Edgar's Worst Sunday

by Brad Oates

  Alex broke out in a fit of hysterical, high-pitched giggles, small puffs of smoke accompanying each burst. Edgar beamed, holding up just long enough for Alex's barrage to subside—a fair while, as it turned out. When the time came, at last, he continued, "Hell, just yesterday, I was minding my own business, strumming my guitar, when this girl walked into the lounge. Now, I could tell by looking at her that she was an impending disaster. But I tell you, my friend," and here he gave Alex a lascivious look, "no impending disaster had ever looked so good in stilettos."

  Alex's eyes turned to saucers, and Edgar's heart raced. With a quick tug on the collar of his jacket, he smiled and continued, "So anyway..."

  *****

  The small fire continued to flicker in front of him, but the memory was gone. Edgar couldn't recall exactly what story he'd told Alex that night—it blended in with so many other raucous tales he'd shared with his enthusiastic friend in the years since. Alex had always been an eager audience for Edgar's braggadocio.

  He thought about Alex, and about what had happened. The little pot-fire with its surrounding collection of candles and incense took new meaning before his eyes: a sudden funeral shrine for a lost friend.

  It made for a hell of a second meeting, he reflected sadly, but we grew past that initial dishonesty.

  Looking back, Edgar assured himself that he'd really meant nothing but the best. Playing up his rebellious nature had been entirely for the entertainment of that wild-eyed stranger. He needed the excitement. Besides, I was an inspiration to Alex, he thought. Someone needed to fill that spacious skull of his.

  Edgar's head sank.

  He and Duncan drove out to the scene of the accident the day Alex had died. They'd never discussed why, after all those years apart, Edgar had still been his emergency contact.

  But the wreck still lingered in his mind. The hood cut straight down the centre, the tires turned out sideways. He could recall the glare of the sheared metal where the emergency-responders had cut Alex's lifeless body free, and the fucked up feeling in his gut when he'd noticed the faint marijuana scent rising up from the stained upholstery, as if Alex were right there beside them, ready to pass to the left.

  Pulling out a smoke and sparking it to life, he dropped the pack back into his pocket. The remaining cigarettes made a faint thumping noise as they jostled around the growing void within.

  It's not that I ever really lied to Alex, he consoled himself, but the sinking sensation in his stomach would not retreat. If anything, Edgar had always endeavoured to be a leader, an anchor to the select few he cared about.

  Not in the dragging down sense...

  Taking a long drag as he tugged self-consciously at the edges of his pristine white tunic, he smiled. Best intentions be damned—his present state was proof enough that fond memories were fundamental, and if nothing else, Edgar was confident he'd helped in forming many of those.

  Truth be told, Edgar had always reasoned that there was a deeper level of altruism in even his most deplorable adventures—as his actions provided memories others could not provide themselves.

  This line of reasoning had been solid enough for Edgar in life, but just now, he felt the ground was churning beneath him, and he wanted only to put distance between himself and the ghoulish funeral display. Turning abruptly, he passed quickly between pillars along the great checkerboard expanse, hurrying as if to outrun the uneasy feeling growing in his gut.

  The pillars all around him continued to sway and shift in colour, but one just ahead stood out amongst the rest. Its base was surrounded by shining objects and bright spots of colour.

  Drawing nearer, he determined the source of the shininess to be empty tequila bottles littering the marble floor. The colours, he realized with an excited grin, were a scattering of bikini tops. Now, this seems like a story worth recalling, he thought, grinning bravely as he stepped towards the incandescent pillar.

  Picking up a tequila bottle, Edgar turned it over in his hand, watching the remainder splash and slosh about in the bottom. Barely even a sip left, he observed, but perhaps that's for the better.

  A clear head is the best thing right now, just like Emeric said. Edgar tossed the bottle down lazily. I know I did some good down there, at least where my friends are concerned. I need to focus on those times. Everything else will be alright.

  Yet staring down at the scattered bottles and discarded bikini tops, even Edgar doubted the claim was entirely true. He had a queer feeling about the meaning behind the items. Not a suspicion exactly, certainly not a recollection. Yet the thought of tequila just then made his stomach rage in protest, and judging by the strange scene around him, Edgar knew there had to be a damn good reason for that.

  *****

  "Hurry up, you idiots," Edgar had called out mid-stumble. Immediately afterward, the stumble had matured into a full-on fall, landing poor Edgar flat on his face and shattering the half-empty bottle of tequila in his hand.

  "What are we meant to be hurrying, exactly?" Duncan asked. He stood with an air of effortless confidence. His pressed, white-collared shirt was all but covered by a clean, black pea coat.

  "Helping me," Edgar answered as he struggled to his feet and moodily examined a new scuff on the elbow of his beloved leather jacket. "We have to pull this off perfectly, or this deplorable creep will never forgive us." His words came in a staccato stutter of faux-sincere hysteria as he gestured in the direction of a young and utterly humiliated Emeric.

  "Bring me that bucket!" Edgar demanded of no one in particular. No one responded. "And where the fuck is Alex?"

  "You only sent him off half an hour ago." Duncan defended their absent friend.

  "Yeah, and he's probably been lost for twenty minutes already. C'mon everybody." With this, Edgar spun around to face Emeric and held his hands skyward in a dramatically hollow gesture. "This son-of-a-bitch managed to meet some actual women tonight, despite all the odds against him. I'll be god-damned if we can't make a worthy memory of it for him."

  "And you are absolutely certain both of these things are necessary to achieve that?" asked Duncan, holding up a pair of rubber boots and an entire case of Jello mixture.

  A chorus of nervous laughter rose from a ring of five bikini-clad women swaying drunkenly and shivering under a blanket next to Emeric, whose already red face only darkened. Emeric sighed—a long cloud billowing into the brisk December air—but his eyes remained glued to the ground.

  Dropping a partially inflated rubber duck inner-tube, Edgar stumbled over to his infinitely more lucid friend, and pushed a quivering finger into Duncan's unimpressed face. "Yes Duncan, I am actually. Look at him." Here, Edgar wheeled his accusing finger over toward Emeric. "Do you really think he's ever done anything really fun? I mean, really, crazy fun?" Edgar had no time to wait for a response. "No!" he testified like a late night televangelist, "he hasn't. And you're not going to stop me from changing that."

  "Edgar, you're being ridiculous. The poor, awkward mope hates this, and you need to stop." Bev interjected from just beside Duncan. She wore tight jeans, which complemented her curvy hips, and a thin black leather jacket over a loose-fitting Led Zepplin shirt, which lent an unspoken modesty to her humbly pretty face.

  Edgar turned to face her, his frenzied demeanour momentarily subsiding. "Bev," Edgar groped for words, the artifice of his charismatic confidence cast asunder by the expectant glow of her round face. "Baby," he finally continued, gesturing between himself and Emeric as he did, "there are only two ways to live."

  Edgar dashed off in search of one of the many other bottles of tequila he'd purchased on off-sales. Emeric sidled casually up to Bev, his eyes still locked on the snow-laden earth beneath them. "Sorry about all this," he mumbled.

  The apology was entirely unjustified on Emeric's part. He'd only met Edgar a few weeks prior, in fact, and despite being halfway through their first year of university, that meeting had been his first night of significant indulgence. The day after, Emeric ran a trembling hand over the bri
ght red stubble of his itching scalp and swore to avoid the deviant charmer forevermore.

  "Oh," Bev spoke with the gentle grace of a woman beyond her years. "I'm quite certain none of this was your fault."

  Having known Edgar quite intimately since the first month of the school year, and being his devoted partner for very nearly four months now, there was no question Bev was correct. In fact, Edgar had openly struggled since that fateful first night out to continue taking advantage of Emeric's naïve nature. "Show him the ways of the world," he'd called it.

  This night, Emeric had finally given in once again. It went to hell in no time. The two men, under the strict guidance of Edgar, had quickly connected with a contingent of ladies from the school's volleyball team. Edgar had immediately asked them several intricate yet ambiguously worded questions about "bumping" and then proceeded to forget about Emeric entirely for the next several hours.

  The tequila had flowed, and as the red-faced Emeric stared blankly at the table, he'd heard the conversation turn from volleyball, to beach volleyball, to bikinis, to the absence of bikinis.

  Then it kept going until Emeric had finally been dragged unceremoniously out the door by Edgar, who rapidly phoned friends and made grandiose claims about the night's potential.

  They stood now in a small park just off campus, with an illegal bonfire warding off the season's chill as Edgar struggled to back up his wild assertions.

  "Hey, where did you put that ladle?" he called into the still night air. This elicited a loud laugh from Duncan, an exasperated sigh from Bev, and a passing of nervous glances between the increasingly doubtful group of volleyball players.

  Bev slipped away from the group, motioning for Edgar to follow as she moved out of the fire's light into the blackness of the park beyond. "Edgar, what are you doing here? You've got all this useless shit, you've sent poor Alex off to get god knows what, these damn girls are utterly confused if not somewhat let down...dammit Edgar! 'Utterly' is not a funny word!" she cut her point short as Edgar slipped off into a fit of laughter.

  "No, no. It's not that Bev. Although it absolutely is a funny word. It's just, I just realized his name sort of rhymes with limerick...I have to use that some time." Edgar went to pass a hand casually through the long tuft of uncombed hair jutting out from the back of his ball cap, missed entirely, and promptly gave up the endeavour.

  "Edgar, Jesus..." said Bev, wavering on her heel as she debated simply walking away right then. "Emeric's a nice enough guy, why do you have to fuck with him so much?" she asked, placing a gentle hand on Edgar's shoulder before she finished, "...to say nothing of me."

  "Bev," Edgar slurred, missing her addendum entirely. "I'm not fucking with him. I'm helping him. How many memories will he have the way he's living? Come on, life will pass him by with all the excitement of a late night infomercial. I want to bring out the real, dirty Emmy." Edgar smiled, knowing immediately he'd just coined a new nick-name.

  "You just want an audience Edgar, don't lie."

  "That's not true, Bev. Do you know me at all? I don't need to solicit an audience, they find me." Edgar wobbled as he spoke, and paused intermittently to chug directly from his tequila bottle. "I just..."

  "Desperately need the affirmation?" Bev finished for him.

  Edgar's eyes darted about as if the proper comeback might be found somewhere in the stillness of the night. "No. I just want people to have fun, babe. I want us all," he swung his arm in a broad circle as he spoke, "to have some memories to share later. You know, when we're old and rich and dead-fucking-sexy?" He poked Bev playfully in the side as he said this, and she laughed despite herself.

  "Do you really think this was the best approach?" Bev pushed, even as her eyes softened and her posture relaxed.

  "Hey, there you guys are!" The voice came from behind them. Turning, Edgar saw Alex trudging up into the light of the fire. He wore full winter garb: ski pants, coat, toque, boots—only the gloves were missing, his fingers over-occupied with the joint alternating between his hands and lips, and the large plastic kiddie-pool he balanced on his head.

  Edgar, tolerating the weather in just a t-shirt and his leather jacket, immediately burst out laughing at the sight. "Alex, you idiot, where have you been?" he demanded, forgetting Bev immediately as he hurried towards his newly arrived friend.

  "I found the yard you described alright," Alex explained, referring to Edgar's vague directions to a yard he'd noted earlier that week that contained the necessary pool, "It's just, I went to the wrong park afterwards is all," he finished, hanging his head.

  Edgar grinned, letting his friend's mistake slide. Taking the pool from Alex, he heaved a loud sigh of relief. "Well," he said, gazing at the assembled materials and crowd, then over to Emeric, "are you ready to make some fucking memories?"

  *****

  All was silent in the great hall. Edgar's mouth trembled indecisively as he struggled to avoid letting loose the indignant laughter beating on the backs of his teeth.

  He hadn't thought of that night for years, and if he hadn't just seen it, he'd have written it off as entirely forgotten.

  It wasn't that bad, he assured himself, besides, if anyone had ever needed to cut loose, it was Dirty Emmy.

  But it wasn't just the downtrodden humiliation on Emeric's face that echoed through his mind's eye now. It was Duncan's detachment, Bev's frustration. Even the poor, uncomfortable girls huddled together on the sidelines.

  Gazing around, Edgar shuddered at the countless pillars awaiting him like the trees of some haunted forest.

  He was moving before he ever chose a direction, passing pillar after pillar in a daze, trying his best to ignore the voices in his head. "Calm down, Edgar. Stop this, Edgar. You're going too far, Edgar. Edgar..."

  "Edgar!"

  For as long as he could remember, people had been warning him to slow down, to consider others, to take it easy: to take account of his actions. But everyone else did enough of that to cover him, and it had always fallen upon Edgar to ensure that his inner circle managed to glean at least a few decent experiences from their time together. Someone had to provide some inspiration to the group. What else would we look back on?

  "Something to help you look forward, Mr. Vincent?"

  "Pete, you fucker!" Edgar yelled. The man stood directly behind him, smiling graciously as he gestured to a table so laden with temptations, Caligula himself would've balked.

  Bottles shimmered on its surface; crystal decanters filled with liquors of bronze, gold, and red. Tall piles of powder were stacked on silver trays, glass bongs with intricate swirling patterns awaited his indulgence, along with every other excuse Edgar could ever conceive of to do away with his mounting fatigue and welcome the dawn of a fresh new Saturday.

  He shuddered. "No. Again no. And don't call me that," he doggedly replied.

  Pete just smiled: a smug, self-certain smile that made Edgar twitch with rage. Either that fucker just doesn't feel a thing, or...

  Edgar didn't bother to finish his thought. Wheeling about impatiently, he strode away, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and the tantalizing offerings. They were only a crutch; a bit of entertainment better suited to happier times. This was a time for insight and reflection, a time for Edgar to find all the answers he so desperately needed.

  It was something he had to do alone, and Edgar had little doubt he would accomplish the task if he could just stay focused. He'd always been able to find a way to get what he needed, and despite the cruel sense of unease gestating in his chest, Edgar was certain he knew what he needed just now. Happier times, he assured himself silently, times when things made a bit more sense, when things worked like they were meant to.

  Pillars passed in silence as he walked. Then, like an unexpected alarm on an early Sunday morning, the world was spinning, and his arms whirled about at his sides in a frantic effort to regain his lost balance. The ground rolled underneath him, slipping away again and again until finally, just before he gave up th
e fight and accepted the fall, Edgar found his footing as dozens of tiny red and white beads rolled out from beneath him.

  Following the trail of beads, he found himself standing beneath another towering colonnade. The concentration of beads beneath it confirmed it to be their source. They were accompanied by a pair of strings and two little brass crosses.

  Rosaries, he knew instinctually. But he hadn't seen a rosary for ages. They were for penance, for confession. And it had been a long, long time since Edgar Vincent had confessed.

  *****

  "A boy who does not confess does not reconcile himself with the lord, mi rayo de sol. How can you ever expect to grow if you make choices like this?" His Nana's voice had been high and loud, her thick Argentinian accent rendering it all but indecipherable to anyone outside their immediate family.

  "Tsk tsk, he's too young to understand such things, mi Madre. Leave him be or you'll only upset him." Edgar's mother always spoke quietly, but those who were wise took special care to listen to her soft words.

  Edgar himself stood resolutely on the threshold of his bedroom. His tiny hands were slippery as they clenched into trembling fists, then released—ready at any provocation to slam the door shut and slide the chain-lock into place. Edgar was twelve, and as he listened intently to the back and forth between his mother and Nana, his youthful mind raced to calculate the best approach to accomplishing his goals.

  Edgar had decided it the night prior—this was the day. Come hell or high water, this morning he would not be carted off with his mother and Nana to focus on how terrible he was, recite rhymes about his unworthiness, and expect to walk away feeling better.

  His mother would come around. She always did, in the end. His Nana was a different story; old and hard, she would never understand how trying the long walk was, how much he hated the sight of that god-damned bell tower announcing that the time had come for blame and regret—and shitty music.

  "Upset will be the least of his worries, mi hija. The boy must learn to accept his faults and make account of himself. How else will he find his way in this world?"