Edgar's Worst Sunday

by Brad Oates

  Alex, as always, stared off in esoteric repose. "I imagine somewhere down there, people are gathered around your body. How can you be there, and here as well?"

  "Wait..." Jake leaned in, the furrow of his brow revealing the enormous exertion of his thoughts. "Am I dead, too?"

  Edgar had to laugh. It was hard not to love the dumb bastard. Jake was loud, obnoxious, and stupid as a brick. Yet of all Edgar's friends, he was the most unflinchingly loyal. Like a giant dog with a mild learning disorder, his unabashed consistency had always been a great comfort to Edgar. "No," he answered his friend, "I'm sure you're just fine."

  "That might be going a bit far," Alex interjected.

  "You'll get it all figured out soon, Eds." Duncan rarely committed any statement to a single, candid meaning, and it was always a profound surprise to Edgar when he did. "And whatever happened for you to end up here, I'm sure it was sufficiently heinous to make us all proud of you."

  "Even more than the night with the Slip-n-Slide!" Alex spoke from deep within his wine-cup, his satisfaction with the reference evident in its giddy delivery. This sent another gale of hearty laughter around the table—even Edgar took part, despite a long eye-roll and fervent shake of his head.

  "Thanks," Edgar replied to Duncan after the laughter subsided. His voice came in a scratching rasp. "It's all such a blur. I know it was Saturday night, and that I was drinking. I have a few brief patches of memory, more like feelings really...I remember being very unsure, then a sudden epiphany washing over me.

  "What really puzzles me though is how I ended up in heaven with you guys. What could I have possibly done to merit an afterlife of friends and booze?"

  "That's a good question." Duncan smiled as he spoke. "For you to make it to heaven, your final seconds must have been monumentally heroic." Despite their shared penchant for what more refined men might consider depraved situations, Duncan looked at Edgar as a brother, and would never speak ill of him in earnest.

  "What could I have possibly done, though?" Edgar mused. "Could I have sacrificed myself for someone? That sure doesn't sound like me. But still, heaven... Something doesn't add up."

  "You didn't go to heaven." Jake finished his beer with a mighty swig and hammered his empty mug down on the table. "You're dead and that's it, moron. Now you're just living out your own fantasies—easy as that, you dumb motherfucker."

  Emeric was visibly aghast.

  Alex giggled with what he hoped would pass for nervousness.

  Duncan arched his thick eyebrows and attempted to conceal the keen curl working up the sides of his mouth.

  The idiot has it right, Edgar knew.

  "You die, and the first thing you do is come see us..." Jake trailed off

  breathlessly, slowly doubling over the table as he rattled the cups with his braying laughter. "I knew it," he managed, before losing himself entirely.

  In the bottom of Edgar's glass, only a mouthful of scotch remained. Between his fingertips, the orange ember of his cigarette slowly approached the filter, and sitting about him were his closest friends and confidantes. They watched him in silence—Emeric with his nervous squirming, Alex with his detached stare, and Jake gazing obliviously around for recognition of his insight. Duncan simply waited with a faint smile, a sparkle in his eye betraying the excitement with which he anticipated Edgar's response.

  "Thanks, guys, I needed this." Edgar smiled, finishing the last of his scotch while snuffing his smoke out on the tabletop, leaving a long black streak.

  "So, what are you going to do now? You must have a lot to process." Emeric sipped slowly from his rum and coke as he waited for an answer.

  Edgar's attention wandered about the room, slowly tracing its way over the curves of the servers. "Well," he offered with a smirk, "if this place really holds anything I can dream up, I fear my time with you guys is done for now. I've seen the Golden Gate already, so that's one tourist trap down. Now, I believe I'll go see about some angels."

  Emeric shook his head as a gleeful giggle burst from Alex's lips. Duncan nodded his knowing acceptance, while Jake continued laughing boisterously to himself. "Anything he could dream of—and he ends up at a table with four dudes..."

  Edgar rose with conviction, a broad smile splitting his face across the centre. Turning, he crossed the floor of the bar with a swagger and passed through the heavy wooden door into the brilliant white glare outside. It wrapped around him like a blanket—a disorienting haze that was at once vivid and vague.

  It made no difference; Edgar knew exactly where he was going.

  Chapter 3

  The GOLDEN BALLROOM

  Throughout his brief tenure in the realm of the living, Edgar had valued one thing above all others—himself. It had never been much of a competition, really.

  This isn't to say that Edgar failed to appreciate the other exquisite pleasures in life. Indeed, there could be no disputing that he had been a passionate man. As a matter of fact, many bartenders over the years had described his passion with great admiration, speaking of his deep appreciation for their craft in the same breath with which they stressed the importance of higher education for their children.

  Edgar's love of his own career was obvious, and his resulting success did much to fuel the pursuit of his more intimate affections. Bastard, cad, asshole and creep—he had been called them all. There were even women out there who might accuse him of taking for granted the gifts he'd been given, but they would be unequivocally incorrect. Edgar valued everything he had, and everything he was, for without them, he would not have been him.

  He'd been asked once if he cared at all for the feelings of others, but this had struck Edgar as entirely unfair. His response, however, which in turn made liberal use of the terms "feeling" and "others," did little to further his cause.

  And yet, if asked in the right way, by the right sort of girl, Edgar might have described himself simply, sincerely, as a man who longed to connect. Perhaps over a savoury meal or a film which could inspire hours of profound conversation—this to Edgar was the draw. In more intimate times, he liked to tell those deserving ladies that he found music integral to "setting the mood." And yet, he would inevitably finish, he never did complain about a girl who liked to perform a cappella.

  It wasn't that he was a mean-spirited man, or that he was ever eager to hurt those around him—it was, according to Edgar, merely that he was willing to work harder and push further for what he wanted.

  And what a man wants is often what defines him.

  The white haze fell away from Edgar as he moved with the predatory gait of a prowling panther. High walls towered up around him, illuminated by multi-coloured flashes coming from all angles. He wore his old leather jacket—a friend that had gone along with him more faithfully than many he'd called his friends throughout his all-too-short life. It was simple brown leather, entirely barren of metal studs or unnecessary flaps; Edgar was a class act after-all, not some try-hard biker.

  Aside from the jacket's reliable comfort and devilishly suave appearance, it had one quality which Edgar valued above any other—the uncanny effect of bringing to others the intrinsic joy that he felt should be the natural result of his company.

  Perhaps it was not everyone who took this joy from the jacket. Indeed, it was entirely possible the effect was one conjured primarily in his own imagination, but there was no doubt it did wonders to complement his already dangerously charming look. This, in turn, served to secure it as the perfect companion when Edgar set out to indulge in the other two great loves of his life.

  I'll start with a light cocktail, he decided. Sliding up to a bar on his left as he scouted for an opportune perch to hunt for his third and final love, he was driven nearly mad by the titillating selection he saw on offer.

  She caught his eye from the far end of the bar, drawing him towards her with telekinetic surety. Edgar didn't know the woman but was instantly eager to correct that glaring error. As he crossed the long, dim chamber, however, it was neither the perfec
tion of her curves nor the abundance of tantalizingly exposed flesh that really struck him.

  Her eyes were drops of onyx in rust, calling out to him from behind their lustrous sheen. Her face was long and mocha-coloured, and the scarlet of her lips was teased by the shiny flicker of her tongue passing from one side to the other as she stared through Edgar, anticipating his approach.

  Only just shorter than Edgar, she stood all curves and edges. Pointed nails played against powerful thighs draped in blue silk. Legs sleek and shiny as if they were forged of bronze stretched up from dainty feet in black heels—then up some more.

  Delicate arms hung carelessly down from her exposed shoulders—slick as melting ice. Their gentle angles cascaded down with the serenity of a hidden waterfall tumbling into a lost valley, and Edgar wanted only to take the plunge over that sheer precipice.

  She was just the sort of sight that would on any other day have caught Edgar's attention in a heartbeat and imprisoned it for, well, a night at least. Nevertheless, however deserving she may have been, she was not what stood out to him as he slid up to her with the practiced swagger of a well-aged rock star.

  To his right, he noticed another beauty staring with equal intensity. If she was any less stunning, Edgar couldn't say. Behind her, a large cluster of ladies exuded the same ethereal beauty. Each existed in a state of breath-taking perfection, their physical dissimilarities never taking from one or adding to another, but working rather in perfect conjunction to create a smorgasbord of delectably lascivious options. "I think I'm in..." Edgar caught himself just in time to avoid stating the obvious.

  "You look like you could use a shot." The voice of the woman in blue was a breath of fire passing over him, bringing his blood to an instant boil. She stepped towards him as she spoke, holding two tall shots of clear liquor just below the captivating glow of her smile.

  "You sure know how to make a man feel welcome." Edgar beamed. His voice was deep and smooth, its tones flowing into one another with the same well-rehearsed elegance as the grin he wore.

  "I'm Jasmine; it's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Edgar Vincent." He gave a single, firm nod of his head as he spoke. "But the night is still young, and the pleasure just began."

  "You're so funny!" Jasmine replied in a gale of gentle laughter, and from all around the sound was taken up, like the slow-rising clamour of bells announcing the coming of dawn.

  Taking the shot held out for him, Edgar chuckled to himself. It's a funny thing, he reflected, how one great love begets another. His head still spun from the drinks at The Scholar, yet despite the painful throbbing of his pulse booming through his temples, he couldn't help but marvel at the precision with which all of his desires were materializing about him.

  All things considered, it should hardly come as a surprise, he reminded himself, raising the shot into the air as Jasmine did likewise. With a self- satisfied sigh, Edgar looked up at the shot glass, appreciating the way it bent and refracted the crisscrossing beams of light, creating a dizzying display. He had everything he could want—gorgeous women, fine booze, and the one thing truly necessary to make all the others worthwhile.

  "To me!" Edgar declared, and Jasmine met his glass with a gentle clink. "To you!" she happily attested, tossing her hair about as she poured the liquor neatly down her throat.

  With a devilish grin, Edgar threw his own head back, and felt the familiar pull of his jacket's soft leather against his neck. He put the drink away with authority, focusing on the fire as it eased its way down his throat, alighting upon the tinder in his stomach and setting his soul ablaze.

  The sound of the empty glass slamming down on the bar was lost in the sudden swell of music filling the room; the bass buffeting Edgar's body like the wrath of a cuckolded husband. Sweeping his head around in a broad arc, he opened his eyes and let the remaining alcohol fumes flare out from his nostrils.

  Flashing lights bounced about the room like spirits chasing each other through the ether, and whenever they found cause to linger a moment, illuminating some hidden crevice, Edgar was inevitably thrilled with the treasures thus revealed.

  Like the Valkyrie themselves the angels swooped down upon him, and the enormous hall was filled with the sounds of their excited chatter. In all the colours of the rainbow—and several colours left out of it entirely—they pressed towards him. There were women tall and short, athletic and petite. He saw women with skin as pale as porcelain and others as dark as the night. Some had that doe-eyed innocence which Edgar had always found so endearing, while others stared at him through eyes burning with undisguised carnality.

  Never one to miss an opportunity, Edgar's mind raced with the proactive calculation of a miser determined to spend his fortune lest he finally suffocate beneath it. "Let's take this party somewhere a bit more comfortable," he called to no angel in particular, and not waiting for any specific response, set off across the busy hall.

  The walls—distant in every direction he looked—were tall to the point of being ludicrous, and shone with such a radiance of gold that Edgar was left only to conclude this was not the work of some overly sensational paint-job, but rather the extravagant construction of a mind unable to perceive the hyperbolic nature of its own desires.

  Edgar bit his lip.

  For as far as he could see the room was packed to just short of crowded.

  He could, if he wished, still manage to move from one end of it to the other without overt obstruction, although the journey might be hindered either by exhaustion—as the expanse was extraordinary—or by distraction—as the temptations along the way followed in perfect suit.

  The centre of the room was dominated by a fountain. Conceived entirely from a single block of solid white marble, the statue above it was of a man standing tall and proud, his broad shoulders thrown back as he stared brazenly out over the room like a captain at his prow. The man's hair was thick and well-kept, tossed playfully backward and just to the side, allowing a perfect view of his long, aquiline face.

  The figure wore what appeared to be jeans, and Edgar noticed the cigarette-pack bulge in the back pocket with a grin, the drink in the large white hand with a smirk, and the intricately carved details of the leather jacket with what may have passed as the unsavory offspring of the two.

  Pulling himself away from this strange sight, Edgar continued to take in his surroundings. The bar, a dark and flawless redwood, extended the entire length of one end, and it did not escape his attention to detail that its open spaces alternated perfectly with lackadaisically poised women—each skillfully advertising her own special brand of "fucking gorgeous."

  Paintings were hung sparingly upon the walls, although Edgar could not bring himself to focus on their finer details. The end opposite the bar was a series of large, plush couches and loveseats, most with only a single spot left open amidst their grapevine offering of angels. As he granted his attention to each, in turn, he was enthralled to observe the reactions his gaze spawned in them. A curl of the lips here, a bat of the eye there; a flick of the tongue... Some were so blatant as to put even Edgar off—almost.

  I'd need an eternity to get through this place, he mused, even if I only had Emeric's stamina.

  Jasmine trotted happily along at his right side, barely seeming to care as Edgar cast his gaze out over the sea of sexy that seemed to be the bar's exclusive populace. Turning his sights towards an empty ring of seats in the far corner, he marched onward, and with each step, the air of the room thickened about him. Familiar rock beats slammed against and echoed off the walls, and from every angle, the throng of angels following in his stead pressed ever closer.

  "Hi, I'm Tiffany!" The speaker appeared directly to his left, her hands interlaced in front of her with elbows turned outward as she bounced in place with boundless excitement. She wore a yellow dress with tiny white polka-dots, and her short blonde hair was pulled into tight symmetrical ponytails that stood out from each side of her head.

  Tiffany wasted no time, and before Edgar
could manage a response, she had placed a drink in his hand, and a hand on his shoulder.

  All for the better, he acknowledged. Edgar had really never been one for pickup lines anyway, believing rather, that good old-fashioned sincerity was the surest way to a woman's heart. Taking in the scene with a keen eye, Edgar knew that if he could make it to these girls' hearts, he could make it anywhere he wanted...and while conventional they were not, there was an undeniable sincerity to the desires he had for the women around him.

  Raising the drink to his lips, he was thrilled to find it was, in fact, an old fashioned; minus, of course, the obnoxious muddled orange enjoyed by less fashionable men.

  "Well, hello Tiff..." Edgar had no opportunity to finish his sentence. Another hand grasped onto him—this one somewhat lower than his shoulder—forcing his attention immediately around to the right and freezing his procession of angels in place.

  The hand clutching his manhood was thin and pale, with long red fingernails. A wave of relief flooded over Edgar as he followed the arm up, deducing that its intentions were in no way malicious as the hand moved upon him with a gentle, intentional rhythm.

  The woman attached to the arm stared right through Edgar, a devious smile on her lips and a wicked challenge buried within her deep green eyes. "I'm Tyra." Her words were velvet soaked in vermouth—smooth and intoxicating.

  The movements of her hand continued, causing in Edgar a stirring all his own. He raised his glass to his lips and poured graciously through their less-than-subtle curve. "It is..." he started, and watched as the wide eyes of the angels rose to meet his in a united display of eager anticipation. Being no amateur, Edgar knew better than to satisfy this desperation on demand. Always best to let such passions stew, he mused, his gaze drifting over the girls around him.

  Jasmine stood in calm repose, burrowing into him with her dark eyes. Tiffany vibrated in place, pulling like a vacuum on the thin straw extending from her tall glass as she watched him vacantly. Tyra, still holding gently onto the increasingly tight spot in Edgar's jeans, steadied her face inches from his own, the turn of her mouth and flicker of her eyes less suggestive than explanatory. "It is indeed," she purred.