by Brad Oates
Emeric had actually bargained for The Scholar, being that he lived and worked on campus, and seldom ventured beyond it for any reason aside from all-inclusive family vacations.
Insular little man, Edgar had thought. He hadn't voiced the opinion however, as he too had been pressing for The Scholar—being that he was eager to meet the new batch of students who would just be arriving.
So much for that, he'd reflected.
Sadly, Duncan had won out in the end. So, the three of them sat at an obnoxious white prism of a table, balancing precariously on uncomfortably tall stools at a club called Débit de Boissons.
The backs of the stools were insufficient to support an actual back. Edgar's battered old coat hung limply from its subtle curvature, its sleeves brushing against the polished floors. He fussed with it anxiously, now pulling it forward, now sliding it back to find the right placement. "My feet can't reach the floor, yet my jacket can't avoid it! Why on Earth would you ever come here?"
"I was hoping to teach you some class, but I've no doubt I was over-bold," said Duncan, grinning. "So," he continued between fragile sips of his olive-reeking martini, "how is this new project of yours coming along? You seemed pretty enthusiastic about it when last we spoke."
"You know," Edgar started with a flourish of excitement. Then, noticing the off-putting enthusiasm with which Emeric watched him, dialed it back and continued, "it's pretty good."
"C'mon Edgar, don't hold out on us. There must be something special about this one?" Emeric asked, crushing the lime down into his drink with a striped straw.
"Jesus man, you talk like it's a lady." Edgar glanced over at Duncan, but received no response.
Jake was out of town that night.
"Edgar, how I long for the day I can honestly ask you that about a woman,"
Emeric said with a smirk.
At that, Duncan did laugh. Treacherous bastard, Edgar thought with a pout concealed by an old fashioned—minus the orange.
"No really, it's coming very well," he reiterated, nervously fussing with his jacket in a futile attempt to prevent it from brushing against the floor.
"It's been what, almost a year now? Just over? Is there a due date in sight?" asked Duncan. "I know you like to age your scotch before the big day Edgar, but..."
Duncan knew him far too well. Edgar grinned, "This one's pretty open-ended. The director is utterly in my debt for taking the project on, so I've more or less got free reign from here on out. The film is already assembled and laid out on the slab. It's really going to be something, and it's up to my music to give it the jolt which brings it to life."
"But, if you're so far above this project, I'm left wondering why you're doing it in the first place. What drew you to this one?" Emeric asked.
"Yeah," said Duncan, twirling his tall martini glass between three fingers, "what is your selling point here? You talk about it like some Holy Grail of projects. What was it called again? BHI?"
"BHI, yeah. Basic Human Indecency. And it is special, although I can't quite put my finger on why."
"An indie film from an unknown director, the appeal of which you can't even elucidate? I'm not sure this sounds like the meal ticket you've been looking for, my friend," Duncan said with a chiding smile.
"It's more of a documentary, really," Edgar corrected feebly. "And I don't necessarily expect it to be a big money maker. That's not why I'm doing it."
Duncan arched his eyebrows, an incredulous expression on his face. Emeric started to speak, but then stopped himself, scratching his forehead to conceal his doubtful expression. "So, what is it then?" he finally asked.
"Well, part of it is for my career, I admit." Edgar pushed a hand into his back pocket as he spoke, paused, and frowned. Looking over at Duncan, he offered his friend an apologetic grin. Duncan sighed as he withdrew a shiny silver cigarette case from his breast pocket, tapped it twice against the table and took out a smoke each for Edgar and himself. The one benefit of Duncan's ritzy private clubs was that the constraining rules of public domains did not apply.
Taking the smoke and lighting it with an appreciative nod, Edgar continued, "Look, I'm still taking on side projects to maintain my disposable income; easy shit that takes no real effort, you know. BHI is just a chance to do something a bit more meaningful. Lucrative or not, I know that when I get this project just right, it's going to show the industry what I'm capable of—my real potential.
"Beyond that, it's the project itself that gets me. There's a real honesty to it. It's the kind of film that really makes you examine yourself and society in general. I think there's a really good message to it, and I'm just happy for the opportunity to be involved. If I can make it better with my music, that alone would be worth my time. I just," he concluded, puffing thoughtfully on his smoke, "I just need to get it right."
Emeric stole a quick sip of his rum and coke, then glanced dubiously up at his old friend. "Well, if that's the case, then I'm happy for you Edgar. I truly hope this is the passion-project you've been waiting for."
Duncan, however, was never such an easy sell. "I'm glad you're getting so much out of this Eds, it sounds like a very personal job for you. But I hope you've thought about your long-term direction. We all know how talented you are—your resume alone is proof of that. But lately you have to admit you've been taking projects which are beneath you, and this one's been in limbo for quite a while now."
Edgar sighed. "Look," he said, "I've heard it claimed that you have a lifetime to create your first great project and your last. You get noticed—then you start to consider your legacy. Everything else is on a schedule. But you guys know I'm a trendsetter! I'm just trying to buck the norm and take my time with this. It may not be my last project, but it damn sure could be my greatest, and that alone makes it worth as much time as it takes."
Duncan rolled his eyes—he'd never had much patience for what he considered "empty talk and shallow platitudes."
"That all sounds great, mon frère. Still, you've got to keep your profile up, or you're never going to achieve the goals you used to have."
"'Used to have'?" Anger flashed in Edgar's eyes. "Why 'used to?' You start taking showers in money, and you think that's all there is. But this is about more than that for me. It's about how I want to live. The man I want to be."
Duncan's thin lips pursed together briefly, and he took a long sip from his martini. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool and even. "And when does that begin exactly? You'll happily tell anyone who'll listen about how damn special you are, and how much you have to offer deep down. But it's not as if the assent of one more stranger will ever amount to sufficient proof for you to finally start acting like it."
Emeric stared silently into his drink, reaching up periodically to adjust his glasses.
"It has begun, my friend. That's what I'm doing here. I know you can't understand that. I mean, sure, you'll live in a mansion when you're older, but you'll still sit in it and fantasize about all the great things you'd do if you still had your youth!"
"And what about you?" Now Duncan's eyes flashed, but still his voice remained calm. "Where will you be when you're older? Sitting in some bar, hoping the women will still answer to the wink of your tired old eye? Finding new friends in an alley somewhere?"
Edgar huffed. "That sounds so terrible to you, doesn't it? The truth is I've met more decent people in bars and backstreets than I have in law firms or on campuses." Emeric's shoulders slouched at this mention. "And I've had plenty from all, believe me."
Duncan took another drink before he answered. "Ignoring the disturbing distinction between 'met' and 'had,' I find myself wondering if perhaps you're confusing 'decent' with these hypothetical people's ability to tolerate your bullshit?"
Edgar sneered, then chuckled through grinding teeth. Emeric, meanwhile, looked up from his cup of melting ice cubes. "Edgar, you've walked all those avenues and more...are you still one of the decent people?"
The dark ridges of Duncan's eyebrows rose in surpr
ise, and he pointed matter-of-factly at Emeric. "That's actually a much better question."
Edgar said nothing. He simply sat and stared, savouring the last few drags of his borrowed cigarette.
"Edgar," it was Duncan who broke the silence, "I'm not trying to shit on your ambitions here, you know that. It's just that I care about you, buddy. If this project is really all you say it is, then I'm thrilled you're dedicating yourself to it. I just don't want to see you so lost on an idea that you forget about reality. I want you to be and have everything you dream of Edgar, that's all."
Edgar nodded his head. "This one's really going to mean something, Duncan, old pal. This one... Well, you'll see." He frowned pensively and finished his old fashioned with a long, deep swallow.
*****
Edgar swayed in place, his sense of balance as uncertain as the ever-shifting pillars. The shot glass in his hand was empty now, and he let it drop to the marble floor.
A cigarette hung limply from his lips, and a trail of grey smoke rose from it, floating easily away in the warm, still air. Edgar always had something to say, and considered it his profound duty to do so in every situation, appropriate or not.
But just now, Edgar was speechless.
The disordered rows of pillars rolled off into the distance, and he walked through them unburdened by intention, needing only to move.
They stretched up all about him, blacks and greys and whites, their monolithic size making him feel utterly insignificant in a realm that depended on him entirely.
His steps began to quicken, and he perceived the pillars pressing in, as if at any moment they would slam together, entrapping him in an eternal tomb of his own vague recollections.
His tunic rubbed uncomfortably at his thighs as he began to run, turning this way and that to avoid long enclosures of pillars. It would be too easy to turn down any one of them, to face the truths inside and never again come out.
Staggering as he ran, Edgar navigated through the empty spaces of his mind. He sped through long, gloomy stretches, always under the terrible shadows of the columns. Striving against his will, he vied to keep his eyes ahead and unfocused as they fought of their own accord, drifting from side to side to settle upon the lurid artifacts at the pillar bases.
There were dirty, empty bottles, and broken instruments. He saw an old chandelier, a long chain of handcuffs, and more than one display that made even Edgar blush. At the periphery of his vision, he made out what appeared to be a long thin sheet of yellow plastic wrapped around one pillar's base. The fucking Slip-n-Slide, he realized, cursing his friends' chiding laughter as it echoed through his mind.
He didn't slow down. With each turn he took, the pillars drew closer, constricting his course, culling his choices. Stumbling, Edgar caught sight of the checkerboard pattern below him and felt suddenly that he was the lone king, sorely beset by enemies of his own creation.
Alone and hunted, Edgar was overwhelmed by a strange sense of familiarity. I've done this all before, he knew.
Cutting around a shaft that rose up suddenly in his path, he staggered between two others pushing in from opposite directions. Barely squeezing through, he noticed in passing a lone photo hanging upon one. The eyes were burned out by cigarette tips, but despite the defacement and dust, Edgar knew the image was Duncan.
He remembered the photo well—his friend standing tall and proud in his black robe, clutching his diploma like a sword as he set forth on his noble crusade.
"You've got to stay focused Edgar, I'm not about to cow my bragging on your account. So get busy and catch up so we can rule this world together, old buddy. Don't let it get away from you." The day that Duncan had passed the bar, Edgar had emptied one—of wares and women alike.
Now he dodged through his own sordid past, his mind racing to understand how such a surreal scene could be so terribly familiar. A glimmer to the right caught his eye. At the base of a pillar sat a delicate silver necklace, its broken heart pendant coolly reflecting the dichotomous pattern of the marble floor.
Edgar remembered giving the charm to Bev. He remembered when she finally gave it back. "Edgar, I'm not coming out tonight. Not anymore. You're never going to change, and I can't watch you continue to ruin yourself. The real shame is that you're wasting such potential...you could have been so special, if only you didn't keep getting lost in your own story."
He'd let the necklace drop from his hand and walked away. He'd never seen Bev again.
I thought it was a waste of time to pursue someone who didn't believe in me, he recalled.
Biting his lip, he noticed in the distance one pillar rising up above all the rest. It was much thicker and far taller, and its twisting branches jutted out sharply, weaving like razors up and up over Edgar's deranged reality. The pillar reached and beckoned, horrifying in its enormity, becoming the centre point of Edgar's world as he turned his steps towards it.
A pillar to his left was arrayed with red Christmas lights, numbered Ping-Pong balls taped to them at intervals. A heave of his stomach forced a slight smirk to his lips as he recalled his personally-designed drinking game, Fuck Emmy.
But beneath the pillar to his right sat a broken set of glasses. He remembered the disappointment on Emeric's face as he'd scooped them up from the mud and filth of a rundown alley one cold Sunday morning.
"Edgar, every time I listen to your pleas for trust, I end up getting hurt somehow. You need to learn that your choices affect other people."
He shook the voice from his head, the great spire drawing incrementally closer as he hurried toward his inevitable doom.
"It's really not such a long walk when you know who waits for you, mi rayo de sol," his Nana's pitched voice was in his ear now.
His spine was ice, but the air was thick and hot. Gazing at the great pillar as he plowed onward, Edgar couldn't shake his growing feeling of unease, and as the monolith shook and shimmered, he feared he was not ready to receive whatever revelation might await him.
But the other pillars were pressing closer, and his options were running out. They rose up all around him, each ornamented with all manner of trinkets, mementos, and photographs.
"You will make me proud when I'm gone, Edgar. I know it," his father's voice droned softly from a rum stained photo ahead of him.
"Fuck yeah, Edgar, this is the kind of shit that proves you'll be remembered forever!" Jake's loud, monotone voice boomed in his head as he caught sight of a long rope fashioned from women's underwear hanging down from the end of a huge balloon bearing his university's logo.
Remembered forever...
The columns had him boxed in completely now. The great spire was just ahead, yet entirely beyond his reach.
"Edgar, I'm worried about you. You've got to get control..." Duncan's voice again. Always fucking Duncan.
"I know you will get there Edito," he heard his mother say from a pillar accompanied by an old rotary phone on a fine wooden end-table. "I just pray you know where you're going."
Where am I going? Edgar wondered, wrestling again with the eerie familiarity of his run towards the spire. I was trying to get somewhere, he realized.
"Don't worry, Ma," he'd answered into his cellphone as he waved over a dancer wearing only a Santa hat. "I'm working on it; things are going to turn around soon."
Turn around! That was it. The night of his death was flashing before him like strobe lights and stop-motion. He'd tried to stop it. He'd tried to turn around, but it had been too late.
It took a moment to summon the courage. The weight of everything he'd seen pressed down on his shoulders, and doubt glued the soles of his shoes, making turning a nearly insurmountable act of will. Finally, he managed, and as he watched the great spire rotate out of view, Edgar found a new pillar before him. Pete stood beside it. His silver hair was disheveled and pointed; his Cheshire smile wrapping around his thin face like the comforting embrace Edgar so desperately longed for.
"Why am I here, Pete?"
Pete laughed—long and loud
and full of hateful judgment. "Where is it you think you are, Mr. Vincent?"
Edgar knew both questions were his own and swallowed down the common answer knotted in his throat.
Then the display at the pillar's base was all that remained of his world. Small candles, many unlit, ran along the edge of a delicate table laden with a pristine white cloth. Wreaths and flowers sat within the circle of candles, and at the epicenter was a photo of Edgar, the flickering flames of the burning candles reflecting in his eyes.
He was smiling in the picture, which sent a pang of anguish through his chest.
This is what's left of me down there, he understood, and his gaze lingered on the unlit candles.
I always had the best intentions...Edgar tried to convince himself.
He failed.
This is all wrong; I've made mistakes, sure. But I'm better than this. With a huff, he determined to take back control. The afterlife was the result of his own expectations after all, and now he needed to turn those towards what really mattered.
He fought to remind himself of the candles that were lit and the people who had never let go.
Edgar knew what he needed to do. He needed to get his friends together and remember the good times rather than the bad. He needed to focus on the future and all the fine things he'd meant to accomplish in it. More than anything, he needed to remember what was really important in the life he'd lost.
I need a fucking party...
Chapter 8
The Gala in Honour of the Life and Times of Edgar Vincent
Social gatherings for Edgar Vincent had always been an opportunity to allow some of his greatest talents to shine forth. Obviously, bars were a prime example of this phenomenon. Since his first time at a bar—an adventure supported by Duncan and facilitated by a shoddy pair of fake IDs—Edgar had viewed them as the ideal forum for his charm and charisma.