by Brad Oates
EDGAR’S WORST SUNDAY
Brad Oates
A Division of 10361976 Canada Inc.
300 Central Avenue West
Brockville, Ontario
K6V 5V2
Toll Free 1-800-563-0911 or 613-345-2687
http://www.sandspress.com
ISBN 978-1-988281-54-4
Copyright © 2018 Brad Oates
http://www.BradOHInc.com
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Kristine Barker and Wendy Treverton
Edited by Alyssa Owen
Formatting by Renee Hare
Publisher Kristine Barker
Publisher’s Note
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide as a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
For information on bulk purchases of this book or any book published by Sands Press,
please call 1-800-563-0911.
1st Printing October 2018
To book an author for your live event, please call: 1-800-563-0911
Sands Press is a literary publisher interested in new and established authors wishing to develop and market their product. For more information please visit our website at www.sandspress.com.
Chapter 1
The Pearly Gate
For as long as he could remember, Sunday mornings for Edgar Vincent had been a painful haze of sickness and regret. On many such mornings, he'd awoken, and pressing shaky forefingers against pounding temples to steady his vision, watched the world assemble itself into appalling mockeries of intentions he barely remembered having the night before.
From the delicate and well-rehearsed act of lightly removing a dainty arm draped over him in its peaceful slumber, to gathering his scattered belongings from amid the less-valued refuse of storm drains, Edgar had long since grown accustomed to Sunday's special brand of cruelty.
Some had been spent poring over unending lists of indecipherable text messages and records of inappropriate outgoing calls as his brain turned over in the dry interior of his skull—planning an increasingly complex series of explanations and excuses.
Other Sundays had found him shielding his eyes as he stumbled down the radiant aisles of his local drugstore. Every time he ended up there, it seemed harder to locate the essential combination of cover-ups to conceal the scars of his failed endeavours.
Once, he'd woken up comfortably in bed, only to find he had sorely tested the patience of its rightful owner the night before while explaining how certain he was that it was, in fact, his own. That morning had been a hasty retreat—frustrated especially when every attempted apology he offered was rudely rebuffed by his unwilling host, who only repeated that he'd already heard enough bullshit from Edgar to last a lifetime.
Edgar's friends liked to relate one story about an especially obscene Sunday morning involving his disturbing abuse of a freshly stolen "Slip-n-Slide." He had no recollection of this incident, however, and had long since settled on its falseness.
Still, none of that would ever compare to the day Edgar died.
An ongoing source of frustration for him—in part because it had always acted as the herald to his greatest regrets—was the first ray of sun which crept surreptitiously through his blinds each Sunday morning, waking him from his dead sleep and calling him back into the realm of the accountable.
Today, it was far worse. Even as the sun rose upon the scene of his demise, a glaring light penetrated Edgar's eyelids, searing into them and charring his very being. "Fuck off!" he rolled over, but it was no good.
His lashes cracked apart painfully as he slowly forced his eyes open to take in his surroundings and begin to decipher the sentence of this particular Sabbath. He had little enough to start with—his memory was a taint of flashing lights, loud voices, and the lingering uncertainty that had always played the harbinger to his poor decisions.
Glancing about, Edgar searched for the usual suspects but found them sorely lacking. Where he instinctually expected dirty alleys and broken bottles, he found only pristine white, as if he'd somehow awoken in an unsullied arctic tundra—which would be a first even for him.
Dragging a rough hand across his face and burrowing the heels of his palms into each eye, in turn, he slowly pushed himself up to one side as the pain in his head sloshed about like the ice-diluted remains in a discarded highball glass.
"Fucking hell," he mumbled, his deep voice breaking the otherwise perfect silence as he steadied himself, trying to wrestle up any certain account of the previous night's decisions. "Bad," he speculated, "they were definitely very bad."
Few memories came—an indistinct image of a distant building, tall and ominous, yet its recollection filled Edgar with an unusual longing. Beyond that were only vague flashes of bars and lights, bits of laughter and the thrill of alcohol passing over lips. These swirled about in their regular pantomime, sliding slowly in and out of the familiar haze which always preceded his blackouts. There was little more, just the building far off in front of him, and a strange feeling of imbalance. Imbalance, then fear—terrible, paralyzing fear.
After that, his memories faded into nothing but a strange, calm sense of understanding. In the end, he was still left with no guess as to his present whereabouts.
Mustering his strength, Edgar inhaled deeply. The air was sweet, like half-remembered childhood nature-walks. All was still and peaceful, and the temperature seemed to perfectly match his own; a comforting bath embracing his tired body. He struggled to his feet.
Everything was white. White—and very bright. Wherever he looked, Edgar was blinded by a brilliant light. Squinting against its intrusion and grinding his dry lips, he found that his mouth tasted like stale cigarettes and whiskey. Only one flavour short of the Trinity, he noted.
"Where am I?" he wondered aloud as he forced himself into motion— with such a homogenous environment, one direction seemed as good as any other. His only certainty was that he was ready to move on from wherever he was. "So much damn white!"
Straining his eyes against the unearthly glare, he managed to discern a vast outline in the distance, and continued on, feeling somewhat encouraged.
His hands were weak and clumsy as he reached down to straighten out his jeans—which he was surprised to find splendidly clean. Swallowing down a sudden lump in his throat, Edgar slowed his pace and passed his hands carefully over his body, instinctually falling into his familiar Sunday morning check: keys, wallet, phone, shoes, hair, teeth—all there. Better than he could have hoped.
With his sense of relief growing, he lifted a hand up to his eyes to fend off the glare and determined to get on with his day.
The titanic object ahead was much closer already, far too close for the short time he'd been walking. It now encompassed the entirety of his vision: tall, impenetrable, and—golden.
What the...
Edgar took a hesitant step forward, then another. The obstruction grew clearer with each trembling step, until with a splitting headache and gaping jaw, he found himself staring at an endless golden wall extending beyond sight in both directions.
With ornate spires stretching upward before disappearing into the white like a plane losing itself in the clouds, the wall stood as the undeniable centrepiece of his strange morning. Behind him, reality seemed to drop away into a disconcerting fog of light, and he shuddered at the thought of turning back now,
feeling as if to do so would be to lose himself forever.
It took only a few more steps for Edgar to reach the structure, where he found a gate—the only one visible along the entire stretch—waiting directly in front of him. For all the pomp and flair of the wall, the entryway was a simple latticework of gold and pearl, forming two double doors of standard size. Both stood wide open.
A tall man waited directly beside the gate with serene patience. Edgar hadn't noticed him until that very moment and was caught quite off-guard. The stranger's silvery hair was cropped short, and his casual white clothing blended perfectly with the luminous haze surrounding them. He eyed Edgar with a knowing expression.
Tensing, Edgar tried to shake off the mixed sense of dread and guilt which crept through him under the man's pacified gaze. Only after an uncomfortably long wait did he accept that he would need to be the one to break the silence.
"Am I in..."
The man smiled, an old and understanding gesture, but only continued to watch Edgar reassuringly through piercing grey eyes.
"...heaven?" he finished, with only the faint hint of a blush appearing on his smooth-shaven cheeks.
"If you like." The man's voice was deep, yet not old. It was strong, but timeless—the creaking of a great oak in a passing storm.
"So, I'm dead?" Edgar pushed, swearing a solemn oath that his friends would pay dearly if this proved to be some elaborate ruse.
"Yes."
"And this is the afterlife?"
"It is as you say."
Rolling his dark brown eyes, Edgar suddenly realized the shortcoming of his previous effort at taking inventory. Reaching back once more, he was relieved to find his cigarettes in their customary place. The pack was full as he flipped the lid open and drew one out, which seemed odd after a night of what he could only surmise to be prodigious drinking.
"Heaven. Jesus Christ!" Flicking his lighter to life, he took a long drag. The man maintained his composure despite Edgar's blasphemy. No uncomfortable grimace, no hasty, embarrassed self-blessing. Not even a damned ironic chuckle. Something was very wrong; Edgar never failed to get a rise out of those who thought they knew better.
"So then, Pete, is it?" Edgar waited briefly for a response, but finding himself disappointed, continued. "I suppose you're meant to read from my life-book? Tally my sins; decide if I can enter...all that?"
"The door is open to you."
Stoic bastard, thought Edgar. "Now that's just lazy. I'm pretty sure it's your entire purpose to recount the story of my life, and frankly, that stands to be the most enjoyable part of this whole debacle."
"You know your story better than I, Mr. Vincent."
The smoke rushed from Edgar's nostrils like the trail of a falling airliner, dancing about the strange man's face. "Don't call me that."
"As you say," the man replied, offering an apologetic nod.
"If this is really heaven, why the hell am I getting in? Priests have actually told me I'm going to hell...more than once! Do you even have a list? Cause I've got to say, man, your standards seem pretty damn low."
"My standards are not the issue," the man answered, his tone never fluctuating.
"Oh, fuck you!" Edgar was irate now. Debauchery, he cherished. Disrespect, he could stomach. Even open ridicule could be endured. "You call this heaven? Clouds and golden gates? Humourless old men with no relevant answers? This isn't heaven, it's just...it's fucking...cliché!" he spat the last word like he'd just drunk deeply from his own snakebite.
The man did not respond, his only answer a sympathetic smile.
Edgar finished his cigarette with one last pull and flicked the butt down into the fog at the man's feet, where it died with a serpentine hiss. He finally decided—much to his chagrin—that he would be forced to relent. "Ok, I'll cooperate. What am I meant to do?"
"You've already done all you were ever meant to, Edgar. The rest is up to you."
Such starry-eyed sincerity always left Edgar with an urge to spike the drink of whatever naive nitwit had the gall to hold onto such childish delusions. Rolling his eyes again, trying to be more noticeable this time, he reached back and grabbed his cigarette pack. Opening it, he glanced down to find it still full. "Oh God..."
"No," the man chimed in, and Edgar was certain he detected a flicker of amusement behind his calm repose.
"Well..." Edgar acquiesced, remembering a time-tested truth—when the realities of Sunday were too harsh, a strategic retreat back to Saturday was only a few bottles away. "Does heaven at least have a bar?"
"If you wish." The man nodded and extended a long arm to gesture gracefully through the gate.
"Well, that's a start," Edgar admitted. "If you'll excuse me, Petey, I've got a toast to make to a beautiful son-of-a-bitch who died before his time." With that, he passed heedlessly under the intricate pearl inlay of the gate and walked with only a mild stagger off into the bright nothing beyond.
Chapter 2
The Local Bar
The former life of Edgar Vincent had never been rife with ritual. In fact, he made every effort imaginable—and some beyond imagining—to avoid it whenever possible. Still, some level of routine did slip in, and he couldn't keep vigil forever. And so, by the time he met his demise at the age of 32, there existed a small collection of routines that he had come not only to rely upon, but to fully endorse.
Primary among these, and holding the special distinction of being the only thing Edgar would commit to calling sacred, was his customary celebration of a job well done. As a moderately respected independent film composer, these moments were not uncommon, but he reserved this particular celebration for only the most monumental of accomplishments. On such occasions, he would put on the first—and only—tie he'd ever owned in his adult life, sit down in his big old office chair, then crack open the most expensive bottle of scotch he had.
The scotch—purchased only just before a score's completion as an anticipatory measure—would be consumed as he sat in contemplative silence, listening to the completed work with a broad smile painted across his devilishly handsome face.
Inevitably, this ritual would lead him out the door once the scotch and music were finished—Edgar possessed an uncanny skill for synchronizing these events—and off into countless adventures which he would never fully recall.
Further to the list of ingrained habits, Edgar was certain to call his dear friend Emeric at the earliest possible convenience each time he bedded a new woman. Emeric, never being fond of this particular ritual, had over the years begun to answer Edgar's calls with less and less reliability, but Edgar remained unconvinced of any correlation, attributing it rather to Emeric's apparent lack of courtesy.
Edgar would also call his mother on each major Christian holiday, and even did his best to conceal the pain in his voice when she inevitably harangued him with the meaning of the day, and what lessons he might take from it.
Most truly ingrained habits aside from these were minor and were only noted by those who knew him well—who in truth were rather few and far between. He took a shot before sitting down in every bar he visited. He often drank high-end cocktails, but made a point to always request at least one small, subtle change. He avoided public washrooms whenever possible, although history—and police records—indicated he had absolutely no qualms about actual public urination.
However, among the various quirks and rituals Edgar had permitted over the course of his life, one of his most cherished had been his bi-weekly Saturday nights out with his inner circle of friends during university. This of course should not be taken to imply that drinking only once every two weeks had ever been the standard for Edgar—quite the contrary—but rather that even in the wild days of his youth, he had still been certain to put that small slot of time aside to meet with some of his most valued comrades, and partake in some of his most enjoyed activities.
A goddamn drink would be nice, he mused woefully. With each step, the soft white glow puffed up around his feet like billowing clouds, an
d he wandered blindly through the haze, his footsteps coming like old memories.
His head still swam, the inside of his skull scraping like sandpaper. From somewhere in his uncertain surroundings, Edgar thought he could hear a soft, delicate voice singing. Seems about right, he acknowledged, can't have clouds and golden gates without some harp-brandishing asshole singers.
How did I end up in this hellhole? Racking his tired brain for answers, he came up dreadfully short—still, logic could get him far enough.
Whenever Edgar woke up feeling this bad, he could be certain that at least one of the usual suspects were involved. Could this be Duncan's fault? he asked himself.
It was a distinct possibility, given the length of their friendship and shared passion for excess. But it had been a long while since Duncan and Edgar really tied one on, and in truth, he'd long suspected that Duncan was slowing down.
Again, his thoughts turned to days long past, and the endless shenanigans he and his friends had engaged in back at their old crawl, The Scholar's Lament. It had started with just Duncan and himself, having grown up together, but it certainly increased from there.
There's no way Emeric would have let things get this out of control, Edgar surmised.
Emeric had joined the group some way into their first year of university, and while he'd never matched the unchecked hedonism of either Duncan or Edgar, he did bring a certain unspoken balance to the group.
Admittedly, he did pitifully little to stop me that time with the police horse... No, he was certain that Emeric would have done something to prevent him from... How the hell did this happen anyway?
Continuing onward, he struggled to shake the strange sense of déjà-vu that haunted each step, and although he could see nothing but the white fog everywhere around him, his feet moved as if they knew the way, and he was far too dizzy to argue.
Duncan is too serious now, and Emeric is too responsible. Edgar raced through a mental process of elimination. The list of suspects was dwindling, and as he worked to swallow down a liberty-minded bit of bile, he shook his head dismally and hedged his bets on the culprit. Fucking Jake, he concluded.
