by Brad Oates
This mysterious fog effect is getting awfully tiring, he noted.
He moved with slow, careful steps, searching desperately for direction as he tried to focus his throbbing mind on the object of his desire.
Did it always have this shitty rotten-egg smell to it? he wondered. His palms passed defensively along the worn and ragged sleeves of his jacket. Heaven is over-rated. They really need to get their act together.
Edgar harboured no recollection of escaping the car. He remembered his argument with Duncan and the long, empty stretches of highway so eager to lead them nowhere. He could recall the car leaving the road and bracing himself for impact. Then he was here, and terribly hung-over.
I should be thankful I made it out alive, but then again... He allowed himself not even the slightest chuckle at this grim observation.
The realization that his hangover had again been renewed was a continuing source of tremendous frustration. His eyes felt like orbs of sand in the snare-drum confines of his aching skull.
In spite of all this, Edgar now at least had no doubt about his intentions. Due time I get to the bottom of this whole absurd affair, he determined.
Surprisingly, death had done little to dampen his overall spirits. The strange fact that he'd somehow ended up in heaven, he could get over. Even the understanding that "heaven" consisted primarily of the trying cycle of visiting and revisiting the scattered concerns of his now-ended life was something he could live with.
It even has a certain familiarity to it, he admitted.
What Edgar could not abide, however, was the notion that the timeless tale, which had been The Life and Times of Edgar Vincent, could possibly have ended in any way unbefitting its admirable legacy.
It all came together in an intricate little riddle.
Having woken up in heaven, Edgar could only assume his final moments must have represented some of the noblest and most selfless acts of his entire life.
Admission ain't free, even if the exhibit isn't quite as advertised, he reasoned. Even ignoring that particular anomaly, Edgar felt fully justified pursuing the details of his tragically untimely ending.
If heaven amounts to little more than an endless foray through my own memories, it stands to reason the route to fulfillment will begin with the event that brought me here, he concluded.
And so, as he continued his lurching shuffle through the viscous and newly reeking fog, Edgar was determined to marshal his resources in a grand effort to ascertain answers. Given the circumstances, this, of course, meant it was once again time for him to bring people together.
With a final halting step, he pushed through the cloying fringes of the fog and walked into the flickering neon light of the Promised Land.
Pulling his jacket up snugly about his neck, he gave a satisfied sigh. The jacket reached just to his waist. Beneath it was a plain, unadorned white undershirt. Along with a pair of blue jeans, Edgar had always liked the way the trim brown coat almost mimicked a suit-jacket to an undiscerning eye, creating that illusory blend of formality and grunge he so adored.
The sign for The Scholar's Lament hummed as he passed beneath it, and the pensive creak of the old wooden door reverberated through his mind with the uncertain echo of half-recalled childhood events.
Through the door, the bar's interior opened up to him with the familiar promise of a drunken debutante. Inside, he was pleased to find the very company he'd counted on, yet startled to discover the details of the locale somewhat at odds with his nostalgic expectations.
The low-ceilinged room wasn't dim in the way he remembered. It was closer to dark. An inky blackness embraced the patrons like so many cloaked predators; while the jarring fluorescent glow from signs along the walls served as the room's sole illumination. This painted the familiar faces inside with alarming shades of circus-clown greens and blues, oranges and reds.
So much fucking red, he grimaced.
The first eyes he met were Tyra's. Leaning up against the dilapidated old popcorn machine, she was busy tonguing an obscenely large lollipop Edgar could only assume was peach flavoured. The machine, for all evidence, was having a harder time of the afterlife than even Edgar. Dinted and lopsided, it stood barely erect amidst a pile of cast-off paint chips and discarded paneling. Smears of age-old grease lined its rusted innards.
To her right, Chanel sat alone at a worn old table. The books formerly serving as ambiance were scattered all about as she pored tirelessly over their torn and cracking pages. Their lizard-skin covers reflected the circus lights off varying shades of brown and olive as the ancient speakers hissed their barely recognizable tunes like the phantom calls of a derelict calliope organ.
A delicate, haunting wail accompanied the struggling speakers, rising and falling with the tinny sounds in a not-quite-melodic facsimile of the tune. Turning to trace the sound, he located Tiffany. Her energetic yellow and white polka-dot dress whirled around her lithe figure as she danced precariously upon one of The Scholar's flimsy roundtables.
Surrounding her, a group of unfamiliar angels howled and swayed, encouraging her histrionic display. The table's base vacillated with each step as Tiffany teetered on the edge of disaster.
Just beyond them sat the titular scholar, cutting a nearly familiar pose within the sickening approximation of the bar that had formerly been amongst Edgar's fondest memories.
The quasi-man sat with the toilsome patience he'd always demonstrated, his worn posture curling him over the dirty wooden tabletop like a punch to the gut.
The original paint was all but gone, revealing the bland grey of its ceramic structure beneath. More than ever before, the years of graffiti and vandalism wore heavily upon his defeated countenance. His eyes were painted over in yellow and red, and his speculative frown was scratched and clawed into the jagged semblance of a madman's grin. Across his narrow chest, as if to leave no doubt whatsoever about his situation, was scrawled a broad, imposing, Fuck.
Some details appeared impervious to change, however. Across the frail shoulders of the pitiable scholar lay the heavy, thick-veined arm of Jake. He sat slouched over the table, his eyes glassy as a discoloured line of saliva ran down the stubbled edge of his square jaw.
They were all there in fact, exactly as Edgar had intended.
Alex held down his customary spot at the far right of the table, absently twirling his usual glass of red wine between thin fingers. Beside him sat Emeric, his back turned to the door as he stretched his left arm affectionately around the empty seat held for Edgar.
Between Jake and Alex, Duncan's seat sat empty. This brought a satisfied sneer to Edgar's lips. Just try to dictate my afterlife, will he?
Surrounding the inner circle's de facto spot, the traditional assortment of enthusiastic freshman and crusty old barflies proved conspicuously absent, affording a sight which instantly turned Edgar's sly grin into a brilliant smile and put the bounce back into his step as he crossed the final stretch of floor towards his vacant seat.
The entire ring of tables around them was loaded to capacity with sparkling crystal glasses. Each table held a different offering, eagerly signaling to Edgar with their own enticing shimmers of bronzes, browns and golds.
After only a moment's consideration, he reached down to select from the table whose intoxicating aroma assured him it contained the remedy to his hung-over state. Oh, Brandy, I can always count on you, he fondly acknowledged.
With a quick sip, Edgar backtracked to a table just behind him and helped himself to a shot glass brimming with dark liquor. Even as the glass rose from the table, the dull rumble of the bar fell silent; the final rasp of a long death-rattle.
All eyes turned to Edgar.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Edgar had always considered himself a man with an acute talent for capturing a moment and making it his own; and considering this was nothing if not his moment, Edgar felt he would be remiss not to seize upon the opportunity to elucidate his intentions.
"Thanks for coming out tonight," he continued,
straightening his back as he stole a quick hit of brandy before holding the shot glass pointedly out at eye level.
"I realize of course that you didn't have much choice. You're here for one simple reason. Together, I believe we can set to rights the glaring omission of certain facts necessary for my eternal contentment. That's a pretty noble goal, I'm sure you'll all agree."
Jake stared at Edgar with uncomprehending eyes. This was a good sign. The expression of exceptional pride and respect smeared across Emeric's wide face, however, gave Edgar cause for concern. I must sound like a pretentious douche if that nitwit is enjoying this, he thought.
"I've been blessed," he announced, now raising his shot glass high. The gesture was promptly mirrored by the bar's myriad population of beautiful and familiar faces, as was his follow-up pounding of the drink and selection of a replacement. Jake slammed his ham-like fists enthusiastically on the table, causing his beer to topple over into his lap and sending Alex into a high-pitched fit of giggles.
"I've been blessed..." Edgar continued, expertly recapping as he waited for the ruckus to subside and the undivided attention of his audience to return to him, "with a unique (in my experience)..." he cast an acknowledging nod over to Alex, "opportunity.
"Here I've found myself, in this rather obtuse realization of heaven. I can see my friends, I can choose my location. For once, I seem to have absolute control over my life. This does come—an admittedly ironic downside—at the cost of my life having recently ended."
A sympathetic 'ahh' passed through the ring of angels now encircling Edgar. Jake rolled his eyes, Emeric shook his head, and Alex gazed suspiciously at his purple-tinted reflection at the bottom of his cup.
"No need for sorrow." Edgar's voice was measured and confident, with just the right touch of humility to counterbalance the singularly self-centered nature of his speech. "My life, it cannot be argued, was an Odyssian epic, and I have few regrets. I have lived well, laughed much, and loved—exceptionally." This sent a pitched squeal of enthusiasm through the cluster of angels. Tyra made a show of nodding revealingly to each of her compatriots in turn. Edgar blushed.
"Yet still..." And here he raised his voice to a passionate crescendo while skillfully drawing and lighting himself a cigarette. He even tossed one instinctually to Alex, who received it with the eager appreciation of a hungry seal. "I have found no peace.
"Despite the boundless opportunity afforded to me by the shaking of my mortal coil, I remain bereft of closure. It's no easy task, I assure you, to set out on a new path while lacking clarity as to the failings of your former attempt.
"I don't know how I died; I've no clue why I'm here. Without this knowledge, it seems hopeless to start anew.
"It is, therefore, my intention, esteemed friends and lovely ladies, to figure out the exact circumstances of my death. I mean to find out just what went wrong, so I can move forward on my path undeterred by doubts from the past. I ask for your cooperation in this, to answer my questions and hear my concerns.
"I am aware, my apparitional amigos, how entirely tethered your limited minds are to my own perceptions, but I hope that together we can explore my shortcomings, resolve my mistakes, and set me on course to wherever I'm headed from here."
Eat your heart out, Duncan, he thought.
"To that end, I offer this toast!" Edgar raised his shot glass, and the uproar of appreciation that answered was a breakwater against the floods of his existential ennui.
With that, he pounded his shot. Not one to play favourites, he did likewise with his brandy, grabbed another drink, scotch this time, and assumed his place amongst his friends.
"Geez, Edgar." It was Emeric who spoke first, "I had no idea you were still so hung up on the cause of your death."
"Yeah," Edgar sighed, "I know it shouldn't seem so important. It doesn't make any real difference now that I'm here. But I can't just let it go. It was my life, after all. The whole time I've been here, I've felt none of the peace you'd expect. I mean, this is heaven, right?"
"If you can't be at peace in heaven," Alex struggled to form the words around the constant stream of smoke-rings emanating from his mouth, "then it's really not much of a heaven at all."
"Exactly!" Edgar pounded the table encouragingly. "How can I just close the book on my life without any resolution?"
From across the table came a snort, and Jake gestured sloppily about the bar. "Your life don't look like it's changed that much, Domingo."
Edgar moaned his derision. For as long as he'd known Jake, the bumbling lummox had been utterly entranced by the fact that Edgar bore a Spanish middle-name. Despite countless conversations on the topic, with Edgar tirelessly explaining that the name had been given in honour of his maternal grandmother, Jake still harboured suspicions that he was shamefully concealing his fluency in Spanish, and on several occasions, had demanded that Edgar present him with his "papers."
"But you're a mental invalid, Jake. What would you know?" Edgar took a long drink of scotch to quell his mounting frustration.
"Yeah, I'm not so sure, Jake," said Emeric, "things have changed for Edgar more than anyone seems to acknowledge."
"Thank you, Dirty Emmy," said Edgar.
Jake began to rise shakily from the table—a certain indication that he was seconds away from clobbering poor Emeric—but was quickly settled by a stern look from Edgar.
"Yeah, he's dead for one thing," Alex chuckled, "and he shares his smokes now!" he finished, casting a pleading gaze in Edgar's direction.
"He's also actively obliterating every old record he'd set for continuous alcohol consumption," Emeric continued boldly, a wary eye fixed on Jake. "I know the health risks are irrelevant now, but maybe you'd have more luck finding closure if you approached it with a clear head, Edgar."
"Where's Duncan anyway?" Jake asked, settling carefully back into his seat.
Edgar paid Jake no mind, but quickly passed another cigarette over to Alex. "Don't give me that shit right now, Emmy, I'm in no mood for it. If you had your potential cut short like I have, you'd probably want some way to cope as well. Hell, it would probably loosen you up a bit."
"Yeah!" Jake bellowed triumphantly as he aimed an unsteady finger at the red-haired man. Alex rolled his head in a long, laborious laugh.
"Besides," Edgar continued, his glass glued to his lips, "one of the few things I'm certain of is that I was blind drunk when I died, so getting back into that headspace can hardly be counter-productive, can it?"
"What else do you remember?" asked Alex.
"A sense of imbalance, uncertainty..."
"So, drunk and dizzy then? Now we're making headway," Alex chided. "I'm serious, Edgar." Emeric pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he spoke, a sure sign he meant business. "I don't mean to belabour the point, and I know that you've always been a pretty...respectable drinker, but being shit-canned every waking moment is just not you. Where's the balance?"
"It doesn't feel like every day though, Emmy. It's all the same. Every day is Sunday; a raging hangover and a million doubts. What am I supposed to do?"
"Well, typically Sunday is preceded by Saturday. If you want to avoid the hangovers, limiting your consumption is a good start, don't you think? Clear your head, and focus on where you're going."
"Last time you told me to focus, I ended up telling Debra I was ready for a commitment."
Edgar had no shortage of jaded former lovers, but Debra held a special place near the top. After drunkenly misconstruing a lecture from Emeric and Duncan about life and direction, Edgar had gone against his better judgment and committed himself to her. Due in part to Edgar's fear of the especially eccentric woman, the relationship lasted a month and a half before Edgar had indulged his taste for variety during a legendary booze-fest with Jake.
A week of car-keying's, broken windows, and small animals in his mailbox had convinced Edgar that the only commitment necessary was of Debra alone.
"Do you think Debra could have done this to me?"
/> "Seems like a stretch," said Emeric, "didn't she run off with some rock band?"
Edgar shrugged.
"Well," Emeric had dedicated himself to the issue now, and was not about to let it slide, "what else was going on for you before you died? What were you focused on?"
"Wheee!" A loud cheer from Tiffany drew the table's attention to her location. She'd made her way behind the bar and was busy pouring long streams of expensive liquor in the general direction of a row of glasses, as Leslie worked tirelessly to position them under the wavering stream.
"You know what I was focused on," Edgar continued, striving to ignore the ridiculous scene. "BHI. I was nearly done."
"How many years has it been?" A familiar voice echoed in the back of his skull.
Emeric bit his bottom lip, Alex averted his eyes. Jake moved his lips silently before his eyes expanded into saucers of sudden comprehension. "It's an antonym Emeric!" he hollered, causing the entire population of the bar to turn and face him. "B-H-I, it's his band or some shit," he finished, smiling proudly.
This caused Alex to spit his drink across the table as Edgar buried his face in his palms. "Good job Jake, thank you," said Emeric, trying desperately to appease the brute.
"Well, do you remember who you were with when it happened?" asked Alex.
"I know it wasn't you," Edgar answered.
"Because you're dead," Jake explained, placing a consoling paw on Alex's sloping shoulder.
"Well?" Emeric rejoined.
"Well, I was pretty drunk." Edgar scratched his chin reflectively. "So it probably wasn't you, unless I was nagged to death. And judging by the hangover I woke up with, it couldn't have been a woman either."
The table shared an affirmative nod. In life, Edgar had been a master of monitoring his intake in the presence of potential bedmates.
The eyes of the table all settled on Jake. It took several seconds of confident nods and attempted fist bumps before Jake caught the hidden implication. His first response was to shoot an accusatory glance at the scholar beside him. Realizing the shortcomings of this plan only a few seconds afterward, he turned his attention to the empty chair beside the acquitted scholar. "Where's Duncan?"
