Edgar's Worst Sunday

by Brad Oates

  "So, dude," Jake said with a devilish grin after finishing his shot. "We gonna scoop up some of these angels or what?"

  I might as well be alone, for all the company this imbecile provides. Edgar finished his smoke, lit another, and pulled hard.

  ...Just like the night of my death.

  The thought sent a shiver up his spine, which he answered with a long swallow of beer. As the rest of the inner circle grew up and moved on with their lives, Jake alone had remained steadfast in his support of Edgar's more hedonistic desires. That meant a great deal to Edgar. Although Jake didn't make for the most stimulating company, Edgar had long since learned that going out alone—when not seeking immediate female company at least—was never a good idea.

  Staring off quietly, puffing on his smoke, he remembered walking home one night—alone, lost, and impossibly inebriated. Stumbling from one end of the sidewalk to the other and back, he'd proceeded slowly, singing a barely recognizable rendition of Sympathy for the Devil.

  He hadn't planned to go out that night at all. The original plan had been to spend the night alone in his study, enjoying a fine bottle of rye while putting in some serious hours on the BHI score. But his efforts were met with little reward, and after only a few hours work, he'd given up the ghost of his high-minded ambitions, and quickly concluded it would be far more beneficial to do some "field research."

  With such short notice, even Jake hadn't been available. But the tenacious Edgar was undeterred and headed out alone to find out just how basically indecent a human could be.

  He'd set new records, he was quite sure, but as he'd finished up his tune and stumbled blindly across the street in the early dawn, he'd shamefully realized he had no chance of remembering exactly how, which rendered his putting off work on BHI entirely unjustified. There's always next time, he'd chuckled to himself, working feverishly to rub a large spot of dirt off his old leather jacket.

  Putting BHI off had become something of a trend by that point. Every time Edgar endeavoured to make headway on his definitive work, some cruel distraction arose, presenting a new effigy to blame for his failures, and all his fine intentions were inevitably pushed off into the promising embrace of "tomorrow."

  And so he'd walked, working in vain to spark his dead lighter to life as his tongue ran tiny circles around the gap formerly occupied by his tooth.

  Edgar didn't have any recollection of how he'd lost it; he'd just known that it was gone. It had been among the first things he'd checked for after being thrown out of the last open bar, yet only the second biggest disappointment of the night. Going out alone is one thing—going home alone is just a fucking embarrassment.

  Nonetheless, the lesson was at least partially learned, and ever afterward Edgar did all he could to arrange company whenever he decided to truly tie one on.

  Even if the company is less than ideal...

  Now, Jake leaned over the table, inserting his thick skull imploringly into Edgar's line of sight. "Edgar, dude, what do you say? Let's pick up some angels—maybe even remember it this time?"

  Edgar wasn't inclined to remember a goddamn thing. With a lazy turn of his head, he took in the angels on offer.

  Tyra still swayed back and forth to the thudding beats emanating from the speakers beneath her delicate feet—her legs bowed to the point of negating even the most abstract purpose of her short red skirt.

  Leslie and Jasmine bobbed together on the edge of the dance floor, their heaving breasts bouncing to the rhythm as Chanel shook her hips and took in the others with a keen, shining eye.

  Tiffany spun her lithe form tunelessly through the crowd, shaking her ass as if for Edgar's eyes alone.

  The entire bar was a veritable shrine of flesh and fantasy, and Edgar flicked his cigarette between two yellowed fingers, watching it all.

  I was alone, he reflected morosely.

  To his right, the city shone through a window plastered with ads for expensive drinks and instant gratification. The scene outside was eerily familiar.

  I tried to turn around, he obsessed.

  There was a cold beer in his hand, beautiful women were all around, and Jake watched him intently, ever eager for input and guidance.

  "How did I end up here?" Edgar ruminated aloud.

  "In heaven?" Jake mumbled the clarification around the beer bottle in his mouth.

  Edgar tossed his dying smoke away over his shoulder. Reaching for another, he played around with two fingers, struggling to find one in the increasingly desolate pack. He ignored Jake's question.

  "How could I have been alone?" he asked. A haphazard roll of his head transformed the bar into a psychedelic blur of flashing lights and dark spaces. "Where was everyone else?"

  "Who could ever keep up with you, Edgar?" Jake clapped him on the back as he spoke, his face a bewildering mask of envy and consternation.

  "And yet they're here to judge me? How the hell does that work? If they couldn't understand where I was coming from in life, what fucking right do they have now?"

  "Exactly!" Jake boomed his support, pounding his beer into the table before slamming its remnants down his throat with an appreciative belch.

  "I never thought I was better than anyone Jake, don't mistake it for that. It was just a matter of priorities. Duncan talks about his pension plans and net worth, and I just think it's nonsense. He's not going to retire at 55 and think about all those clever savings he made. He'll wonder what he might have done with the time he had."

  Jake stared blankly at Edgar.

  "Are you really just going to sit there talking all night?" Chanel purred into Edgar's ear, holding her hands out as she backed towards the dance floor, encouraging him to stand up and join her.

  Edgar dismissed her with a quick shake of his head. "He's trapped himself in a job he barely enjoys and has no time to see the people he actually cares about. Sure he's got a beautiful home, but he hardly gets to spend a waking moment in it. He's got an enormous bank account with nothing to buy, and when he eventually finds some poor idiot to settle down with, he'll probably be too exhausted every night to enjoy any of it. What kind of life is that?

  "And don't get me wrong, Jake," Edgar continued, uninterested in any answer Jake might have come up with. "I wanted those things too. You know I'd have loved to meet a respectable woman and make her mine, and I definitely wanted to have a few kids of my own someday; little Edgars to carry on the tradition, you know. I just wanted to be able to live a bit along the way, instead of just staying alive."

  Jake nodded, then furrowed his brow as he gazed about the environs of the bar, "...respectable woman?"

  "I had it once," Edgar stated flatly. "And as for money and direction, that's what BHI was about. I was getting things together dammit, and on my own terms!"

  "BHI, your book, right?"

  Edgar sighed. "It was the documentary I was scoring, Jake, you know this.

  Basic Human Indecency—it was about the things people take for granted, and how easily distracted the majority of humanity is by shallow shit like money and status. It's exactly what I'm saying! People never appreciate the time they have. But that's all I ever wanted to do!"

  Something about the conversation struck Edgar as entirely too familiar, and he self-consciously pulled the collar of his jacket snugly against his neck. It took another two shots from the supply on the table to silence the nagging understanding gestating in the deep recesses of his weary brain.

  "That's what Duncan couldn't understand. None of them could." "You're still fixating on the past, expecting the future to take care of itself."

  The memory of Duncan's voice painted Edgar's vision red, and he finished his beer quickly to chase it from his mind. Beside him, Tiffany continued to shake her ass in a dance which looked less like a physical complement to the music than a shaky child's attempt to tie her shoes.

  "Fuck this!" Edgar's conviction boiled up through clenched teeth. "Fuck Bev, fuck Emeric, fuck BHI, and fuck Duncan!"

  Jake surged forward
with a devilish grin, "Yeah, dude! You've fucked everything that's come across your path! Hell—isn't that why we're here?"

  Jake held his soup-bone fist out for a confirmatory bump, but Edgar only gaped.

  Then he moved.

  The crack of Tiffany's empty skull bouncing off the dance floor drew the attention of the entire bar as Edgar pocketed his smokes and elbowed her aside on his way to the door.

  Only the sound of Jake's braying laughter followed him outside. Edgar hit the street running, a terrible familiarity tearing at his conscience like the claws of demons on his back.

  His fists clenched and his arms pumped as he ran alone through bright streets and bleak alleys, his teeth grating like old stones.

  Jake's laughter continued to echo between the tall buildings, buffeting Edgar with volley after volley of taunting torment.

  But it wasn't Jake he was running from.

  His legs churned like pistons, and Edgar thought solely of the disappointment in Duncan's eyes as he'd turned away from his childhood friend.

  One of the more common expressions I've seen, he acknowledged, but the wry observation did nothing to lighten his dark mood.

  "Just accept it, embrace it, and move the fuck on," Duncan's voice penetrated his being.

  "Move on to what? Where the fuck am I supposed to be going?" he screamed, but the bustling city streets offered no consolation. Edgar was tired of running but afraid of what lay behind him. He needed to escape, but booze and women promised none of the comforts they used to.

  Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this? What the hell am I meant to be doing?

  Turning blindly from one alley to the next, he felt his steps guided by some inaccessible memory. A heavy cloak of foreboding settled over him and threatened suffocation when he noticed a great tower rising above the hazy streets in the distance.

  A sinking feeling in his gut served only to confirm his path.

  Gruesome gargoyles jutted from the corners of the tower at even intervals along its height, and upon its peak perched the familiar cross which had so often acted as the lighthouse to Edgar's wayward childhood odysseys.

  "Without faith Edito, a man is just a man. And what is that, after all?" The high voice of his Nana came amid the screeching tires and honking horns of the restless city, and the chilling answer could not have been more apparent to Edgar Vincent.

  Shaking his head as he wove through dark streets, he fought savagely to escape the understanding he felt grasping at his coat-tails from the shadows. The few remaining cigarettes in his packet rattled with each frenzied step, pounding out a marching beat for his desperate flight.

  How do I stop this? What do I need to do? Sweat stung his eyes, and his body cramped and spasmed under the strain of his escape.

  "You're going to run Edgar, just like always." Bile rose in Edgar's throat as Duncan's voice sounded in his ear with all the subtlety of scraping blades.

  Shit. Edgar had no doubt now. This was the night!

  It hadn't been Jake. He was just a proxy. Edgar had been out with Duncan, sitting in some trashy bar on a lonely Saturday night, unloading his fears on the one man whose opinion he actually valued. But it was too much for him, and he'd turned away from wisdom, back to the old certainty that with a bit of faith, everything else would be OK.

  There were footsteps behind him now, and Edgar redoubled his efforts. His throat worked like a steam engine, yet still it failed to swallow the self-aware lump which had taken up residence within.

  He was right, I did always run—I still am. The realization flooded Edgar's exhausted and abused mind. But each step brought the church tower closer— until it loomed over him like the beginning and end of all he ever was.

  That's why I was alone, he understood. He'd run from help, from friends and sound advice. He'd fled again from what he needed into the embrace of what he knew.

  Just like always.

  The clatter of his drunken steps ricocheted between the cement walls to either side, and with a stumble, Edgar poured out of the alley into a broad courtyard.

  The dark, disorienting fog pressed in from three sides, shutting off left and right, and denying exit the way he'd come. From the alley behind him, Edgar could still discern the sound of pursuing footsteps, but his attention was locked firmly ahead.

  The church tower tore up into the dusky sky—separated from him by a long chain-link fence stretching off into the fog on either side.

  A shiver ran up Edgar's spine, and his jaw hung silently agape. The top of the fence was coiled with barbed wire like serpents in wait and, of all the opportunities that had been afforded to him, it was here that Edgar finally found himself.

  From the centre of the barbed wire, Edgar Vincent hung cold and lifeless. Both arms of his jacket had gotten snagged on the spikes, stretching them out to his sides. A coil had looped about his neck, opening his throat and spilling his life's blood down over his white undershirt.

  Doubling over and fighting to catch his breath, Edgar stumbled forward as small beads of blood splattered down and lay steaming on the hot cement. The courtyard was sweltering, and standing upright, he noticed that his own jacket now mirrored that of his corpse—torn and blood-soaked.

  The pieces fell together quickly. After he'd fled from Duncan, he'd run towards the church, hoping to find a less cynical ear to unload his worries on. In his impassioned stupor, he'd attempted to scale the fence. But somewhere near the top he'd realized the stupidity of the goal. When he tried to turn around it all went wrong. He lost his footing—a sudden sense of imbalance— then overwhelming terror. He hung now, limp and still, a bloody crucifix dangling atop the rickety old fence. The tall church tower rose in outline above him, black against the crimson sky.

  Behind him, the footsteps continued, but Edgar just stared straight ahead. It would have made for a half-funny story, he mused absently, if only it had a brighter ending.

  Blood continued to rain down from his torn jacket, splashing onto the dried pool beneath his stiff body. There had been nothing heroic about his death, nothing to merit entrance into heaven. But I'm well past that delusion by now, he admitted in the furnace-like heat of the alley.

  He drew a cigarette meekly from his pack. The dim light of the courtyard gained a flickering quality, and behind him, the approaching footsteps drew up and went silent. His heart skipped a beat, and he tucked the smoke behind his ear as he turned to face his pursuer.

  Duncan's long, black pea coat was thrown open, and his green silk button-up shirt hung untucked from his dark slacks. Panting, he folded over and put his hands on his knees as he gazed up at Edgar—past and present.

  "I tried to follow you, Edgar." Duncan's apologetic tone came between breathless rasps, and his eyes shimmered with regret. "I chased after you for so long, but I just couldn't keep up. You were too far gone."

  Edgar opened his mouth, but no words came. From the fog behind Duncan appeared four tiny points of flame; candles held in the trembling hands of Edgar's lifelong friends.

  Alex and Emeric, Jake, and even Bev. They stood holding little-cupped candles, their downcast eyes glinting in the unsteady light of their solemn vigil. Some crazy fucking prank, Edgar reasoned desperately. But he'd thought that before, and had already learned that he couldn't explain his way out of the nightmare his life had ended up.

  "How could this happen to me? Where were you?" asked Edgar.

  "We were out for drinks—we'd been talking about life, about your direction. You ran off. Edgar, I didn't mean to upset you, I just..." Duncan trailed off, his glassy eyes straining to impart sincerity where words failed.

  Alex stepped forward, candle in hand. "I know it's not easy man, trust me. No one knows when they're gonna go. You've just gotta appreciate the times you had."

  Disbelief choked Edgar's words. "The times I had?" he repeated incredulously. "That's pretty easy for you to say. You got out while things were still halfway decent. Do you have any clue how shitty it's gotten since then? T
he inner circle's all fallen apart, Alex, you have no idea!" He pulled a smoke from his packet and lit it up, sadly shaking his head.

  Jake pouted. Emeric just stuttered, his eyes on the ground. Then, looking up with sudden determination, he stepped toward Edgar. "What do you mean? We all tried to be there for you."

  "Be there for me? Really? How often have you been out lately, Emeric?" Edgar's face flushed as he spoke. "You're off with your own life, you don't have time for me. Jake's the only one who's been around with any consistency. But, I mean...that's Jake."

  Jake smiled, missing Edgar's dismissive implication entirely.

  "Edgar, we all tried. We did. You're not..."

  "Shut up," Edgar cut Emeric off, his frustration mounting as he remembered bitterly that these 'friends' were mere projections of his own expectations of them. "What do you know?"

  Duncan cracked his neck, harnessing his patience before stepping forward. "Edgar, you have to know..."

  "And what about you?" Edgar ignored Duncan, wheeling around to face Bev. She stood quietly in her silver gown, just as he'd seen her in the Golden Ballroom. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  "Why are you even here?" he demanded, his muscles tensing like chain over a winch. "You left me flat out. You never believed in me. Sure, things get hard sometimes. You've got to struggle to get the good out of life—but you couldn't hack it. You never believed. You just never had any..."

  Edgar bit his lip. Bev remained silent, her pretty face never reacting to the sting of his sharp words. "You've got to have faith," he finished feebly, staring at the totem of long-lost ideals standing before him.

  Still, Bev said nothing. From the shining surface of her dress, Edgar's wild eyes gazed back at him. They were sunken and wet, darting feverishly about for something or someone to blame. He saw the cruel snarl of his mouth—vicious and beast-like. But beneath this, his lip quivered along with the uncertain convictions upon which he'd nailed his final hopes. "Faith..." he repeated impotently, finally understanding Bev's inscrutable silence. I can't even imagine her having anything left to say.