Edgar's Worst Sunday

by Brad Oates

  "Dessert comes later, my dear." Edgar brushed her hand gently away, certain to let his touch linger long enough to leave no doubt as to the earnestness of his implication.

  Reaching back, he pulled out his packet of cigarettes, quickly sparking one to life and inhaling deeply. As the flame died away and the refreshing nicotine coursed into his bloodstream, he noticed in the halo that remained a brilliant flash of light.

  It passed through the crowd just ahead of him, appearing and disappearing as it wove its way briskly through the hall. The light flickered and bounced, and it was only after a moment's concentration that Edgar perceived it to be the reflection of a dress.

  The dress, as he caught a quick glimpse of it slipping through a clearing to his right, was long and silver, but that is not what caught Edgar's attention. In fact, he couldn't say what, exactly, had captivated him as he searched fruitlessly now to relocate the vision.

  Inexplicably drawn, Edgar shoved through the busy room in servile fascination. Behind him came the bustle of angels, dutifully following in his hurried footsteps.

  But it was gone just as suddenly as it had appeared, and among the sea of beautiful women, he could find no trace of the silver lady. With a long drag from his cigarette, he forced the fixation from his mind.

  "Shall we sit?" he asked, motioning towards a ring of plush couches nestled into the corner of the room. In their midst was a small table bearing a single candle in its centre.

  "Yes, let's!" Tyra's fingers clawed at his arm, pulling him towards the couch. Soon the others were following suit, pulling and prodding at him from all directions. The group moved like one unwieldy being—reckless and heedless as it made its slow, tumbling way towards the seats amidst a clamour of giggles and squeaks.

  Jasmine chided, Tiffany cajoled, unknown angels forced, shoved, and directed, while Tyra's hands showed up, ever to provide the most unexpected of encouragements. Finally, the entire mass of angels—and Edgar—tumbled playfully backward, nearly spilling his drink in the process. He landed—not, he guessed, as a matter of random chance—lying prostrate upon Tyra, who let out a feline howl of faux-surprise as she stretched her neck out and pushed her chest forward.

  "You know," he whispered to her, taking care to ensure his voice carried to the rest, "if I'd been told heaven was like this, I might not have avoided it as long as I did. I honestly feel a bit misled at this point."

  "You poor dear!" cried Tiffany, her big, watery eyes trembling with overwhelming sympathy. Edgar laughed despite himself.

  As the cluster of angels sat up and repositioned themselves amid many fumbles and squeals, Edgar stood. With a quick outward thrust of his arms, he shifted his unzipped jacket upon his shoulders. Then he tugged the collar against the back of his neck, allowing it to slide down and reposition more comfortably. It was a gesture he'd mastered over the years and one that afforded him more than comfort alone; he used the time to quickly glance about the ring of seats, taking in the lay of the land in order to determine the ideal spot for himself.

  The candle flickered on the low table in the centre, which was bordered on two sides by plush red couches covered with fat velvet cushions. Who the fuck needs so many damn pillows, he wondered. Edgar had never been passionate about the intricacies of interior decoration.

  These two were joined by a third couch, this one long and curving, which stretched around the table on the side opposite to where Edgar now stood. It was upon this couch that Tyra lay sprawled on her stomach, the scarlet of her dress nearly disappearing into the tangle of pillows cradling her as she kicked her feet about playfully.

  Edgar allowed himself an ironic chuckle as he watched her take the cherry from her drink and place it—stem and all—into her mouth. And I believe I've found my spot, he concluded.

  Jasmine and Tiffany found seats facing one another on the opposing couches, each surrounded by several angels Edgar had yet to meet. Jasmine sat with a straight back, sipping slowly from her martini glass. Across from her, Tiffany found herself in a conundrum.

  Edgar watched as the energetic girl tipped her head back to drink from a fresh bottle of blue...whatever. Each time she did, however, one ponytail or the other would bump against the shoulder of her neighbour, sending her turning around to see who was touching her hair. Tiffany appeared quite flummoxed, and Edgar decided with a grin that the situation would not soon resolve itself.

  Beside Tiffany, and very much aware of her neighbour's sorry plight, sat a godly huntress carved of shining obsidian. Her long, lithe body was draped loosely in an elegant white dress striped with orange. She wore her hair cropped short and tight, and showed Edgar a stunning smile as she tilted her head to the side subtly, motioning behind him.

  Turning, he was surprised to find a vacant leather chair sitting upon exquisitely carved wooden legs. Edgar slid it quickly over, positioning it snugly in front of the table as he turned to face his new friend on the edge of the couch to his right. Tyra will wait; a man simply cannot pass up a shot like this, Edgar assured himself.

  "Did someone say shots?" asked a shrill voice from behind him.

  In fact, no one had, but Edgar was more than willing to disregard this insignificant oversight and cut to the delectable point. He turned to meet the speaker and found himself looking, instead, into the intoxicating sight of a freshly loaded tray of drinks.

  "Cheers mutha-fuckas!" The speaker was short and thin, moving about with the searing energy of a white star as she balanced the tray with one hand and distributed drinks with the other. Edgar accepted another old fashioned with a smile, wrestling to recall the intentions he was certain he'd had just a moment before.

  "That's Leslie," Jasmine spoke softly into his left ear, indicating the fast-moving girl with the tray even as she scooped up another martini for herself. Leslie toiled in a disorienting blur of frenetic grace as she made her rounds, passing out drinks with unrestrained enthusiasm.

  When she'd finished with the drinks—taking the liberty, in the end, to hand everyone a tall shot of white rum—she took a seat on the couch beside Jasmine. Leslie was the shortest of the angels; a compact girl with artificially green eyes that matched her cocktail dress. Her luxurious black hair was kept shoulder length, cradling her face and complimenting her soft Asian features.

  Then, as if responding to some unseen cue, the angels rose in a synchronized movement, held their shot glasses high, and with voices that flowed together like distinct parts of a greater whole, raised a toast, "Welcome to the Golden Ballroom!"

  Never being one to reject a sincere toast, nor even an insincere one so long as it was properly accompanied, Edgar tossed the rum down his throat, and in a characteristic show of reckless abandonment, sent his empty shot glass sailing off into the hall behind him.

  The act was mirrored instantly by the angels standing at his table, each beaming as they gazed at him anxiously. "Now that's the spirit!" Edgar spoke with glib charm, lighting yet another cigarette and pressing a finger gingerly to his temple, trying to measure how close his buzz had come to cleansing him of his raging hangover. Not close enough, he decided—especially in company like this.

  Watching the angels take their seats, each staring at him with an expectant smile, Edgar decided that if any further connection was to be made, the onus of conversation would be on him. "Well," he began with a chuckle, "at least this time I won't have to clean up the broken glass."

  Edgar allowed a moment to pass, looking momentarily at each of the angels as he waited for one to take the bait. When sufficient time had passed to convince him that his hope was unfounded, he determined with a sigh to soldier on.

  "The last time I saw shot glasses tossed like that was actually at a party in my own office." He paused a moment longer, half curious as to whether the girls would follow his lead, while the other half—or perhaps somewhat more than that—was merely preoccupied with his old fashioned.

  When he was fully satisfied on both accounts, he continued. "You know, I work scoring independent fi
lms, and it's a job that comes with certain... benefits. Anyway, I had just signed up for a major project and was trying to get started on it, albeit futilely, I'll admit.

  "See, every time I really got into the zone, I found myself interrupted by unsolicited phone-calls from friends of mine. Lady-friends mostly, it's true. You see, the women in my life tend to share one thing in common—excellent taste."

  This did elicit a long series of frantic giggles from the group, and Tyra licked her lips while sitting up to indiscreetly re-cross her legs in Edgar's direction.

  I'll find more insight at the bottom of one of these shot glasses than I'm likely to find from any of these girls, Edgar lamented to himself, sparing a quick second to test his theory.

  Coming up empty, he continued, "So, long story short, drinks were had and glasses were thrown. There may ultimately have been a stolen fire-ladder as well, but that's still a matter of speculation."

  "Oh, my gosh." Tiffany blurted, sending a thin line of blue drink dribbling down her chin. "However did you get everyone out in time?"

  Edgar's eyes narrowed to slits as the music continued to thud through the hall—never quite loud enough to overbear the plodding course of conversation, yet never so quiet as to allow the rhythm to escape. Staring into the flickering candle, he watched as a wisp of white smoke started its long journey from the wick up to the ceiling so very high above.

  The scent reached Edgar's nostrils and stuck in his throat. Smells like a goddamn church in here, he thought.

  Tossing down yet another shot from the tray and lighting another cigarette to help drown out the candle scent, he sank back into the firm leather of his seat. Fucking heaven and a man still can't find a bit of compelling conversation.

  But Edgar was no stranger to stagnant small-talk, nor was he new to trying to awaken interest in strange women at bars.

  "Did I mention to you girls that I'm just finishing up a..." He paused here for effect, watching the eyes of each girl widen in anticipation, "big film project? And," he continued, not allowing their obvious excitement to detract from the importance of his point, "I'm in the mood to celebrate."

  This was too much for the eager crowd, which erupted immediately into an uproarious round of cheers and squeals. Tiffany jumped up and down, clapping with the vigour of a baby bird just booted from the nest.

  "Yeah," he went on, sensing he was on the right track, "It's called BHI, and it's about..."

  "Those things within us all—seldom spoken of, yet lingering ever just below waking consciousness." The dark woman to his right was speaking now, leaning over as her lustrous eyes burrowed into Edgar.

  This sudden turn brought him around with a start. It was a rare treat indeed to meet someone with any genuine knowledge of his work. "You've heard of..."

  "Basic Human Indecency?" the woman interrupted him again, "I know all about it, although perhaps, less than some."

  This brought a snide chuckle and corroborative shrug from Tyra. "I simply adore your work, Edgar Vincent," the ebony angel finished.

  "A woman of impeccable taste, I'm charmed. I don't believe we've met formally, although you certainly seem to know me."

  "Chanel." She spoke softly and wrapped one of her long hands about his in a gentle shake as he slid towards her. "It is rare," she continued, her words slow and eloquent, "for a composer to show such distinctive acumen in his projects, likewise for a soundtrack to add so pervasively to the ambiance of a film."

  Blushing, Edgar brought his glass up to his lips, but was disappointed to find it empty. "You seem impressively familiar with my accomplishments, Chanel." He fidgeted as he spoke, turning his glass around in nervous circles. Flattery was no foreign thing to Edgar and, as he sat in the extravagant trappings of The Golden Ballroom, Edgar certainly felt flattered. Chanel awaited his direction quietly; a beautiful wealth of knowledge seemingly dedicated entirely to his own passions. Around him the rest of the angels sat watching and smiling intently as they matched him drink for drink—an achievement that had sent many seasoned bar flies tumbling in the past.

  Taking another drink for himself (a scotch this time, to his great delight) from the seemingly endless supply on the table before him, he found himself suddenly fixating on Jake's earlier words. This was certainly a bad sign, as any time in the past Edgar had given thought to the wisdom of his most excessive friend, it inevitably ended—poorly.

  Nonetheless, no matter the quantity of liquor he consumed or the volume of the music in the grand hall—which at times dipped to barely audible when Edgar found himself engaged in conversation, and at others rose up to seize his entire being when he was bored—he could not stop Jake's voice from ringing continually through his brain. "You didn't make it to heaven," he'd said, but as Edgar looked at the shining hair of Jasmine, the mindless grin of Tiffany, and the intent focus of Chanel, the official status of this heaven seemed to be of little consequence.

  Still... "You're dead and that's it, moron. Now you're just living out your own fantasy—easy as that, you dumb motherfucker." This bit sat on Edgar's conscience with greater weight.

  Jesus, Jake's such an asshole, he thought.

  When Jake said that, it was to the Golden Ballroom that Edgar had elected to go. Looking at it now, his stomach felt light. Turning towards the candle, Edgar watched the smoke dance and drift. Beyond it, Tyra rolled about playfully, never allowing her lustful eyes to stray from Edgar as she flicked a knotted cherry stem back and forth between her lips.

  "Tell me," Chanel spoke at his side, "what really drives you?"

  Edgar felt a yawn tugging at his throat. If these girls are just the product of my own fantasy, all this flattery is really little more than spiritual masturbation.

  Edgar had certainly never been a spiritual man, avoiding the subject almost entirely ever since being old enough to dodge his grandmother's constant pleas for him to attend church with her. He was, however, an excessively proud man, and adamantly opposed to the idea of doing for himself what others could do for him.

  With a lazy stretch, he pulled out his packet of cigarettes, replacing the dying one in his mouth as he stared at the sole empty space from which he'd just drawn the fresh one.

  "You know," Edgar was aware of the slight slur in his speech now, but to be frank, he truly didn't give a shit, "every time I pull this pack out, I find it full. No matter how many I've already had."

  "Are you," Tiffany spoke quietly, fighting to contain a shocked gasp, "magical?" Her wet eyes trembled, from fear or awe Edgar could not be bothered to guess.

  "I guess everything's just turning up Edgar lately." Jasmine's voice was silk, her words still perfectly annunciated.

  "Still in charge after this many drinks? You are my kinda guy!" Leslie leaned haphazardly to her left, looking like a parody of Jasmine's perfect posture to her right.

  Well, he reflected, I suppose vapid tripe still trumps opportunistic begging. Edgar knew just what sort of reaction the observation about his smokes would have drawn from Alex.

  The scotch flowed rather quickly and was followed in turn by several just like it. Tiffany bounced and cheered him along with everything he did, as Jasmine offered formal encouragement and coy agreement on his every minuscule observation.

  "You are brilliant," Chanel assured him, and her hand found its way to his arm. Across the table, Tyra had managed to get an entire bushel of cherries into her mouth. Edgar could not say for certain whether her frantic choking motions were legitimate, or just the next step in her increasingly suggestive displays. Nor did he care.

  All around him, the angels continued to gather—now coming; now going. It occurred to Edgar that the demographics of the crowd were continually shifting just ahead of his conscious expectations, a constant blur of fulfilled fantasies and temptations dancing before him like desert mirages.

  He drew deeply from his smoke, holding it in and feeling the soothing nicotine swirl in his lungs. He tried to shake the morosity gripping him, but with every sight and sound, he could
perceive the depressing pantomime of his own true desires made real.

  Like a little girl crying into her journal. What kind of fucking heaven is this? he wondered. But his own thoughts betrayed him, and Edgar knew exactly who was to blame.

  Another scotch, another smoke, and Edgar sank further into his seat. Leslie stood up with a rush. As if from nowhere, she produced another tray loaded beyond belief with drinks and crisscrossed with long, powdery white lines. Edgar giddily helped himself.

  Like a child choking on the dessert he'd wailed for, he wrestled with the strange sights about him. But with every attempt to banish them, the scene only grew stranger, and the heavy bass of the hall seemed poised to pound him into submission. His head rolled, his neck impotent in its function, and the lights of the hall played into one another like paint bleeding across a canvas. With a desperate surge, he straightened up in his chair and focused his vision.

  If they're my creations, they can serve my fucking needs. This scene has gone entirely awry. This isn't what I need, Edgar determined, striving with his mind for mastery over his thoughts.

  But Tyra was undressing now, and Chanel was passionately humming one of his finest tunes to the other angels. They swayed back and forth in intense appreciation and perfect synchronization—save for Tiffany, who continually managed to slam her pigtailed skull into the heads of the angels beside her.

  "What kind of asshole dies at 32 anyway?" Edgar asked the ether.

  "It's not about how old Edgar, it's about who you've been. And you, my friend, have been much too many."

  With a roll of his eyes, Edgar dismissed Chanel's demented rambling, bending over instead to make another long line disappear from Leslie's silver tray.

  "Dead and gone now, just another miserable fuck-up in a long line of shitheads. If I'd just made it one more year, and finished BHI, I'd have at least cemented my legacy. That would have been enough." He lit yet another smoke.