Nostradamus - Jumping the Shark

Jumping the Shark

The second meeting wherein Dr. Nostradamus would do some predicting did not go well. He was already at Starbucks when I got there about 5:30 p.m. As I sat down I noticed one of those little mini-bar shot sized bottles of liquor on the table. 

I sipped a bit at my mocha latte and began thumbing through the Feedback From Sleeper Cell Sleepers inbox. "Alice from South Dakota is back," I said.

"Just read it," Dr. N said.

She writes: "Nostra you don't know anything about me or my boyfriend Hank so get off your high horse thinking you can predict where our love will go and you are just hating on him because you are old, fat, and jealous. Drop dead." 

Nostradamus sighed, "Number One, some of the letters in your digital stack should go to an advice column or someone or somewhere else, but not me."

"You are absolutely right Boss," I said, "I'll screen them."

"I'm not fat." Nostra said. "Do I look fat?" 

"No, Boss," I reassured him, "You're not fat."

Dr. N opened the little bottle of booze and poured it into his coffee. "Next." he said.

This from William Robert of Fredericksburg: 
"Dear Doctor Nostradamus,"

"So far so good," Dr. N interrupted.

"I appreciate very much your thoughtful and insightful commentary on our world and these great United States of America."

"Keep it coming," Dr. N interrupted again, "All I want is a little respect, r-e-s-p-e-c-t."

"Please predict for me and your readers how many eons you will suffer in purgatory before the Mighty Hand of God smites you into the eternal fires of Hell for your blasphemy. Sincerely, Yours in Christ, Rev. William Robert."

"How long is an eon, Grasshopper?" Nostra asked.

"I don't know Sensei." I answered truthfully.

"Me either," he said. "I guess I can't answer Billy Bob's question then, can I?"

Me, "Nope."

Dr. N pulled out yet another mini-bar bottle. Jack Daniels this time. "Next."

Jimmy from New York wants to know what is going to happen to Trump.

Doctor Nostradamus responded. "Good question but again, the wrong question. What Jimmy should ask is what is going to happen to Jimmy. Illusions and fantasies are concentrated psychological and social energy and, like when they canceled Dallas or Mash the fans went.... 

"Sensei, Boss," I interrupted, "I don't want to interrupt but there are two barristers, now three, looking at us through the window and one is on the phone. Considering the pile of empty little booze bottles on the table, we should mosey on outta here."

"Whatever you say, Apprentice." Dr. N replied, standing up, steadying himself on the rail. "Lead the way."

I led the way, out off the veranda, between a row of parked cars, across a few more parking lanes and then in the direction of my car. Clearly, Dr. Nostradamus was in no condition and I would have to drive him back to his house, apartment, hotel, or homeless shelter, or wherever he laid his hat and called his home. 

Just then a police car with flashing lights pulled up and gave off one of those short beeps that says in police car talk, "Halt!"

"Fuck, shit," I muttered, "Do you have your ID on you?"

Dr. N didn't answer, he just kinda closed his eyes and swayed from side to side. Not good.

Two cops got out. One stood by the driver's door scowling and watching us; the other approached. He was polite and professional but shined his light into my and Dr. Nostradamus' eyes. "I'm sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but we have a report of public intoxication. Can I see your identification?"

Dr. N straightened up, rather unsteadily, squinted his eyes against the flashlight's beam, and slurring his words, mumbled, "These are not the drunks you are looking for."

The polite cop turned to his scowling partner, "These are not the drunks we are looking for."

With that the cops got back in their patrol car and drove away.

"Fuck, shit!" I had to laugh. "Unbelievable!"

So I gently and carefully led the very great and very drunk Dr. Michel de Nostradamus across the parking lot. But the way to my car was blocked by a sleek black Mercedes limousine that had pulled across three full parking spaces. "Rich, entitled, inconsiderate bastards," I commented to my drunk friend. 

As we started to go around, the limo driver got out, dressed in one of those old-fashioned chauffeur uniforms with the funny hat and white gloves. "Good evening, Doctor," he said while opening the passenger door. "Your appointment has been confirmed. Will Number One be attending?"

"No." Doctor Michel de Nostradamus said, "Thank you, James."

Then, turning to me said,"Number One, we will address sleeper concerns as they arise but we must focus more attention on tradecraft."

"You're not drunk at all, are you Sensei?" I said.

Dr. Nostradamus replied matter of factly, "You've got to be able to handle your liquor in this business. And that wasn't even liquor."

With that the good doctor got into the limo. The driver closed the door after him, turned to me, nodded slightly, and then got back into the driver's side and drove off.

"Who is that guy?" I muttered.

Dixi