Edgar's Worst Sunday

by Brad Oates

  "And what is the legacy you'd have left?" Jasmine asked. Her demeanour remained a model of composure, despite having followed Edgar's example in consuming more liquor than the crew of a mid-sized fishing trawler.

  "I don't even know how I died," Edgar pushed on, flatly rejecting Jasmine's bid for connection. "Now I get to sit here with you sorry lushes, with no damn clue what became of me down there. Is it down? Can anyone tell me what fucking happened?"

  "The past is not my forte." It was Tyra's turn to offer solace. "But I do have a—present—here for you, and I can definitely tell you what is going to happen in the future." Her voice was confident, betraying no doubts about her assessment.

  "Thanks for the offer," Edgar was interrupted by a sudden fit of hiccups, "but that's not the sort of comfort I need. I just want to know what's happened to the people I knew, where they are. Living in your head is one hell of a lonely kinda heaven!"

  "You don't have to be alone," Tiffany assured him, pouting like a child with an injured bird.

  "You don't know what you're talking about," Edgar dismissed the woman out of hand. "I'm alone now. Was I alone when I died, can someone at least tell me that?"

  There was no answer.

  Across the hall, something caught his eye. A flash of silver; there, then gone.

  Edgar sighed, desperate to release the sudden wave of negativity that had taken him. Another visit to the tray helped, though not completely. "I'm sorry, it's a lot to handle you know—dying and all that. It's definitely not what I expected, but I don't blame you, I promise. Of all the angels I've ever heard of, you are by far my favourites." This resulted in a series of ahhs and gentle coos from the angels.

  "I don't know exactly what I wanted from heaven. I guess I never took the time to think of it. Looking around now, this all seems pretty ideal. It's actually everything I might have described if you'd asked me yesterday. It's just..."

  Edgar didn't finish. His speech was cut short by the sound of his glass shattering against the floor and the legs of his chair scraping violently backward as he turned and began to dash across the hall.

  It fluttered just before him; silver against gold. He pushed angels aside as he went, hearing behind him surprised squeals interlaced with joyous acknowledgments of his passing. Edgar jumped up and down as he went, struggling to keep track of her movements—this angel wrapped in her mirror-like dress.

  Bev, he somehow knew, despite how foolish the idea seemed. When had he seen her last? He couldn't even say now. Not since the old days at The Scholar anyway.

  Bev had been, well, Edgar never was very effective at articulating what Bev had been. A girl I knew—the girl. No matter who she was, Edgar was certain she was exactly who he needed now.

  As his feet pounded over the dark wooden floor of the Golden Ballroom, white puffs of fog billowed up from under them. Like lightning, she flashed, ever just beyond reach. But he was certain now, while before he'd only suspected, and as the fog began to fill the hall and envelop him, he fixed his attention on her, stitching his eyes to the silver of her dress. Behind him, the rest slipped from view.

  Suddenly, there she was. The fog held her in its embrace, cradling her as if this was its sole purpose. In all the unworld where Edgar stood, it was just him and her and the transcendental white fog.

  "Bev," he said, only to find he had no follow-up. She was not a tall woman, but her brooding amber eyes still held a tunnel to some reality where the world made more sense; where the confusions and temptations that had surrounded him daily since they'd parted just vanished, allowing for a comfort he could now hardly recall.

  Nothing about her was especially remarkable. She had plain, straight brown hair reaching to her back, a round face, and a patient—if occasionally exasperated—smile was ever etched upon her thin lips. It was there even now, setting him instantly at peace.

  "Oh Edgar, what happened?" Her voice was soft, a whisper spoken from one pillow to another, for Edgar's ears alone.

  "I don't know." Edgar hung his head, relieved that the ballroom was gone as he stood before this memory made flesh.

  "What did you do?" Bev asked. Her expression told him she already knew. She always did.

  "I...thought I had more time."

  "You always did." Her words cut, and Edgar's throat was dry.

  "I'm sorry." He was. It hadn't occurred to him until just then. The silence was overwhelming and his stomach rolled over like a submissive whelp.

  "I know." Her voice held a boundless tone of understanding. He'd missed Bev, though he'd never admitted it. There was so much he wanted to ask; so much he knew he should explain. But his head spun, and again he could vaguely hear the echoing bass of the hall. He quickly determined that he needed another drink, at the least, if he was to sufficiently steady his nerve.

  Bev stood patiently; she'd always had to wait on Edgar. He stammered dumbly, searching for words. None came. There was so much to say, so many things to offer; but as each one played through his mind, Edgar's spine trembled, and he swallowed instinctively as he pulled hard from his dying cigarette.

  Bev always had all the answers—until she didn't. She'd been a lighthouse for Edgar's reckless voyages, faithfully promising to illuminate the way back to safe harbour. Then one day her light went out, and Edgar tacitly understood that it had been his own failing in its upkeep. "What do we do now?" he asked.

  His legs were shaking, and a sudden wave of nausea threatened to topple him as he lost himself in her searching eyes. He longed for answers. He wanted to hide, to escape. He needed a fucking drink, a barrel, an ocean of booze to dive in and drown everything pressing in on him, demanding accountability and responsibility and all those things which Edgar Vincent never could abide.

  The music was back now, and before Bev's light, the fog was recoiling once again, promising Edgar deliverance from the treacherous seas he'd set his prow to mere minutes ago.

  "Anything..."

  It wasn't her voice. Not her tongue that slid over those shining lips as she spoke.

  "...You want!"

  These weren't Bev's words. Not Bev at all.

  He reeled backwards, the music and the smoke and the booze slamming back and forth in his skull as he opened his eyes to find he was lying prostrate upon the big, curved couch beside the small table. Tyra, barely clothed now, was licking his neck as if seeking sustenance, and Leslie was considerate enough to place another fresh scotch into his desperately searching hand.

  "It wasn't just BHI," Edgar blurted in a staccato stutter. "I was finally finding my direction..."

  The lines of light were smearing like old sidewalk chalk, and Tyra's tongue was working its way down as her hands moved with acrobatic deftness upon his belt.

  "I know I haven't been what I should, but I was working on it. If I'd had a bit more time..."

  That his jacket was unzipped was to be expected while indoors, but that his shirt was also unbuttoned did come as a surprise as he felt Tyra's teeth teasing their way down his broad chest.

  "They say I could be more. Well, Duncan does. No one else bothers. But I know it's true. I only wanted to contribute, to offer what I could. But you've gotta make a choice; either be yourself or be like everyone else. I won't do that. I know what they say about me, but I work for what I want. I push harder than anyone, and damn them for judging me for it. Stupid Duncan." Edgar slurred and stammered, but around him, the angels listened intently, supportive smiles on their beautiful faces.

  "Everyone leaves or says it's too late—too late to turn it around. But I've been more consistent than anyone. You know what you get, what I am. At least I'm honest!"

  Tyra was significantly lower than his chest now, but Edgar was beyond being surprised. As he revealed himself to the hollow things around him, his nakedness seemed only fitting.

  "Now it's all done. I don't know why I'm here, what I did to earn it. Who I saved, or... I remember walking, searching... I remember that building." The memory danced before him, just on the edge of
consciousness.

  "I remember how long it seemed, that walk, and falling, and how fucking lonely it felt in the end. Fuck it though. It's too late now. I know they're right; I'm as bad as they all say. But, I just needed a bit more time."

  Tyra was moving upon him like a piston now, and things were looking up. Edgar struggled to figure out what else he wanted to say, but realized it wasn't worth the effort. His head throbbed, and he knew he would have one hell of a hangover the following day.

  But tonight, tonight Edgar would be in heaven.

  Chapter 4

  The Personal Study

  Edgar had never been the sort of man to repeat a mistake, nor to fail in learning crucial lessons. Even in the hardest times of his life—the competition for which was steep, to say the least—Edgar found that despite the suffering caused by his misdeeds, there was also great knowledge to be gained from the experience.

  It was a useful philosophy. When, in the long climb to relevance in the film scoring industry, he realized he'd chosen the wrong project or misread the director's intentions, Edgar was always able to find a suitable solution. By simply taking some quick mental notes and employing a little bit of his trademark social finesse, he managed to consistently come out more or less unscathed.

  On one particularly unsettling Saturday, he'd found himself at an unknown club, already deep into flirting with an especially enticing beauty. Upon inquiring about her life, he'd discovered that she was, in fact, the young daughter of one of his biggest contracts.

  Such concerns would certainly overwhelm any normal man, but not Edgar. With his keen insight and unwavering will, he had merely vowed— as he ushered the bewildered lady out of his studio apartment the next morning—to avoid revealing his name henceforth.

  Of course, being more efficient than most men, he'd often gone above and beyond this particular goal by simply avoiding asking his ladies' names to begin with.

  Once, more recently than Edgar cared to admit, he'd been walking with traffic along a freeway, desperately waving his thumb in hopes of finding a ride out of the derelict neighbourhood where he'd awoken. Instead, he found himself picked up by a police cruiser. A life-changing moment for some perhaps, but Edgar was no typical man. So, after thoroughly scrubbing the ink from his fingertips and calling a friend (Emeric, the judgemental shit) for a ride home, Edgar reflected deeply upon the caper and resolved for the future to hitchhike only when walking against traffic.

  This had proven successful, and never again did the police manage to catch old Edgar unawares—at least not for hitchhiking.

  In his career, his leisure time, and even in his love life, Edgar never passed up an opportunity to improve his station. So, having been hurt twice at this point by his beloved Scottish mistress, he knew in his heart it was due time to seek solace in the arms of another fair lady.

  "Hello, Brandy!" Edgar exclaimed, pouring himself a generous glass of the fragrant elixir.

  Bold and independent, Edgar may have been a man eager to learn from his mistakes, but that was certainly not to say he was a stranger to adversity. So, upon waking once again with a raging hangover, he wasted no time coming up with a solution for the dry pain that encompassed his being. Hair of the dog, he acknowledged, sending a rush of brandy coursing down his throat.

  That morning had been a trying ordeal. Not an unfamiliar experience by any stretch, Edgar had awoken in the comfort of his own bed, with only the vaguest recollections from the night before spinning through his head like the illuminations of a child's bedside mobile.

  The renewal of his hangover had admittedly been disappointing. Even in heaven? he'd lamented, only to find himself suddenly wondering whether or not the entire affair had been nothing more than a dismal nightmare.

  It took several minutes of careful contemplation before Edgar, having slowly cobbled together a functional approximation of the night's events, rolled over to find his bed unoccupied. Tyra, who at least he was entirely convinced had accompanied him from the Golden Ballroom, was now conspicuously absent.

  So, this is heaven, he accepted immediately.

  After pulling his scattered clothing back on and quickly checking the contents of his pockets, he began his journey out of the bedroom, down the short hallway and into his esteemed study: the other of only two rooms in his home from which he took any true pleasure. Finding it in order, Edgar faced yet another existential dilemma. What does a man do in heaven?

  Often enough, he knew, the answer to one question depended on another; and the more pertinent question was, he supposed, what fucking day is it, anyway?

  The surreal nature of the question was not lost on a man of Edgar's acumen, and as he pressed his fingers to his temples to still the painful cacophony in his skull, he found his answer quite naturally. Sure as hell feels like a Sunday, he decided.

  It was the best answer he could come up with and, since his death precluded the chance of his having any legitimate business to do, Sunday indeed seemed to be the fitting choice.

  Of course, Edgar was a bright man and never one to miss a promising pattern. Based on what he'd experienced to this point, on top of the fact that he was indeed dead, it seemed reasonable to assume that tomorrow would be a Sunday as well. Therefore, with another long sip of his brandy, he resolved to be prepared.

  Every day is Sunday in this place. Doesn't that just fucking figure?

  Edgar's study was a large, open space that dominated the greater portion of his apartment. Its purpose was two-fold, serving both as a place for relaxation and reflection, as well as being the focal point of his musical efforts. All of his most prized possessions were displayed proudly along the walls. His first studio-quality guitar (a standard red and white Squire), his best guitar (a classic black and white Telecaster), and his sexiest guitar (a curvy Les Paul with a beautiful light wood finish), hung as the centrepieces of the study, directly behind his main desk. Continuing out in both directions from this point, the equipment wrapped the majority of the room. There was a Fender Precision Bass, a 12-String guitar, several acoustics, a collection of horns, tambourines, and myriad other exotic instruments acquired over the years to fill out his collection.

  There was also an old keytar kept less for function and more as a conversation starter with the drunken hangers-on Edgar often brought home. They tended to care less about music and more about kitsch.

  In the corner directly across from his bedroom hall was Edgar's mixing station. Or, stations rather. Indeed, Edgar's study featured two separate mixing stations—for very different sorts of mixing. The first was a simple refrigerator and bar set-up, with a short end-table for the assembly of more demanding drinks. This had been among the first additions made when Edgar moved into the apartment and of late it had taken the lion's share of his time from the other, more legitimate mixing station.

  Setting the brandy decanter back down on the bar, Edgar turned and let his finger run along the edge of the big, wood-paneled Roland Jupiter-80 synthesizer that was the main hub of his professional mixing station. This sat to the right of a comfortable office chair that was enclosed on three sides by tables bearing complex arrays of studio equipment. A computer with several monitors was at the centre, surrounded entirely by mounted speakers and boards full of dials, buttons, sliders, knobs, and flashing lights. There was a big old amp to the left, along with a second keyboard, an expensive set of drum pads, and a litany of other gadgets used to perfect the tunes he created. Lifting his hand away, Edgar noticed a thin layer of dust on the tip of his finger. After a quick sip of brandy, he sighed, recalling how alive he'd always felt whenever he sat in his little musical cockpit, letting his hands fly deftly from one instrument to the next as he dreamed up creative new ways to make all the disparate sounds come together into a beautiful and comprehensive whole.

  There was no doubt about it, when Edgar got down to business and applied himself to his craft, he was a spectacle to behold. Bouncing from one instrument to the next, he'd swivel about in his chair jotting notes,
turning dials, and moving his fingers in the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. The solitary nature of his work sometimes came as a surprise to those who didn't know him well, but Edgar never tired of explaining that when it was just him and the silence, he always felt that his potential had no bounds.

  The dust now lining his studio, however, served as a discouraging reminder of the artistic struggles he'd been experiencing of late.

  Directly beside the Jupiter-80 was his "other" mixing station—a pairing which he'd found especially convenient during sleepless nights struggling to get a piece just right. The comparably pristine and dustless condition of the latter did little to lighten his mood.

  Maybe a bit of artistic release would be the ticket, he thought. But his splitting headache and endless doubts didn't make for the most productive mood, and Edgar reasoned that he'd be better off getting his head straight before he tried to exert himself in any meaningful way. So, with the contents of the half-empty glass in his hand sloshing about, he stumbled over to sit at his main desk at the far end of the room.

  The desk itself had been a present from his parents upon the completion of his music theory degree. Heavy and simple, it occupied the far end of his office like the altar of some ancient cathedral. Its surface was empty and made from dark mahogany. The desk was a special point of pride for Edgar, being the primary locale in which he conceived most of his great ideas, celebrated his most significant successes, and often sat, alone and silent, to contemplate the crucial choices of his life.

  Was Chanel here too? I hope I didn't pass her up for that wanton idiot Tyra, he wondered, taking a seat.

  The sudden grin that tore across Edgar's face tested his throbbing head, but did nothing to deter his intentions as he shifted his weight and snatched his phone from his pocket.

  "Time to update old Emeric," he declared, "that little pervert will definitely want to know about this."