by Brad Oates
Edgar shook his head, "It's not like that Alex, buddy. It's just that I knew it couldn't have been your fault. You couldn't have been there. You're..."
"Story is over," Alex interjected.
"Yeah," said Edgar, accepting the smoke back from his old pal, "and so is mine."
The two friends stood silently for a long while, sharing the joint and watching the smoke drift indifferently off to blend with the endless, all-encompassing fog that enveloped them.
It was Alex who finally spoke, "You know, Duncan wasn't wrong." Edgar did a double take, his mind racing to conceive how Alex could know about the disembodied voice. A quick consideration of the circumstances rendered the question irrelevant, however. "I know." Edgar's powerful voice came frail in the vastness of the void. "I just can't deal with all that right now."
"Not about the lies. Well, them too, but that's not what I meant. I mean about what you're doing here. What you could do."
Edgar arched an inquisitive eyebrow at his friend, but maintained his silence.
"You can do anything you want now. Your entire existence is limited only by your own imagination. Why not use that to its full potential? I mean, really take advantage of what blessings remain and get to the bottom of things; find or create some way to get what you need?"
Edgar drew deeply from the joint, holding the burning smoke in his lungs and feeling his head swim. My story may be over, he reflected, but it does deserve a final, proper screening.
"You know what, pal?" Edgar spoke slowly, his thoughts already far away. Pursing his lips together in the middle, he exhaled through the corners of his mouth, sending long blades of smoke slicing high up into the air at each side of his head. "You may be on to something."
Edgar smiled, and without another word, walked off into the darkening wall of fog.
Chapter 7
The Infernal Shit-Show
In life, Edgar Vincent had been a bastard. No one could really deny it. Few had ever tried. When confronted with the consequences of his invariably self-serving actions, even Edgar could do little more than shrug his shoulders and misrepresent the facts.
Certainly, there had been moments when he would offer some hint of protest: cursing fate and decrying how circumstances had conspired against him. For instance, when Edgar had managed to convince his new friend Emeric to join him for a night of "casual drinks," he'd sworn on everything sacred to make it his sole purpose to keep the less experienced boy safe and out of trouble.
The following day, he had explained to a bloody, battered, and freshly shaven Emeric that he was entirely blameless. How was he to know that Emeric would handle his liquor so poorly?
Emeric was never fully convinced that excuse held water. Edgar had since decided that wasn't his fault either.
On a more recent occasion, upon realizing a lady he'd been seeing casually, Celeste, had managed to develop feelings for him despite his fervent efforts to prevent this very occurrence, Edgar took it upon himself to let her down with as little conflict and heartache as humanly possible.
He'd arranged to meet her at her favourite spot in the City Park, then shut off his phone and went out with Jake. Celeste, he reasoned, would figure out that he wasn't coming, and accept her misjudgment alone, free of embarrassment in the calming comfort of nature.
But Edgar wasn't a goddamn meteorologist and had no knowledge of the impending thunderstorm. So when he'd later learned that Celeste had been admitted to the hospital with hypothermia, he felt the fault was at least not entirely his own. He'd sent a bouquet of white roses with a Friends Forever card, and chalked it up to lessons learned.
Still, no matter the trouble that surrounded him or the lectures he received, Edgar always remained steadfast that in all of his choices, and behind each of his misadventures, he had only the best of intentions. But I can't imagine good intentions are enough for admittance to a place like this, he thought.
They weren't.
Edgar had left Alex after the incident at The Scholar with a fresh new perspective on the potential of his afterlife. If his reality was truly the product of his own expectations, he intended to finally use that knowledge to figure out this whole confounding affair once and for all.
Of all the god-forsaken, awkward bastards walking that earth, how could I have managed to die alone? he wondered, walking again through the murky fog for what seemed like an eternity. His death was a mystery surpassed only by his miraculous admittance to heaven, and if Edgar was going to put those questions to rest, then perhaps it was time for a trip down memory lane.
"Not much of a lane really," said Edgar. Smoke billowed from his mouth with each word.
Indeed, it was not.
When the mist finally dissipated, he stood for a moment rubbing his temples, trying to discern whether his vision was reality or some sickening twist of the senses resulting from his recent heavenly excesses.
In a place like this, he thought with an ironic smirk.
Beneath his feet, a checkerboard marble floor stretched off in all directions. Each square was large enough to stand in, with the full reach of his outstretched arms never passing the edge on any one side. These dichotomous squares extended beyond sight. Over the distance, they seemed to shrink away, until they were like opposing grains of sand rattling off across the terrible expanse, fading again into the fog.
Something about the scene made him squirm.
Pillars reached up at irregular intervals, meandering and bending like the trunks of trees or the truth of a tale that's changed in the telling. Some showed signs of branching, splitting here or there for short stretches. Inevitably, however, one branch would die off or else bend upon its course to rejoin the dominant strand.
Edgar turned slowly on his axis, as much from his earnest desire to take in the stunning panorama as from the overwhelming sense of vertigo accompanying his customary Sunday-morning nausea.
The pillars appeared in deep blacks, and luminous whites, and every shade of grey in between. The hue of some shifted as he focused on them—now darker, now lighter.
Their shapes and branches swayed and changed as well. It was barely noticeable to an intent gaze, yet sufficient in a gestalt effect to reveal to Edgar a scene disconcertingly foreign each time he completed a full rotation, keeping him in a constant state of disorientation. Something about the iridescent pillars reminded Edgar of a diagram he'd seen back in high-school biology, but that course had been especially distracting for the hormonally- charged young man, and his fried neurons could not quite recall what it had represented.
"If this really is a product of my expectations," Edgar spoke aloud; noticing at the base of each pillar a small assortment of glowing shapes, dwarfed by the monolithic structures towering above, "then my expectations are truly fucked."
"Welcome." The voice came from behind him, shattering the eerie silence and nearly causing Edgar to piss his...
"What the fuck is this? A robe?" he demanded, realizing for the first time the strange nature of his garb.
"More of a tunic, really," answered the voice. Turning, Edgar was met with familiar piercing grey eyes and an unnervingly stoic smile.
"Pete." Edgar's eyes narrowed to slits, and his voice dripped with contempt.
"The very same." The man's voice was calm and timeless, and the silver of his hair shone in the ethereal glow of the expansive realm.
"Shut up, Pete. What am I wearing? And where am I?"
"What you're wearing is entirely up to you. As I said, it appears to be a tunic of some sort; maybe a toga. It's quite swaddling, either way. As for where you are, I'd been getting to that, before you interrupted."
"What are you talking about?" Edgar angrily entreated. Then, after a moment's consideration, petulantly added, "And it's not a toga!"
"I'd said," Pete answered with a gentle grin on his face. "Welcome." Edgar was fuming now, which did little to settle the uneasy tides of his churning stomach. "Well get on with it, Jeeves!"
"Welcome," Pete continued ch
eerfully, "to the Hall of Memories. And," he added, the faintest hint of testiness creeping into his voice, "don't call me that."
Pete stood tall and proud, watching Edgar with serene patience. He remained utterly still, Edgar noticed—no rise and fall of breath altered his posture, no flutter of eyelids compromised the ancient integrity of his countenance. Creepy shit, thought Edgar.
With a mammoth sigh, Edgar surrendered. "So then, what is a man meant to do in the Hall of Memories?"
"May I start you off with a refreshment?" The perfectly sincere cordiality of Pete's voice made Edgar want to throw up. When the enigmatic man stepped aside to reveal a neat little table covered with intricate crystal decanters, follow-through seemed all but assured.
Edgar's hands clenched at his sides, and his guts did sloppy somersaults. His head raged, but staring at the table, he swore again that he heard the singing of angels.
Angel song, however, had recently been proven somewhat less than heavenly by Tiffany's sorry example at The Scholar, and with a determination that surprised even him, Edgar answered, "You know Petey, I think I'll pass."
"As you like," answered the strange man. Edgar thought his tone betrayed a hint of excitement, but then again, he'd just been relieved of bartending duties. "Explore as you wish," Pete continued with a graceful gesture behind his guest, "I'll be available if you should need me."
Goddamn right you will be, thought Edgar.
Turning on his heel to strut away, Edgar was stopped dead in his tracks before he even reached mid-saunter. Looming up directly ahead of him was one of the gargantuan pillars. It throbbed and wavered as he watched, its surface shimmering between hues of light and dark like the intentions of an unchecked and unsatiated ambition.
At the column's base burned a small fire, surrounded by candles and incense sticks sending off sweet aromas. Drawing up before the quaint display, Edgar's nose twitched, sifting through the convoluted potpourri of smells like an experienced archaeologist intent on a hidden relic. Beneath the cinnamons and lilacs and all the other sickly false scents of the burning incense was something strangely familiar.
His attention settled finally upon the central fire as he continued to take quick searching sniffs of the air. It smoldered more than it burned, he noted. A tiny tuft of flame rose from its epicentre, while the peripheries merely glowed in flickering shades of orange and red. The smoke rising from it was a light grey—bordering on white and, as he focused his olfactory senses on the sought-after scent, Edgar felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him.
*****
It was early in Edgar's first year of university. As he followed the promising scent floating on the air out of the bushes and across the small field behind his dormitory tower, he was increasingly certain the night was about to pick up.
Edgar fussed with a fresh scuff on his brown leather jacket as he approached the edge of a gentle incline. There, he found a scrawny young man standing alone in the light of the moon, exactly as he expected.
The boy wore a faded Depeche Mode t-shirt and torn jeans. His shaggy blonde hair—longer and more unkempt than even Edgar had allowed his own to grow in his first hedonistic months of university—swayed along to the tunes Edgar could only assume played through the headphones cupped over his tiny ears.
But none of that interested Edgar. What did interest him was the long, reeking joint dangling loosely from the young man's scruffy mouth.
Walking cheerfully up behind him, Edgar thanked his lucky stars for the fine turn the night had taken. Duncan had gone out with what Edgar could only assume was some haggard troll, which left him to entertain himself. His liquor had quickly run dry, however, and he hadn't yet secured a source of anything more illicit.
"Hey!" Edgar called out, but the gangly boy just continued to puff away, his head bouncing along to unheard melodies.
"Hey," he tried again, gently tapping his saviour on the shoulder this time. Spinning around gracelessly and loosing an undignified squeal, the young man's eyes grew wide.
Standing with his gorgeous leather jacket hanging carelessly over his tight white undershirt, Edgar smiled. He placed his weight on one leg, a cool expression on his face. His hair was styled with surprising care considering the hour. With the full moon acting as a backlight to his cocky posturing, Edgar shouldn't have been surprised at the question from the blazingly high boy before him.
Nor was he.
"Whoa...are you, like, a rock star?" the boy had asked.
Edgar's effort to conceal his satisfaction paid off, allowing only an arrogant sneer as he sized the boy up, confirming his suspicions. As soon as he'd smelled the pot on the air, Edgar had guessed the source to be Alex, a student from another floor he'd met only a few weeks earlier—under shockingly similar circumstances. Edgar had noted at the time, however, that Alex was an understandably absent-minded sort of guy, and so Edgar was giddy to see how this new encounter would play out.
"Not exactly," he answered with an easy chuckle. "Hey, I don't mean to be the typical first-year pseudo-commie, but would you mind if I got in on that?"
"Oh, oh yeah man. Yeah, by all means," Alex said with an apologetic tone as he handed the doobie over without a second thought.
"Thanks," said Edgar, taking it gratefully. "Hey, what's your name?" "Oh, uh, Ted," the stranger answered, casting his eyes downward. "I'm Ted."
Edgar snickered to himself. His suspicion that the memory of their first encounter was lost on the fidgety young stoner had now been confirmed. "Well, it's nice to meet you A...Ted."
"You too man, you too."
"I'm Edgar," he offered, smiling happily at the night's direction.
"Oh, Edgar hey? Nice to meet you, Edgar."
"Likewise, Ted," Edgar replied; stealing a third hit before passing the joint back.
"Hey thanks!" exclaimed "Ted"—as if accepting an unexpected gift. Edgar laughed aloud at this, but the disheveled man pushed on undeterred. "So Edgar, if you're not a rock star, what do you do?"
"I'm a student, in fact," Edgar answered, stating the obvious solely for his own amusement, "but I am working to get into the music industry, sort of."
"Oh, very cool," answered Ted. "Wait, what do you mean, sort of." "Well, I make music, but rock isn't my thing exactly. Lately, I'm more taken by film scoring, to be honest. I really appreciate the power music has to add so exponentially to a moment—in film and life alike," Edgar explained, surprised at how the unassuming nature of the local pothead served to soften Edgar's typically ironic front. The observation didn't bother him, however, and he'd continued on freely.
"I love films, documentaries, really anything with a statement to make. People are so often too scared to speak their mind or be themselves, and that's a terrible thing. If my music can help increase the clarity or impact of some wise words, then I feel like it's important."
"Don't you ever worry you'll never be able to make your own statement?" asked Ted. He stared at the moon, blowing tiny bursts of smoke at it as if expecting a response.
"I really don't think that's true at all. I'll be able to choose my projects carefully, and more often than not good music contributes significantly to any great idea. I mean, pupil-dilation and double-headed dildos are one thing, but what would Requiem be without its score? That power—that's all up to me, my friend."
"Oh. So, what is it you really want to say then?" Ted asked.
"I'm coming, motherfuckers!" Edgar grinned as he made the joke—an unabashedly charming gesture well-known for its ability to get under the skin of those who knew no better. "To be honest, there are just so many things I want to say, and so many people trying to say them. My talent is music, so that's how I can contribute. Maybe someday I'll find a project that feels like a direct extension of my own views and passions, or maybe I'll have to write one myself. I don't know, but I'm sure whatever I need to say, I'll find a way, eventually."
The scrawny young man gazed downward, shaking his head sadly. "Hey, you seem like a really cool guy, Edgar. I've go
tta be honest with you man. My name's not Ted. It's Alex."
Edgar feigned shock momentarily, but ultimately let the point slide, feeling half-bad about his own deception. "No worries, Alex. You've got to be careful who you trust after all. So, what are you into?" The question was sincere. The other time they'd met, Edgar had learned painfully little about the man, opting instead to bask in Alex's shameless admiration as he shared a few stories of recent sexual dalliances.
"Oh me?" Alex gaped, and Edgar couldn't be certain if it was excitement or bewilderment. "Well, I'm into art, I guess. Any art at all, really. I draw myself—I mean, I don't draw pictures of myself—that would be weird. I just do it, draw you know...but it doesn't really matter. I just want to take it all in; the sights, the tunes, and the stories, I just...want to take it all in," Alex finished conclusively.
"Do you ever," Edgar agreed, gazing towards the joint lingering over-long in the hands of its rightful owner. Accepting it back along with a heartfelt apology, he continued, "I know what you mean, though. If I can spend the rest of my life working with great films and making compelling music"—Alex nodded along—"and continuing to enjoy all the luxuries that come with the lifestyle, then I'll be pretty damn happy, my friend."
Edgar watched Alex's eyes grow wide at his final reference, and his pulse quickened. "You know what I'm talking about, right buddy?" he prompted eagerly.
"Luxuries?" Alex croaked amidst a sudden coughing fit.
Edgar beamed. "Yeah, my man, of course. Wealth, women, and wanton hedonism—they're an artist's birthright after all." Alex stood in a state of visible awe, which of course only encouraged Edgar. With Alex's envious gaze fixed upon him, Edgar felt just as he needed to—alive.
"It's funny," Edgar continued slowly enough to conceal his enthusiasm, "I was actually just upstairs watching TV, when I heard this voice coming down the hall...'Edgar, Edgar,' it called," he said, in a high nasal tone. "'Edgar where are you?' I knew it was this Cassandra girl from last weekend and ended up jumping out the second-floor window to avoid the headache," he finished the more-or-less accurate telling, fussing again with his scuffed jacket.
