How Nostradamus Got His Groove Back
And Learned To Stop Verbally Abusing
His Wife For No Good Reason
I'm really glad I've just finished writing this almanac, thinks Nostradamus, stroking his beard. From the other room his wife asks, Do you want a sandwich? And he says, Shut up, woman, I'm trying to think!
Nostradamus gets up and walks over to his mirror and picks up his lice comb and combs the lice out of his beard. Beneath his beard he spots a huge, ripe pimple. Popping the pimple reminds Nostradamus of volcanic eruptions and this makes him smile with an inner, radiant light.
The earth will be destroyed in 2012, he thinks, I wish I could Google myself right now. He closes his eyes.
When he opens his eyes Nostradamus is a homeless man on the streets of Brooklyn, New York. He is holding an empty, unwashed can of baked beans with a few pennies inside. Shaking the can, he asks, Can you open your heart today? in English. That's weird, he thinks, I don't speak English.
It begins to rain. The rain extinguishes Nostradamus's inner, radiant light. It's raining, he says. Someone says, I know. A businessman gives him a $100 bill and says, Don't be an asshole. He thinks, What's going on here? I'm Nostra-fucking-damus!
Unfortunately for Nostradamus he actually screamed this last thought very loud, loud enough that a policeman comes to take him away to a place where they put people who claim to be Nostradamus. He asks the officer what year it is in French. The officer doesn't understand. I don't understand, goddammit, the officer says, you're speaking French.
At the place where they put people who claim to be Nostradamus the guards take Nostradamus's clothes off and hose him down with ice-cold water and laugh at his non-erect penis and shave off his beard and then give his clothes back and slap his ass. I just showered this morning, he says in English. That's not why we hosed you down, goddammit, they say, winking. He asks them what year it is in French and they all shake their heads and say, We don't understand you, goddammit, you're speaking French. He must be speaking French, they say to one another.
So the guards take him to the French consulate and he asks the clerk, What year is it? in French. The clerk says to the guards, Goddammit, he's speaking French! The clerk runs out and comes back with a translator. The translator is Middle Eastern. In French she says, It's 2012. Nostradamus cries, Sacrebleu! The translator slaps him and then backslaps him and then the translator says, Stop acting like a goddamn stereotype, Nostradamus. His beard turns white. He says, I don't understand how people can listen to the same songs all the time. I need some fucking variety, know what I'm saying? The guards say, I know. And also it's funny when people say 'Let's make it baby' because it sounds like they're saying 'Let's make a baby' but they aren't.
The guards bring him back to the place where they put people who claim to be Nostradamus and give him a nametag that says I THINK MY NAME IS NOSTRADAMUS BUT REALLY I'M JUST CRAZY SO DON'T LISTEN TO ANYTHING I SAY, OKAY? OKAY. Everyone else there is wearing the same nametag. They walk around a small, glass room bumping into one another saying, The earth will be destroyed in 2012. Over and over and again they say it, The earth will be destroyed in 2012, The earth will be destroyed in 2012, The earth will be destroyed in 2012. They say it so much it loses all meaning and becomes little more than a buzz, a low sort of hum that fills the whole place up with a lot of hot air. The roof of the place would float away if they didn't pump the hot air out with industrial air pumps. So they do that.
Now I know why people avoid me at parties, Nostradamus thinks, I'm such an asshole. He tells the guards in English, You will not see me alive at sunrise. And they say, Goddamit, that's what you always say. Every goddamn night. Every one of you.
Nostradamus unlaces his shoes. He does some crunches and pushups and writes a note saying, The earth will be fine. Don't worry. I was just starved for attention. I've wasted my life. I'm going to hang myself with my shoelaces now. And he does.
Opening his eyes he is back in the year 1550, standing in front of his mirror, lice comb in his hand. He licks his beard and says, Nostradamus-Nostradamus-Nostradamus, over and over again in the mirror, as fast as he possibly can, Nostradamus-Nostradamus-Nostradamus. His inner, radiant light returns with a tiny burst of gold and he stops doing that because it is pretty annoying after all.
He sits down at his desk and thinks about what he saw in the future. People must really like me if they claim to be me, he thinks, I must be really well liked, you know? I mean, why else would they like me so much unless they really liked me? I'm really glad I've just finished writing this almanac, thinks Nostradamus, stroking his beard. From the other room his wife asks, Do you want a sandwich? And he says, Actually, yeah, I'd love a sandwich. Thanks, babe.
