by Brad Oates
Flipping instinctually through his contacts, Edgar's eyes flitted apathetically over the names on their way down to his target: Alexis, Alicia, Anastasia, Anita, Barbara, Bella, Brenda, Candy ($), Christi, Christie (Redhead), Chevon, Debra (DON'T ANSWER!!!), Denise... There he was, Dirty Emmy.
Like a who's who list of aspiring models—and inevitable porn stars. Edgar laughed to himself and took another long draw of brandy.
With Emeric's number lighting up his screen, he paused. Frowning, Edgar understood that the voice on the other end of the line would be nothing more than a projection of his own expectations, which made the actual act of calling seem rather redundant. He could already imagine exactly how the conversation would go.
"Hi, Edgar."
"Emeric, you vile son-of-a-bitch, what's up?"
"Not much, I'm just..."
"Shut up Emeric, I know what you're wondering."
"Edgar, I really don't..."
"Shh, it's OK. Some of us live life fully, and others just live it vicariously.
It's alright, my friend. So, you remember those angels I went to see?"
His musings trailed off into obscurity at this point, his own memory of the night being almost as spotty as it was for the Saturday before...
Shit, he recalled. The manner of his death was no clearer than it had been the night prior.
His brandy glass was empty now and Edgar realized with great regret that he'd left the decanter on the bar next to his synthesizer at the far end of his study.
But Edgar's attention to detail was as keen as his respect for ritual, and in the bottom right drawer of his desk, he knew there was an unopened bottle of scotch awaiting him.
Leaning back into the soft leather of his chair, he considered his options. The scotch had been purchased in—admittedly premature—preparation for the completion of his BHI work. It would, of course, now go uncompleted.
Opening the desk drawer, Edgar pushed aside his ragged old tie and let his finger run along the dusty bottle of scotch.
How long has it been here? he wondered.
The mixing station seemed a world away, and the scotch at hand was superb, but BHI was the project Edgar had waited for his whole life. It was going to cement his legacy, prove to the world what he was made of. Somehow, he realized with a defeated sigh, it seemed unfitting to open the bottle under false pretenses.
And so, with an exaggerated show of anguish, Edgar forced himself wearily back across his study, retrieved the decanter of brandy, and returned to his desk. Filling his glass once more, he took a long chug, then pulled his pack of cigarettes out from under him.
The unexpected was, for Edgar, quite mundane at this point—the shocking rather blasé. Depravity, revulsion, and perversion were all so very commonplace that it was exceedingly rare for anything at all to give him pause. Yet when he opened his packet to find a single vacant space—its emptiness glaring at him like a hole through midnight—the turn of his stomach caught Edgar entirely off guard, very nearly making him spill his previous night's sins all over his custom desk.
Was my office always this dark? he wondered as the flame of his lighter sparked to life then quickly died, leaving him alone in a room which had never before felt so very lonely.
Heaven, Edgar concluded, may still take some getting used to.
It's certainly not what I'd always been told, he admitted. Aside from the golden gate and that sly devil Pete, he could still hardly believe this utopia of extravagance and excess was the same place his Nana had so often warned him about missing out on.
"I must at least get some credit for the improvements," he quipped. But no snide chuckles came in answer, and already Edgar felt he was back in another Sunday entirely.
*****
He could feel the tight black suit biting at the flesh of his young neck, and the hard, cold wood of the pew tried his youthful impatience. There was no escape. As the preacher droned on about confession and repentance, Edgar knew he was thoroughly and inescapably penned in. His mother sat stoically at his left side—wearing finer clothes than Rosa Vasquez-Vincent had ever in her life imagined she would wear. An absolute picture of elegance, Edgar could remember admiring her beauty even then. To his right, offering him sharp elbows and dull observations, sat Nana Vasquez.
"Listen to me little Edito, these words will save you," he remembered his Nana saying to him at the start of Mass each week. Old and weary, the woman always spoke as if her point were coming to her a moment too late, and with her strong Argentinian accent, was ever an imposing source of insight.
"Everything will be OK, my dear," she'd promised time and again, "just as long as you have faith."
*****
Taking a final sip, Edgar flinched, feeling anew the cruel rap of his Nana's elbow against his young ribs. His glass was empty again, and he grinned eagerly as he remedied that problem.
Nana Vasquez had been his mother's mother. Edgar had never known his father's parents. In fact, he occasionally reflected when deep in his cups, he'd never been entirely certain he'd known the man himself.
Edgar remembered his father as much for the painfully long absences as for the occasional appearances he would make; showing up with little notice, but much fanfare. Each time, he came bearing some extravagant new instrument for Edgar to learn and some incredible business news to share with Rosa. Then he would vanish again into the night, chasing some unreachable deadline.
Despite the occasional elbow, his mother and grandmother—whether regaling him with delicious family recipes, teaching him about their faith, or reminding him how very lucky he was to have a father who worked so hard— had been constant sources of strength to a young Edgar Vincent. To this day, he could think of only a handful of people who'd ever known him so well.
And he had known them in turn. If Edgar had never felt entirely at peace in the tall towered church he seemed to have spent so much of his childhood in, the women who perpetually surrounded him within it were the very meaning of comfort...of home.
Faith: it wasn't just some word to be bandied about on Sunday. Not to them. They lived it daily. In their words, in their actions, even in their unflinching reverence for his father Eli.
More than any of that, however, it was his mother and grandmother's faith in Edgar himself that stuck with him after all the years. No doubt it was partially due to his being an only child, but their esteem for him had known no limits. Edgar—their golden boy, their "rayo de sol". Certainly, guidance and scolding had abounded in their presence, for despite their humility, there was much they wished to share. But Edgar was a quick learner, and the unflappable power he had to melt their hearts with a smile and shrug was his easiest lesson.
No matter how far he strayed, Edgar always knew that a quick confession of guilt and a sly profession of love would suffice to bring them back to his side. Their Edgar, their little prince. Everything will be OK...
Edgar finished his cigarette, lit another, and took a long drink.
...Just as long as you have faith.
On occasion, Edgar wondered if the unconditional nature of their love may have spoiled him somewhat, for he often found the real world—the adult world—quite lacking in comparison.
Well, thank Christ for heaven!
Only once since leaving home had Edgar found such inherent, inscrutable love. A single period when he'd felt his failures were entirely immaterial to a person he was certain would never forsake him.
Edgar stared into the silver sheen of his lighter, never seeing himself in its mirror-like reflection.
Bev...
Even in his rare private introspections, he had trouble putting into words exactly what Bev had meant to him. It may have been that he felt some shame about his naivety in the matter or perhaps it was just natural human aversion to opening up old scar tissue. Whatever it was, he was seldom challenged on it, and he allowed himself to reflect on those times in only the most solemn— and inevitably intoxicated—of moods. Even then...it has been a while.
It wasn't
a pining, definitely not a lust. He was certain there remained no embers of what used to simmer between them. It was an age ago, a childish thing...
When Edgar and Duncan had packed their belongings and driven off in a rental van to attend university, Duncan had quickly maneuvered himself into a prestigious circle of aspiring young lawyers, working to build the connections needed for a successful career in law. Edgar, meanwhile, had met Bev.
It hadn't been a long relationship. Indeed, the year it did last was a striking testament to the inherently patient and forgiving nature of Bev. In Edgar, Bev saw everything that he saw in himself. The spirit, the incredible artistic potential, and the endless sense of rousing fun supplied only by men of Edgar's passions.
In Bev, Edgar had found everything he'd been promised as a child. Their relationship had never been easy, as even in this most dedicated period of his life, keeping his attention took significant effort. The further he delved into his artistic ambitions, the deeper he burrowed into the offbeat and rebellious lifestyle he so closely associated with such brilliance—and on that excavation, in particular, Edgar very nearly struck magma.
Yet for every indiscretion, Edgar received clemency, and for every absent night, he was greeted only with comfort. Bev stood by him with a fierce dedication, and for a while, he had felt those old words were true—that no matter what befell him, whether by the cruelty of chance or the inevitability of poor choices—everything would be alright.
Finishing the drink in his hand, he poured himself another with a reluctant smirk. He didn't take the time to remember those days often enough, although he never failed to credit them as being among his most formative. After all, it had been the year he'd met two of his greatest friends: Emeric and Alex.
That year too, he reflected as he puffed on his smoke, had marked several other key moments in the young life of Edgar Vincent. It had been that year—the first week of it in fact—that he had achieved his first true blackout. He'd gotten into his first bar fight as well; his first dozen actually, if memory served. The blackout, of course, had been far from an isolated incident, and so there was every possibility that memory did not serve at all.
Edgar had composed his first original song that year—a languorous keyboard sonata—for Bev. It had served as an apology for his first ever infidelity.
Cherished above all those other memories, however, it had also been his first year at The Scholar's Lament. Edgar and Bev, Duncan and Alex. Even the weaselly little Emeric would pull his beak-like nose out of his books long enough to join them for their ritualistic meet-up every second Saturday.
Jake hadn't shown up until the following year. When he did appear, he'd merely been a local high-school kid with a fake ID and a desperate hunger for college girls. Much to the disappointment of the rest of his peers, Edgar had quickly developed a deep fascination with Jake, and proved eager to take the big oaf under his wing.
Jake had never really gotten to know Bev. By then, Edgar reminisced, lighting another smoke as he stared suspiciously into the still empty space in his packet, Bev had been showing up with less and less reliability. In his drunken reflections at the time, it had seemed to Edgar that she'd finally lost faith.
But that was so many years ago. So many decisions, so many women, so very, very many drinks.
Edgar took a moment to top up his brandy. The painful memories bouncing around in his head were doing little to still the ghosts of the previous night's drinking, and his hangover was a supernova in the empty spaces of his mind.
Heaven, he ultimately decided, is no place to waste on memories. This realm, to the best of his understanding, answered to him—and at that moment, Edgar felt about ready to take full advantage of the fact.
The lingering question is—how?
It was hardly a difficult question to face. Any man who complained about the opportunity to do anything he wanted, anytime he wanted, must certainly lack any respectable sense of imagination as far as Edgar was concerned. And if Edgar lacked anything, imagination was not it.
The first idea, however, proved to be a trap, as his immediate urge to pursue booze and women promised only to reinforce his cyclic course. Earthly desires, Edgar lamented.
He had half a mind to go see Jake. But considering the shenanigans the dastardly duo had achieved on Earth, Edgar paled to imagine the heinous shit they would get up to without the concerns of the mortal coil.
Alex, however, seemed a more fitting choice. While never the partner in crime Jake had been, Alex was always the de facto source any time Edgar felt compelled to...open his mind.
If he was to sit down with Alex now, Edgar was certain they would end up waxing philosophic and almost certainly manage to hammer out the finer points of Edgar's increasingly esoteric existence.
But it was Edgar's head that hammered now. The marching band he'd assembled shot by shot the night prior still pounded out its rhythm through his sorry skull, and he wondered if some nice, grounded advice might be what the doctor ordered. If so, then Emeric was most certainly the right choice.
Edgar poured another drink, disposed of it briskly, and then poured another. One more time, if you'd be so kind, he joked to himself. Consistency, after all, was a trait even old Emmy would endorse.
He gazed about his old study. It was exactly as he'd left it, if perhaps a little dimmer. Turning his attention for a moment to the ceiling, he searched for any lights that needed replacing, before chuckling shamefully to himself. Hardly a task befitting the situation, he decided.
Heaven, it was clear, was at least as wondrous as promised. To have reality bend to one's own imagination was a gift beyond value. Still, an old memory cautioned him: "When we live according to our basest desires, it's easy to miss out on life entirely."
But there was no need to worry himself with such quandaries now. Not when good friends and good times were only a thought away. After all, Edgar insisted, this is heaven, and I'm meant to be celebrating the life I've lived. With that attitude, he was certain everything else would be just fine.
At least, he conceded, putting away the rest of his drink with authority— I'll have to have faith.
Chapter 5
The Ignoble Drive
When Edgar was just a small child, his father Eli had once returned from a business trip with a little, hand-crafted guitar for the young boy. Then he left, back to work, back to earn all those things Edgar was so often told he took for granted.
Only a few short days after his father departed, his mother Rosa swore that Edgar was going to drive her mad with his constant playing. There was no doubt her concerns were valid. Edgar had attacked the guitar with a voracious, unquenchable drive toward mastery. Without lessons or any clear instruction, he had been determined to find his own way.
From running the strings along various household objects to create new tones—and plenty of unwanted scuffs throughout the home—to putting on his best Bruce Springsteen sneer and slamming his soft hands against the strings until they were raw, his efforts were certainly admirable. In fact, there was no denial from anyone who saw the growing boy claw ever deeper into his passion, Edgar was driven.
It was a quality he'd never entirely lost. Nothing brought a smile to his cherubic little face quite like creating from amongst his growing collection of instruments, the perfect sound to accompany a moment and bring it to life in his youthful mind.
That remained true until the early years of middle school, when this very drive led him to bring his guitar to school and inadvertently discover the effect a moody rock star could have on a naïve young girl.
Rosa prayed long and hard that night. Edgar laid damp towels under his door to muffle the sound of his practicing well into the next morning.
It was this drive, also, which had pushed Edgar to such a respectable position in his chosen field; and it's discovered effect, which fuelled most every other endeavour in his life.
He drove strange women mad; he drove familiar lovers to tears. Whenever Edgar laid eyes on someth
ing he wanted, his drive to realize that dream was a fire beyond quenching.
"Where are we going?" The voice was Duncan's—deep and measured, with a wry confidence that could make any lesser man question even his most deeply-held convictions.
From between his legs, Edgar raised a small silver flask to his lips and held it overlong. Finally, he let it down, and with a rumbling sigh accompanied by a dragon's tail of cigarette smoke, gazed around him.
The orange ember of his cigarette was reflected back by the curve of the windshield in front of him, and in the open glove box at his knees waited a cornucopia of high-end mini-bottles ready to replenish his flask whenever it ran dry.
Empty fields and tall trees raced past through the window to his right, and before him, a highway stretched off toward an indefinable point where it presumed to meet the cloudless blue sky.
"I think we're there already," Edgar groaned, sinking down into the plush embrace of a leather seat as he shielded his face from the sun's cruel rays. Beside him, Duncan rolled his piercing green eyes, and a curl of his mouth drew a peevish line along his strong jaw.
Edgar squirmed. Disappointing Duncan never pleased him, although the regular practice he got did soften the blow. Still, he searched quickly about for clues, imagining that somewhere in the vast expanses of nothing before him, there must surely be some hint as to where his mind had taken them.
Fucking heaven...can't they just make it easy? Edgar wondered with a scowl. Duncan had been his goal; at least that much was right. He'd ultimately left his study in search of Duncan, he knew, because his oldest friend was the most likely to understand his present ordeal.
"I ran into Bev." Edgar spoke the words around the lip of his flask. Of late, Duncan had in truth become something of a drag, always lecturing him about the significance of his choices. But, Edgar reasoned, being that he was now dead, and in heaven to boot, surely the days of Duncan's righteous indignation had come to an end.
"I thought you might." Duncan's eyes never left the road ahead of him. Dilapidated barns and quaint little houses blurred by, and Edgar frowned.
