Hey Nostradamus!. Douglas Coupland

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      Sooner than I’d have liked we were out the door, appearing to the world as if we were headed to a $2.99 all-you-can-eat shrimp buffet or to lose ourselves for a few hours in front of the dime slots with the pensioners. We were alone in the elevator and kissed briefly, and then we staggered through the lobby bombarded again by a wash of noise and sleaze.

      Outside it was nearing sunset. An ashtray on wheels picked us up. The cabbie was a fat guy with an East Coast accent and exactly one hair on his forehead, just like Charlie Brown. He slapped the steering wheel when we asked him to take us to a chapel. He told us his name, Evan, and we asked him if he’d be our witness. He said sure, he’d stand up for us, and for the first time that day I felt not just as if I was getting married, but also like a bride.

      The chapels were itty-bitty things, and we tried to find one in which celebrities had never been married, as if a celebrity aura could somehow crush the holy dimension of a Las Vegas wedding. I don’t know what we were thinking. Evan ended up choosing a chapel for us, mostly because it included a snack platter and sparkling wine in the price of the service.

      There was paperwork; our fake IDs aroused no suspicion. Out the little stained-glass window up front the sun was like a juicy tangerine on the horizon. Quickly, a dramatically tanned man in white rayon, who might just as easily have been offering us a deal on a condominium time-share, declared us legally wed.

      Nearing the front door, Jason said, “Well, it’s not quite two hundred and fifty of our nearest and dearest, is it?”

      I was so giddy: “A civil wedding. What would your dad say?”

      We went outside, leaving Evan to his snack platter – out into the hot air scented by exhaust fumes, snapdragons and litter, just the two of us, dwarfed by the casinos and dreaming of the future, of the lights, both natural and false, appearing in the sky, and of sex.

      

      I hoped that both the shooting of the windows and the flooding sprinklers would distract the three boys, but this didn’t happen. Instead, they began to fight among themselves. Mitchell was furious with Jeremy for wasting ammunition that could be more effectively used “killing those stuck-up pigs who feed on taunting anybody who doesn’t have a numbered sweater.” To this end, Mitchell fired across the room, into a huddled mass of younger students – the junior jocks, I think, but I can’t be very sure, because the tabletops and chairs blocked my view. I also didn’t know whether the gunshots scattered or formed a concentrated beam, but I clearly remember blood from the huddle mixing with the streams of sprinkler water that trickled along the linoleum’s slight slant, down to behind the bank of vending machines. The machines made a quick electrical fizz noise and went dead. From the huddle came a few screams, some moans and then silence. Mitchell shouted, “We know that most of you aren’t dead or even wounded, so don’t think we’re stupid. Duncan, should we go over and see who’s fibbing and who isn’t?”

      “I don’t know – I could get a bit more pumped about all of this if saggy-assed Jeremy would start pulling his weight.”

      The two turned to Jeremy, the least talkative of the three. Mitchell said, “What’s the matter – deciding to convert into a jock all of a sudden? Gee, won’t that make the Out to Lunch Bunch hot for you. A killer with a heart of gold.”

      Jeremy said, “Mitchell, shut up. Like we haven’t noticed that all your shots are missing their mark? The only reason you shot out the windows was because it’s impossible to miss them.”

      Mitchell got angrier. “You know what? I think you’re jamming out, and you’re jamming out a little bit too late into the game, I think.”

      “What if I was to jam out?”

      Mitchell said, “Watch this,” and fired across the room, killing a boy named Clay, whose locker was four down from mine. “There, see? Killing is fun. Jam out now, and you’re next.”

      “I quit.”

      “No, Jeremy, it’s too late for that. Duncan, what would you guess Jeremy’s tally up to this moment has been?”

      Duncan calculated. “Four definite hits and five maybes.”

      Mitchell turned to Jeremy: “Ha! And you expect mercy from the world?”

      “I quit.”

      Mitchell said, “What do we have here – a Hitler-in-the-bunker scenario?”

      “Call it what you will.” Jeremy dropped his weapons.

      Mitchell said, “Execution time.”

      

      Being married was wild. It was worth all the delays and pleas and postponement of pleasure, and you know, this isn’t some guidance-class hygiene film speaking to you – it’s me. I was me. We were us. It was all real, and wild, and it is my most cherished memory of having been alive – a night of abandon on the sixteenth floor of Caesars Palace.

      I doubt we said even three words to each other all night; Jason’s dewy antler-soft skin made words feel stupid. By six in the morning we were in a cab headed back to the airport. On the flight north, we didn’t speak much, either. And I felt married. I loved the sensation, and it’s why I remained silent – trying to pinpoint the exact nature of this new buzz: sex, certainly, but more than that, too.

      Of course, the Out to Lunch Bunch and all of the Alive! crew could tell right away that something was up. We simply didn’t care as much for the group as before, and it showed. The corny little lunchtime confessions over french fries were so dull as to be unlistenable; Pastor Fields’s team sports metaphors and chastity pleas seemed equally juvenile to Jason. We knew what we had, and we knew what we wanted, and we knew that we wanted more. Then there was the issue of how we were going to go about telling our families. Jason imagined a formal dinner at a good restaurant during which to break the news – between the main course and the dessert – but I said I didn’t want our marriage to be treated like a chorus girl jumping out of a cake. I’m not clear if Jason’s desire for a formal dinner was his concept of maturity, or if he wanted to shock a crowd like an evil criminal mastermind. He did have his exhibitionist streak: I mean, in Las Vegas he’d refused to close the curtains and he was always trying to sneak me into the change room at the Bootlegger jeans store. No go.

      So yes, we’d had a fight on the phone about this matter the night before my pregnancy test. Jason was angry with me for dragging my heels about announcing the marriage, and I was angry with him for wanting to be a – I don’t know – a show-off.

      And that’s as far as I got in my life, my baby as well. I don’t think I’ve concealed anything here, and there’s not much left to explain. God owns everything. I was not replaceable, but nor was I indispensable. It was my time.

      Dear God,

      I am so full of hate that I’m scaring myself. Is there a word to describe wanting to kill people who are already dead? Because that’s what’s in my heart. I remember last year being in the backyard with my father. We lifted up this sheet of plywood that had been lying on the grass all winter. Underneath were thousands of worms, millipedes, beetles and a snake, all either eating or being eaten, and that is my heart, and the hate and the insects grow and grow blacker by the hour. I want to kill the killers, and I just can’t believe that this would be a sin.

      

      Lord,

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