by Brad Oates
"Fuck this!" he wailed. "Fuck you all. I might as well be alone if this is the alternative. 'Friends' my ass," he spat, "I'm better off."
Jake nodded his indignant support.
Bev bowed her head sadly, stepping back with sloped shoulders and wet cheeks.
Alex knit his eyebrows together, staring doubtfully at Edgar, still struggling to conceive how his passionate ideals had led him so far astray.
Emeric shook his head, glaring in disgust. He opened his mouth briefly, as if to impart some final plea for decency, but closed it forlornly, finally resolving to accept the truth about Edgar.
For a moment longer the three friends stood in the heat of the alley, staring at Edgar from worlds away. Then they slowly backed into the fog, their perceived utility utterly exhausted in Edgar's defeated mind. Their candles flickered briefly through the fog, then sputtered out entirely.
Edgar took a long draw from his cigarette before glaring up at Duncan through eyes that were icy slits. "You always thought you had the answers, like you were the prototype for a life well-lived. What about your life, Duncan? You're just as much a slave to your choices as I am to mine. Where's your wife? Your kids? Oh yeah, Duncan, you rule the world all right, with your fancy little condo and 12-hour workdays. You really nailed it, man." Smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke, rising farther up into the red sky with each hateful word.
Duncan bit his lip, turning away for a moment before meeting his friend's hard gaze. "At least I know where I'm going, Edgar. I'm actually trying to work towards something. Can you even tell me what you want any more?"
"A goddamn drink would be nice. A blowjob if we're being ambitious!" Edgar lit another smoke, turning his back dismissively to Duncan.
"You're wasting our fucking time, Edgar!" Duncan bellowed.
Jake shifted his weight from leg to leg uncomfortably, his focus following the argument along its course as he clenched his big, square jaw in confounded silence.
"I am? What are you even doing here, Duncan? Why bother if your time is so damn precious? All I've ever asked is that you have a bit of faith in me, let me make my own fucking decisions. It's not such a tall order!" Edgar stared nails through his old friend, and saw through years gone by the young man he'd grown up with—tired now and worn thin from the wearisome toils Edgar had so long eschewed. Duncan's patience seemed to barely hang on as the precipice of Edgar's failing dignity grew slicker by the moment.
"Really, Edgar? You're still on this fucking self-righteous kick?" Duncan stepped forward now, his voice loud and rueful, yet his composure still unbroken.
"Self-righteous?" Edgar was in shock, "Really? How many times have all of you let me down? I know I've made the occasional mistake—hell, I'll be the first to admit I'm not perfect, Duncan. But that's supposed to be what friends are for, to listen and support each other until everything gets back on track.
"But that's just too much to ask from you, isn't it? Oh no, every time I came to you with anything, all I got was fucked over and left hanging. Guilt trips and judgment—way to have my fucking back!" Edgar paced angrily as he unleashed his tirade.
Duncan gaped, his mouth trembling visibly. He moved to speak, paused, closed his eyes and drew a long, deep breath. Opening his eyes, he finally continued in a slow, measured tone. "Let down? Fucked over? Come on, Edgar. You're a smart guy. I know that. How damn long are you going to go on blaming cruel, misplaced faith for destroying everything you touch before you step back and see the common fucking denominator?"
"Fuck you!" Edgar screeched, finding, in the end, he had nothing else left to say.
"Yeah, fuck you!" Jake lunged forward. His thick arm wound back, then shot out with a flash, catching Duncan in the jaw with a mighty crack.
Duncan hit the ground, blood pouring from his broken mouth and pooling on the cement, spreading over the congealed puddles from Edgar's lifeless corpse still hanging above—a silent sentinel to the misdeeds below.
Edgar flew into action. His outstretched knee took Jake in the ribs and sent the big man reeling. "What are you doing, you fucking idiot?" he yelled, shoving Jake again as he tried to regain his footing. Jake's candle fell to the ground, fizzling out in the mess of blood and dirt.
"Goddamn it!" Edgar screamed as Jake stared at him in consternation. "You're meant for one fucking thing Jake: to keep me entertained as I get my shit sorted. You clueless fuck! Stay out of things you can't understand!" Edgar pushed Jake again, hard, and watched with contempt as his sad, bewildered face disappeared into the all-consuming fog surrounding them.
Then he was gone.
Edgar stood alone beside Duncan, and the grey, steaming fog was their world. Behind them hung Edgar's macabre cadaver, and the church tower rose menacingly above all.
Rolling on the ground, Duncan cradled his shattered mouth with both hands. "I hope you're finally happy," said Edgar.
Duncan pulled himself up from the bloody ground, cringing as he stood. Blood painted his jaw like a satiated predator. "Happy?" he asked, his voice cracking as his mangled face quivered with rage. "Fuck you, Edgar. I've known you your whole life, and you've always gotten everything you ever wanted. If you're not happy with what you've got now, that's on you."
"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about," Edgar answered, his voice clad in steel.
Duncan shook his head, disgust and age making an ugly mask of his once handsome face. "Maybe you're right, Edgar. Maybe I really don't know you anymore. But I did once. So did you. And I promise you," he trembled with long-buried contempt as he spat his last venomous words, "if you don't figure out who you are and where you're going—and do it damn soon—then you've still got a long, lonely road ahead of you."
The alley was dark and hot, and the coppery scent of blood mingled with the sulfur stench of the fog.
Edgar stared through Duncan, wondering how things had ever gotten to this point. It didn't make sense. All his life, he'd been told that things would work out. But even Edgar's faith had reached its limit in the blood and turmoil of the alley of his death. With Duncan's pleading, wet eyes fixed on him and the church tower looming indignantly above, Edgar finally understood that he had only himself to blame.
"Go fuck yourself, Duncan," he said.
Duncan's shoulders slumped. Turning away, Edgar reached into his back pocket and lit up a smoke. Then he walked off into the hot, reeking fog towards the church tower—determined to confront the one person who still remained to him.
Chapter 10
The Belly Of The Beast
For as long as he could remember, Monday mornings for Edgar Vincent had been a humble exercise in recovery and redirection. On many such mornings he'd awoken and, upon determining to leave the debauchery of Saturday and suffering of Sunday behind him, Edgar would sit alone at his desk, get to work on his music, and focus on what lay ahead.
Mondays for Edgar had never been a thing to dread, as they weren't the usual return to commitment and drudgery so hated by more typical men. No, to Edgar, Mondays had always felt like great opportunities for personal growth.
In this context, he always felt he could be his truest self—and what a self that was! If asked to describe himself at any given time, Edgar might choose from a litany of wild stories and grand adjectives to capture the fine affair that was his life.
If asked what sort of lover he was, you could be certain Edgar would regale his inquisitor with outrageous and more-often-than-not vile tales of his nocturnal activities.
"'Nocturnal' indeed?" he might protest with a derisive sneer. Mornings, afternoons, evening walks—there was a story for every hour on the clock.
After that initial surge of bravado had passed, however, Edgar might feel further inclined to defend himself as a lover in the truest sense. If the mood struck him, he may go so far as to explain how he'd just never found the time to settle down. If especially inebriated, he might even tell you all about how the right one managed to slip right by him.
But none of that would
be quite true.
It was true, certainly, that Edgar considered himself a great many things to a great many people. A friend? Edgar could talk for days about his unfailing loyalty and constant efforts to inspire his comrades to greater and more memorable deeds.
An artist? The stories might never stop! Edgar considered himself a pioneer of audio accompaniment. He could prattle on incessantly about his achievements, and the depths of emotion he could unearth with a single note. Of course, he'd assure you, in the end, none of this held a candle to what was just around the corner.
Was Edgar a dutiful man? Just ask him! While he'd be the first to tell you he was a born rebel, he would also be the first—and quite likely the only—to tell you how tirelessly he worked for the betterment of those around him. "A genuine philanthropist," he'd claimed on one occasion, and on the occasion in question, the bartender who was his company wasn't inclined to disagree.
He'd been a loyal son, as he could elucidate with numerous examples. He'd been an honest citizen, and he'd argue to the death that his selfless honesty and lack of ego made him a martyr for free thinkers the world over.
Yes, for any question and every doubt, Edgar had a handful of stories to demonstrate his uncanny devotion to truth and decency. He was, after all, a talented man, who yearned only to share his fun-loving outlook with the less enlightened refuse of humanity.
Or so he'd be happy to tell you, if circumstances provided.
But everyone has their stories, and everyone has to find their own truths. In truth, Edgar was not the man he thought he was.
As he opened his tired eyes, he searched for clouds and arches.
There were none.
Where he might have expected enticing angels and eager friends, he found empty spaces. The roof above was high and flat, and morbid paintings covered the walls.
Sitting up slowly, he rubbed a patch of pebbles from where his cheek had rested in uneasy slumber. Then, knuckling his tired eyes, he gazed out over the scene awaiting him. Long, vacant rows of benches faced him expectantly.
His head swam as he turned it, and a brilliant white glow behind him threatened to run roughshod through the defensive squint of his eyelids. Looking around cautiously, he saw towering above him a humongous, illuminated cross. Golden spikes jutted menacingly out from its corners, and the bloody, beaten figure hanging upon it sent a self-conscious shiver along his throbbing spine.
Reaching blindly, he grasped a table covered in a pale purple cloth and pulled himself painfully to his feet. His innards roiled, and his universe spun; a hamster trapped by the momentum of its own unchecked ambition. Retching, he held the table desperately to avoid toppling over into a mess of his own sickness.
The air was thick and hot—laden with dizzying fragrances of burning candles and delicate incenses, which set off ancient alarms in Edgar's weary mind.
Fucking church. Edgar was incensed upon realizing where he was.
He took a careful step forward, and the floor groaned beneath him—a dreadful echo piercing the eerie silence of the church. A heavy golden chalice upon the table proved empty, as did several sparkling crystal decanters he checked along a lurching, uncertain stroll.
Even worse than I remembered, he lamented.
But memory is an impending landslide, and where one comes, others are sure to follow. They came in a rush, a torrent of regret and despair which— coupled with his lingering intoxication—sent Edgar stumbling against a wall draped in a tapestry intricately sewn with images of blood and whips, tears and torment.
Death. It came back to him all at once—the alley, the arguments, and the haunting realization that he was to blame for it all.
He'd been running from the facts. Running for longer than he cared to admit, yet running towards it all on the night he died. Edgar knew instinctually that he stood now beneath the great tower from the night before—the tower that had drawn him away from friends and comfort and meaning with the hollow promise of a chance to start anew.
Why the fuck did I come here? he wondered. But the answer held the coattails of the question, and Edgar's mind was a tempest of feeble excuses and farcical justifications. Compelled by some strange intuition, a glance to his right revealed a pair of thick wooden doors heralding his fate like personalized tombstones and empty grave plots.
With an indolent sigh, Edgar let his proud posture collapse as he realized the gravity of his predicament. He trembled under the weight of a splitting headache and fought waves of nausea with the hopeless resolve of a captain watching the water crest over the prow of his ship. He stood in a place more uncomfortable than any other he could imagine—and he was alone.
The necessity of the situation can hardly be denied. It's time to confess.
With tremulous steps and a pounding skull, Edgar walked over to the door on the right. His torn jacket sat heavy on his shoulders, still dripping with blood and clinging to his worn body in the unearthly heat.
The door rested slightly ajar, and he pulled it slowly open. This sent a chilling creak through the church, which rebounded back upon him—a mournful cry through a lonely canyon. With each passing second, Edgar sank deeper into the mires of his doubt.
Stepping inside and tugging the door fast behind him, an old, self-conscious dread welled up from years long past.
Darkness ruled within. Taking a seat on a tiny wooden bench, he rubbed the sweat from his brow as he took in the dismal scene. The room was cramped and seemed only to grow smaller with each panicked glance he cast this way and that. The walls were old and worn, and scratched deeply into them were the names of everyone Edgar had ever known.
This doesn't bode well, he admitted.
If the main room of the church had been hot, the confession booth was utterly intolerable. Each breath he drew caused him to choke and gasp as if his lungs were searing, and the bench grated his ass like rough straw and rusty razors.
Just in front of him was a small door designed to slide partly open, revealing a lattice screen through which the penitent could unburden himself. Edgar's skin crawled. His mouth was sandpaper, cutting and scraping at his tongue as he contemplated his next move.
Still, the suffocating heat raged above all else. Rising to a half-squat, he wiggled his shoulders and tugged on his sleeves. With an appreciative sigh, he let his tattered jacket plop down onto the bench. Settling back down upon it, he reached forward and knocked reluctantly on the delicate sliding door separating him from his confessor.
No voice came in answer, and the barrier remained in place.
Just as well, he reasoned, no better company than self.
"Hello?" he tried, his voice choked with dread. The routine was familiar to him—ingrained long ago in his young mind.
The practice was another story.
After a brief wait, Edgar gave a hesitant tug at the little sliding door.
"Jesus Christ!" he screamed as it shattered into tiny shards, many embedding themselves into the soft flesh of his palm. Beyond was blackness—the deepest, most impenetrable void Edgar had ever seen. Whether it stretched on forever or ended immediately he couldn't tell, but sitting in its forefront was a sight that sent chills through his sweltering body. Resting on the cusp of nothing was a bottle of scotch wrapped in a dusty black tie.
He knew them immediately as the reserves formerly concealed in his office desk at home. The BHI completion scotch. The revelation churned his stomach and brought a burst of bile coursing up his throat. His muscles tensed and his adrenaline surged, preparing for fight or flight.
But Edgar had nothing left to fight for, and nowhere left to run.
Well, he reasoned with the intricate trickery of a child justifying his exposed indiscretions, I did recently complete what is undoubtedly the greatest project I'll ever have...
As a flash of fond—and moreover appalling—memories passed before his eyes, Edgar deemed that Basic Human Indecency would be as fitting a label for his life as it would have been for the eternally forsaken documentary. In that
case, it only followed that the time had finally come to celebrate the great ambition that would now never reach fruition. With a churlish sneer, he brushed the tie aside and grabbed the bottle eagerly.
"Oh shit," he wailed, recoiling in pain as the bottle clattered to the hard wooden floor. The flesh of his right hand sizzled and peeled, and the scent of charred meat filled the cramped confines of the confessional.
"What the hell was that?" he demanded. The bottle rolled into the corner, waves of heat radiating up from it as Edgar held his hand and squinted through the pain. But the old tie still waited for him; cast aside, yet eternally patient. "First things first, I guess. Now's no time to buck tradition," he accepted with a grimace.
Trepidation filled his aching body as he took up the tie. It was filthy and faded—more grey than black now, and none of its original charm remained in the greasy and tattered rag it had become.
He remembered when he'd first worn it at his high-school graduation. His mother Rosa, his Nana Vasquez, even his father Eli had been there, smiling up at him in what Edgar could only assume had been a wild concoction of intrinsic pride and resounding relief that he'd actually managed to find his way through the tumultuous high school years. Edgar had stood defiantly on the edge of the stage, fingering the slick new tie as he gazed out on the world he would soon claim for his own.
It was the only tie he'd ever owned in his adult life, and it had seen him through university forums, graduations, job interviews, countless dates with "classy" ladies, and even a few funerals. However, it had long ago been relegated to the desk drawer, resurrected only to celebrate the completion of whatever major project he found himself scoring. When those increasingly rare moments came, Edgar was uncharacteristically rigid about tradition: first, he would fasten the sad old tie around his neck, then he'd crack open the bottle of scotch. Finally, relaxing in quiet repose, he would drink with a proud smile as he listened to his newly finished composition.
One last hurrah, old boy, he thought and secured the tie lazily around his sweat-soaked neck. With that out of the way, Edgar looked down at the scotch. The visible heat pulsing up had dissipated into the somewhat less intense burning of the air all about. With one careful touch, then another, Edgar concluded the bottle was safe at last. With the tie in its place, the scotch's time had come.
