Edgar's Worst Sunday

by Brad Oates

  The feeling didn't last, however, and when Edgar caught the malicious smile on Emeric's weaselly face, a hot blade slashed up his back. His spine coiled and fists clenched, but the racing train of his desperation hit a brick wall as the smarmy little man giddily extended another dark shooter to him.

  "Fuck you, Emmy! You deserved it all!" Jake erupted.

  Emeric shrank back fearfully. Duncan and Alex watched in contented silence.

  "No, no." Edgar accepted the shooter, ruefully breaking the tension with a delicate balance of facetiousness and contempt. "For my cruel jokes and selfish justifications; my ignorant self-focus and total lack of vindication, I do hereby supplicate myself." The shot was like fire, and a barking cough exploded from his lips as he finished it, placing the empty glass on the bar next to the others.

  "Sorry Edgar, I just couldn't resist," Emeric said with a sheepish grin. "Well done," said Duncan, giving the bespectacled man a firm clap on the back.

  A long series of cheers and applause announced the exit of Tiffany, who limped out with her waifish arms wrapped around Jasmine and Leslie.

  "With pigtails like that, you'd think she'd know how to ride," whispered Tyra with a wink. She pinched Edgar's posterior and carried a tray of drinks back towards the bull. Chanel was climbing up onto its broad back now, her white and orange stripes rippling, and the eager crowd of ethereally beautiful angels was pressing in close once again.

  Every shape, shade and sexual proclivity was answered for in their ranks. Angels walked half-naked, licking their lips as their hands played over their exposed flesh. Others carried wide platters loaded with drinks and wore sensual expressions that left no doubts as to the depths of their service.

  All were eerily inhuman, with long pointed nails and tongues that flicked like serpents. Their curves were exaggerated beyond realistic proportions, and their physical features shifted as Edgar watched them, morphing in a constant search for satisfaction. One angel blended into the next like streetlights on a drunken walk home; an endless smorgasbord of surreal temptations.

  But amid the harrowing visions, Edgar strove for a sight of silver. Bev, her name echoed in his head now. He didn't know what he'd say to her if she were to appear, only that in times of turmoil, the mind often returned to old comforts.

  I was never such a comfort to her though, he knew, remembering again the thoughtless actions he'd witnessed in the Hall of Memories.

  "So, Edgar, what did you see, anyway?" asked Alex from behind absent eyes, "What's made you start re-evaluating everything like this?"

  Edgar ruminated on his experiences—his first meeting with Alex; his heretical defiance as a child; old plans and familiar failures all played out for him like a window directly into the past. He'd seen so much, yet he blanched at the idea of committing any of it to words.

  Instead, he pulled the pack of smokes out from his back pocket. Gazing in, his face tightened and spirit sank at the way the remaining cigarettes bounced about and leaned haphazardly against one another.

  Drawing a pair out, he handed one to Alex and returned the pack to his pocket. "I guess I've been seeing myself," he answered. "For a long time, before I died, I'd been operating under some pretty destructive delusions. I always acted like tomorrow was when I'd turn everything around and get back in control—tomorrow, that lauded day that's always just around the corner.

  "I've been putting things off, like a master escape artist, and I guess I've finally escaped. I know I'll never complete BHI now, never get to show you guys the plans I had. I spent my whole life certain that things would end up just working out. But in the long run, they just ended.

  "I still don't know how I died." Edgar gazed off into space as he spoke, and the wailing music and angel cheers were lost beneath the weight of his sad soliloquy. "Uncertainty, imbalance, loneliness, and a failed attempt at turning things around—that's all I've got now, and it's driving me mad.

  "It would be so easy to say I just needed a bit more time, but that's what I've been saying for far too long. Now, I just want closure. I know what went wrong, it was nothing new..."

  "Stop!" Chanel's high-pitched screech ended Edgar's eloquent insight. Behind them, a crowd of angels pounded desperately at the base of the bull, which jockeyed, bounced, and spun, turning the terrified Chanel into an ebony blur clinging desperately to its golden torso.

  Finally, its reckless routine concluded, and again it settled back down into place as a shaken and sick Chanel poured off and stumbled haltingly away.

  "What were you saying, Edgar? It sounds like you're really onto something." Emeric sucked slowly at the straw in his rum and coke.

  Edgar blinked, working to rearrange the scattered mosaic of his thoughts as he inhaled from his cigarette, chasing it with a long swallow of brandy. "I really just waited too long. I remember so many nights out at The Scholar with you guys, laughing like jackals about the future and how the world would just open up for the lot of us. When we hang out now, we talk about those times, and I admit it's always nice to share a few laughs about the old days of guts and glory. But as I sit there smiling, I always find myself wondering where it all went wrong; how it all ended. I remember feeling like you'd all just found your own ways to give up the dream—that I was the only one holding true to course."

  No one said a word. They didn't need to. Edgar's broad shoulders slumped, and his head sagged. Glancing up sadly, he found another dark shooter on the bar and snatched it up for himself. "For my unending avoidance and blind faith; my lack of vision and...oh, whatever. Fuck it...I do hereby supplicate myself." Edgar didn't even taste the shot. His mind was far away, and he fought for focus, habitually placing the empty shot glass in line with the rest.

  Jake snorted. "Fuck this, Edgar, just say that word, bro."

  "Calm down Jake, I deserve this." Edgar spoke through clenched teeth. He could feel his shirt bunching up beneath his suit jacket, wet with sweat.

  "It's getting hot as..." Edgar avoided clichés whenever possible.

  A sudden silence hijacked the atmosphere of the bar, causing the ring of friends to turn around nervously.

  At the centre of the hall sat the golden bull. Dark plumes of smoke drifted from its gilded nostrils, and its red eyes shone. Two lines of angels flanked it, creating a tunnel of flesh leading up to the steps of the abysmal beast.

  At the far end of the line stood Tyra. "Let me show you ladies how it's done," she cooed, peeling off her red silk dress.

  Tyra stretched her thin arms out above her head, cracking her knuckles as she made an exaggerated display of swinging her hips from side to side. This resulted in a matching sway in her more than generous bosom.

  "God damn, you know how to throw a party, Edgar. I can't believe you hit that!" Jake gushed.

  Tyra strode down the line of angels, and the muscles playing beneath her tight skin were roadmaps to unspeakable satisfaction. Mounting the bull afforded a somewhat less graceful view, but the awestruck shine in Jake's eyes remained undiminished.

  As the gears roared to life and the contraption began to turn, Tyra moaned in anticipation.

  "So Edgar." Duncan arched his thick eyebrows and took a sip of scotch, "What now?"

  Lighting a fresh cigarette, Edgar considered the question. "Well, there isn't a whole lot left, really. I just need to figure out exactly what happened the Saturday of my death. Then hopefully I can make peace with the whole sordid affair that has been the life of Edgar Vincent."

  "You'll excuse my asking," said Duncan, "but it occurs to me that you already know all the contributing factors. Is the exact cause of your death really that important?"

  "It is actually, Duncan." A sharp edge was creeping into Edgar's voice. "I couldn't tell you why, but I'm sure I won't find peace until I know what happened. I know I've got my flaws, but still, I always believed things were going to be OK, that life had a way of working itself out. I just can't rest without knowing exactly how it all fell apart—how could I have ended up so scared and alone?"


  He shuddered and continued only after several gulps from a fresh cup of brandy. "Jesus, I sound like a fucking ghost. Is this what happens after six days in the afterlife? Or has it been seven?" He was met only with blank stares and realized what a meaningless concept time was in a realm like this. A chill ran through his body, competing fiercely with the sweltering air of the ballroom for total dominance of his senses.

  "Ooooh!" Tyra's yelp tore through the hall. A broad smile was smeared across her pretty face as she was tossed and twirled upon the back of the golden bull. "Aaaah!"

  "So what are you going to do?" Alex asked.

  "Keep going, I guess," Edgar replied absently. "I've seen what an ass I've been and learned what mistakes I've made. Thanks to you shits, I've even done my shots of contrition, but there's still no peace. I don't feel any different. Strange surroundings, horrible revelations, but through it all I'm still just me. Edgar. Isn't something supposed to change?"

  "Well, accepting your faults is a good first step," Emeric offered hopefully. "Yeah, but what's it gotten me? I still don't know how I was left alone down there or what the hell I might have done in those last minutes to wind up here. Without that payoff, without any answers, what's the fucking point?"

  Now Duncan spoke. "I don't think "payoff " was ever the point of taking responsibility, Edgar. Besides, you're still fixating on the past, expecting the future to take care of itself."

  "There is no future, Duncan. It's all over, remember?"

  "Yet time goes on. And you need to as well," Duncan answered.

  "Oh, fuck!" screamed Tyra. Her smooth, naked body spun and jostled, held in thrall to the mechanical beast locked between her firm thighs. Her eyes rolled in her head, and the smile on her lips threatened to split her face down the centre as her auburn hair cracked across her ivory back like a slave master's whip. "Oh God!"

  "How am I supposed to go on when I don't even know where I'm going?" Edgar's fists were tight at his sides, and his low voice dripped with contempt.

  "A bit late for that particular inquiry." Duncan's cool demeanour was pushing pins under the fingernails of Edgar's patience.

  "Oh goddammit, Duncan! I'm aware you all knew better, I've seen the evidence, believe me. But all your precious wisdom and foresight does jack shit now. You probably told me a million times what was going to happen, and I'm happy for you—really. I know I was blind, I know it wasn't just you I lied to, but that doesn't make it any damn easier looking back, does it? It doesn't change anything."

  "And it isn't meant to," Duncan continued, unmoved. For all his self-control and detached intellect, he'd always shared Edgar's headstrong fixation with making his point. "You are," he finished flatly.

  "Oh, very helpful, Duncan, that's just what I need. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

  "Admit," said Duncan, and Edgar's heart raced as he saw the dark shooter Duncan held out under his icy gaze, "that the mistakes of the past, and the false hopes for the future, are irrelevant, and change. It's not so hard, Edgar. You have everything you need right here. Just accept it, embrace it, and move the fuck on."

  Edgar stared at his friend, and the smoky breath from his nostrils was the exhaust of a machine engineered only to persist.

  "Oh Christ!" Tyra's squeal was more pitched now, and her eyes were orbs of white as her back arched and her lips curled. "Oh Edgar!" she screamed, her knees knocking against the drum-like torso of the bull as her body convulsed like a dying engine.

  Then the bull was done, and with a final hiss, it collapsed back down in a cloud of steam. Still trembling, Tyra slid exhausted from its saddle, and the unearthly smile etched upon her face was the only evidence of life.

  To his surprise, the shooter was in Edgar's hand now. Jake gulped his beer in oblivious ecstasy as he stared at Tyra. Emeric just gazed at the ground, and Alex's glassy eyes were somewhere else entirely. But Duncan stood right before him, staring at him with unflinching determination.

  "What the fuck are you looking for, Duncan?" Edgar demanded in a voice of vim and vitriol. His eyes ricocheted feverishly between Duncan and the shot in his own trembling hand.

  Duncan smiled, the faultless composure of his countenance never faltering. "Look around you, Edgar. There's nothing left to fight for. You're here."

  Slouching beside Edgar in a daze, Alex jolted upright, his eyes suddenly aglow. Gazing about in a wide arc, his mouth gaped as he spoke. "Holy shit you guys, he's right. Check this place out!"

  Edgar understood. His pack of smokes bulged in his back pocket as he took a sip from his fine brandy. His best friends stood all around him, and beyond were more beautiful women than even he could imagine.

  Well...Edgar fully perceived the irony.

  So much on offer, yet all he could focus on was Duncan.

  Duncan...

  Edgar glared daggers into Duncan's puffed-out chest. His friend had been increasingly judgemental in life, but here in the afterlife, his sole purpose seemed to be bringing him down and second-guessing all he did. Now he stood before Edgar, tall and proud. His ridiculous red tie waved from side to side of its own volition, and his smile curled into pitchfork points. He wanted real accountability, and Edgar's blood ran cold. He insisted on Edgar accepting himself—not with plans or reflections—but active efforts. Edgar's feet itched for movement. He knew that above all, Duncan wanted him to accept the moment and be himself rather than simply talking about who that might be.

  Edgar fought to find the words, but none came. The shooter was heavy as he raised it up. He imagined just being in the moment; no plans for change, no excuses for folly.

  The shooter was an anvil as he raised it toward his lips.

  Still, Duncan watched attentively; so too did Emeric, Alex, and Jake. The shooter hovered before Edgar's mouth for a moment as he considered giving up the fight and standing as an unafflicted equal in the company of his peers. He stared back into the even, expectant eyes of his oldest friend. Then with a rush, he brought the shooter down hard.

  "Mother—"

  *****

  Best intentions had never done a goddamn thing for Edgar. It always came down to action.

  Standing across from Duncan in the stony silence of the Golden Ballroom, Edgar reached for a cigarette. "Fuck this," he mumbled as he sparked it to life. He could see his tired face reflected in the silver of his lighter. "We should head somewhere with a bit more life."

  "Yeah!" Jake joined enthusiastically. But his gaze darted between Edgar and the bull, and his face was a mask of uncertainty.

  Alex took it all in, his mouth wide open yet unspeaking.

  "What do you mean, Edgar?" asked Emeric, pushing his glasses up to meet his eyes—shimmering with doubt.

  "I came here to make amends, and I've done that," Edgar's words came slow and dry. "But I also came to start something new—to be my best self and to start finding some peace in what's left of my fucking existence.

  "But I can't really do that with this asshole constantly trying to bring me down. I'm trying to improve myself; I even did the shots in good humour. But it's never enough for Duncan."

  "Best self?" Duncan repeated incredulously.

  "Yes, dammit," Edgar's voice cracked as he spoke, and its pace gained speed like rainwater flowing downhill. "But I can't really achieve that when I'm surrounded by nothing but negativity."

  Duncan ignored his bait—a professional through and through. "Who is that, Edgar? Who are you going to be?"

  "Me, Duncan, myself—your friend, if you don't recall. I know I've made mistakes, and I've tried to make up for that. But I'm not going to suffer for them forever."

  "Hell no! Not in the afterlife!" Jake cheered, rejoining the conversation with no hint of irony. The crowd was dispersing now, and there was nothing more to see at the golden bull.

  "I'm ready to go. I've said what I came here to say, and learned what I needed to. Jake's right, it's time I find something to make me feel alive."

  "But Edgar," Emeric spoke in a waveri
ng whimper, "this is where we are." "I'm sorry, Emmy, and I do think you should come. But if I'm going to spend eternity surrounded by whatever I imagine, I'm going to make the most of it, dammit."

  "You're going to run, Edgar. Just like always." It wasn't spite in Duncan's tone. Edgar couldn't place it, but it certainly wasn't the condescension he was expecting—which struck him as especially odd given what he now knew of the afterlife.

  "Call it what you want, Duncan, but I'm done with pity and regret. I may be dead, but I'm not done living yet. Who's coming with me?"

  Emeric gazed down forlornly.

  Alex gaped, slowly shaking his head.

  Duncan just stared—cold and unaffected.

  "Fuck yeah, I am!" cried Jake as he fell into step behind Edgar, who tugged dejectedly at the flimsy collar of his suit jacket and turned in a hurried retreat. Past wilting balloons and trampled streamers, he marched. The golden bull sat lifeless as he brushed by, and his friends watched his departure sadly. "Whooo!" An enthusiastic cry was taken up, and a small army of angels closed in around Edgar. Tall girls whose proportions spit in the face of earthly physics, women in gowns so elegant that royalty might blush in shame, and others so unadorned that even the most lecherous soul might do the same.

  Jasmine was there, and Leslie. Tiffany—seemingly recovered and back in the positive spirits of a kitten on meth—strutted happily alongside Chanel, whose striped dress flowed luxuriously behind her. At their head was Tyra, her shimmering scarlet outfit tossed ineffectually over one shoulder.

  Gold was everywhere, yet still, Edgar could see no trace of the Silver Angel. There was no comfort here. His friends had turned against him, and his grand hopes for redemption lay now in ruins.

  "I'm not so sure this is heaven..."

  Jake followed dutifully behind, happy and boisterous as he walked among the angels towards the hedonism and debauchery he'd adored ever since Edgar had welcomed him into its warm embrace.

  The double doors of the Golden Ballroom were tall and heavy, gilded and carved with detailed reliefs which at any other moment would have brought a sentimental smile to Edgar's handsome face.