’t know what to say or ask. What was the grandtotal? I blanked, and two very nice-seeming women ran down to the lot toward us carrying large red plastic medical boxes.
    â€œAre you shot?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCut?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHave you been drinking alcohol or using drugs?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you on any medications?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAllergies?”
    â€œNovocaine.”
    â€œIs the blood on your body from a single source?”
    â€œUh-yes.”
    â€œDo you know the name of the person?”
    â€œCheryl Anway.”
    â€œDid you know Cheryl Anway?”
    â€œUh-yes. Of course I did. Why do you need to know that?”
    â€œIf we know the relationship then we can more precisely evaluate you for stress or shock.”
    â€œThat makes sense.” I felt more logical than I had any right to be.
    â€œThen did you know Cheryl Anway?”
    â€œShe’s my…girlfriend.”
    My use of the present tense flipped a switch. The women looked at the RCMP officers, who said, “He was sleeping on the hood.”
    â€œI wasn’t asleep.”
    They looked at me.
    â€œI don’t know what I was doing, but it wasn’t sleep.”
    One of the women asked, “Is this Cheryl’s car?”
    â€œYeah.” I stood up. The fire alarms were still clanging, and the concertlike sensation of thousands of people nearby was distinct.
    The other female medic said, “We can give you something to calm you down.”
    â€œYes. Please.”
    Alcohol chilled a patch of skin on my left shoulder and I felt the needle go in.
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    Like anyone, I’ve seen those movies about army barracks life where evil drill sergeants, with cobra venom for spinal fluid, sentence privates to six years of latrine duty for an improperly folded bedsheet corner. But unlike most people, I have to leave the theater or switch the channel because it reminds me of my life as a child.
    You’re nothing, you hear me? Nothing. You’re not even visible to God. You’re not even visible to the devil. You are zero.
    Here’s another thought from the mind and mouth of Reg: You are a wretch. You are a monster and you are weak and you will be passed over in the great accounting . As can be clearly seen, my father’s primary tactic was to nullify my existence. Maybe today’s banking adventure with zeroes stems from that.
    Kent, however, was never nothing . At the very least, he was always expected to join my father’s insurance firm after college-which he did-get married to a suitable girl-which he did-and lead a proud and righteous life-which he did, until exactly one year ago, when a teenager in a ToyotaCelica turned him into a human casserole up by the Exit 5 off-ramp near Caulfeild.
    I miss Kent, but God, I wish he and I had been genuinely close as opposed to Don’t-they-look-nice-together-in-the-airbrushed-family-portrait close. He was always so bloody organized, and his efforts at all activities always made my own efforts pale. Kent was also righteous; he was sent home from school in sixth grade for speaking up against Easter egg hunts (pagan; trivializes God; symbols of fertility that secretly promote lust). Granted, lust is purely theoretical in grade six, but he knew how to spin things the Alive! way. He was a born politician.
    Dad left scorch marks behind him as he jetted off to the school’s offices that pre-Easter afternoon, of course to take Kent’s side. Through bullying and threat of litigation (he was an imposing, hawklike man), he was able to get Easter egg making banned in Kent’s classroom. The school caved simply because they wanted a demented nutcase out of their way. That night at dinner, there was extra praying, and Kent and Dad discussed Easter egg paganism in detail, way too far over my head. As for my mother, she might as well have