by Brad Oates
This trait wasn't limited to bars of course.
Lecture halls in university had often become audiences for Edgar to spin captivating stories and woo naïve women.
House parties, more often than not, became congregations ripe for him to try out new routines and seize the attention of those in attendance, turning them to his own purposes.
At a charity function for Duncan's legal firm, Edgar had once focused his efforts on conducting a little social experiment. Introducing himself by a different name—each accompanied with a unique and sordid backstory— to a choice selection of women in attendance, he then kept track of how many times someone else made reference to one of the false identities, and ultimately declared a "winner."
The winner in this case, being the woman proven to have spoken the most about Edgar in his absence, was invited to accompany him as he made a hasty retreat from the mounting confusion.
She'd accepted, although she never did manage to discover his true identity.
Edgar's endeavours weren't always so self-serving, however. When he had finished the score for his first feature film, he'd used his speech—in addition to a video he'd assembled for the occasion—to drop countless barely subliminal messages about the legendary sexual prowess of his invited guest, Emeric.
It hadn't worked out quite as he later claimed he'd intended, but the raucous laughter enjoyed by everyone aside from Emeric had at least made for a memorable night.
Unfortunately, the results weren't always so agreeable. Over the years, work-related functions had become harbingers of disaster for Edgar. However, they were also amazing opportunities to advance his career, rub elbows with producers, and, ideally, rub up against some young starlets as well. These potential benefits made such events hard to resist, but Edgar's latent talent for making a scene came with some significant drawbacks as well. When, at just such a soiree, he'd been caught in the bathroom with the girlfriend of the head writer, Edgar had quickly surmised that his ambitious decision to attend was undermined by his inability to control his desires.
That project hadn't worked out.
No matter, Edgar had thought, it wasn't the right job anyway.
Edgar was a difficult man to keep down and so at the next work function, he'd decided to circumvent the risk and even the playing field by spiking the punch. Upon finding, much to his chagrin, that the Hollywood portrayal of a central punch bowl was less than accurate, Edgar had simply endeavoured to spike every available drink, soup, and condiment he could find. Inevitably, the entire affair fell apart under the drunken and despicable shenanigans that resulted.
Again, Edgar lost his job, but he remained certain everyone on the set would remember his name for the rest of their undoubtedly dull lives.
There was no question about it; be it a bar, a wedding, a convocation, or a simple night out, Edgar knew how to command attention.
"—fucker!" The boom of Edgar's scream echoed through the Golden Ballroom, the fairy-dance tinkling of the shot glass he hammered into the floor its only accompaniment. Then, both faded into a stony silence.
But the night hadn't started out so bleak for Edgar. As a matter of fact, he'd started his evening, as he did so very many others, with the best of intentions.
*****
"I'm here!" Edgar announced as he strode merrily through the foggy threshold into the warm embrace of the Golden Ballroom. He wondered as he walked if the depth of meaning he'd intended would be understood by the bustling crowd of friends and angels awaiting him.
Unlikely, he decided, but I've got time to clarify. That is why I'm here, after all.
If the ballroom was lavish the last time he'd visited, Edgar noticed immediately that the flare had been turned up an admittedly feeble notch.
The tall, vaulted walls of gold were adorned here and there with a rainbow of streamers, and floral arrangements littered the sparse tables. At equally spaced intervals along the dark wooden bar sat bowls—also gold—filled with shiny decorative balls of every colour, and in the upper corner of each wall there was a collection of bright balloons, somewhat deflated and limp. They hung listlessly, like flowers near to death.
Discordant music played softly; a menagerie of violins and horns all sputtering and yelping tunelessly as a fireplace full of cats.
Everyone in attendance was elegantly dressed as Edgar navigated through the tightly packed angels on his way to the bar in search of his friends. Unfortunately, the dress code extended to himself. To Edgar's extreme annoyance, his trusted leather coat was conspicuously absent, a fine black suit jacket filling its stead. Below it was an unadorned white collared shirt and a pair of dark, freshly pressed slacks.
No tie, Edgar noted with relief, at least there's no fucking tie.
Straightening the collar of his outfit with a quick jerk, he stretched out and smiled. He'd set out with the sole intent of making account of his past mistakes, hoping this gesture would render the remainder of his afterlife a little more pleasant. A bit less flare and more class would have helped. There was no trace of irony in his silent observation. But it'll do.
Since his trials in the Hall of Memories, Edgar felt charged with a reinvigorated sense of purpose. He'd learned a lot about himself from the experience and now felt like a new man: ready to make amends; work towards self-improvement; and, above all, to finally be the man he'd always told people he was beneath the distractions.
Tacky digs be damned, nothing will prevent me from setting things right, vowed Edgar. Running his fingers nervously along the neatly tailored sleeves of his suit jacket, he elbowed his way through the crowd.
"Nice setup, Eds." The sudden sound of Duncan's sarcastic voice sent a shudder of panic through Edgar's tired body, and he stood for a moment perplexed, worrying that his friend's disembodied voice had returned to plague him with homilies and platitudes even in his moment of triumph.
But that wasn't the case, and a sigh of relief broke from Edgar's dry lips when he located the source of the voice through the crowded environs of the Golden Ballroom.
It had been years since Edgar was so happy to see the sardonic smile of his suave compatriot. That Duncan stood in the welcome company of the rest of his inner circle—and next to a long line of shots laid out on the bar— was just the icing on the cake for the party Edgar had deigned to dream up this fine Saturday night.
"Nice tie, Duncan," Edgar's glib response fell flat under his obvious tone of contentment.
"Good to see you," he added earnestly. Tonight was all about appreciating the good things in life and, although Duncan was often a source of great frustration to Edgar, he knew he couldn't come to terms with his past without having his oldest friend at hand.
Emeric smiled, holding up his highball glass by way of welcome. Jake thrust his own beer out in an approximation of the gesture, sending a quick splash down to the floor as he forced a foamy belch.
"Hey Edgar, good to see you man." Alex spoke through purple lips as he held out his half-empty wine glass.
Duncan passed a fresh glass of brandy to Edgar, then took a sip from his own glass—scotch, Edgar reasoned. Duncan and Edgar shared a supreme distaste for partaking of the same drink as anyone in their company. "Ready and waiting for you, mon frère," said Duncan, but whether he was referring to the drinks or the company, Edgar couldn't be certain. "Heaven's got to have some perks, after all."
Edgar accepted the drink gratefully, a pensive expression spreading like a cloud over the sunlight of his newfound optimism. "I'm not so sure this is heaven brother, but let's not let that bog us down."
Raising his cup to meet the rest, Edgar noticed Jake leering eagerly at Emeric, an excited grin spreading across his broad face.
Jake never smiles at Emmy, he noted with a start. He realized his error a second later.
"But first thing's first, boys." Edgar didn't really expect he'd be sitting anytime soon, but with a gesture to the long line of shots waiting on the bar behind them, determined not to hang himself on the finer points of
tradition.
Emeric smiled with the unrestrained joy of a schoolboy who's just discovered a peephole between the locker rooms, "I told you he wouldn't forget. I win!" He spoke sidelong to Jake as he busily distributed shots from the near-limitless supply on the bar.
"I don't feel like I lost," Jake answered, staring hungrily at his fistfuls of booze. Alex giggled at this as he accepted his own shot.
"Well Edgar," said Duncan, and the circle of men held their shots up in anticipation, "to what do we drink tonight?"
Taking in the warm faces surrounding him, a faint flush crept into Edgar's cheeks. You know, he thought, this isn't too bad at all.
With friends aplenty and drinks for days, he could hardly help second-guessing his earlier declaration to Duncan. If this isn't heaven...
"This one...," Edgar declared, raising his shot in answer as he looked upon each friend in turn. Alex: the glassy-eyed man had always understood Edgar's artistic goals and rebellious streak better than anyone. Jake: the most pig-headedly loyal man Edgar had ever met. Emeric: easily the kindest person Edgar knew, he never failed to expect greater decency from Edgar than he usually received.
Finally, there was Duncan; his most honest and caring critic. Duncan's thriving law career kept him terribly busy these days, and as such, the rare times he and Edgar did get to hang out together had lost much of the old magic. It's as if he's compelled to condense all his ridiculous lectures and guilt- trips down into those infrequent doses, Edgar mused.
Still, he knew Duncan meant well, and that beneath the chastising, he'd never really stopped believing that Edgar would someday join him to rule the world together.
"This one is to all of you," Edgar finished affectionately.
The glasses were clinked, then tapped, and the shots neatly put back with a unified series of contented "ahh's."
The shot was sweet and smooth as it coursed down Edgar's throat.
"I've been through a lot since coming here. I feel like I've lived three lifetimes," Edgar declared as he set his empty shot glass down on the bar and switched his brandy back to his right hand. "It's really been eye-opening, as I suppose any afterlife worth its salt should be."
He took a long swallow of brandy, working to corner the frantic thoughts scurrying about his mind. Standing in silence, he turned his head, visually scouring the hall. Angels danced and drank, and the lusty eyes of all were constantly transfixed on him alone, as if awaiting only a nod to come flocking to his side.
Golden beads dangled down from the high ceilings, and rows of golden chalices were arranged above the bar. Golden specks littered the dark floor, but it wasn't gold Edgar was searching for.
Not a trace of silver, he observed, not really knowing why.
"I was in a strange place earlier. It was terrible and amazing. There were giant pillars and countless altars dedicated to my past. I looked back all through my life and saw long-forgotten moments just like I was there. It really hit me hard, guys.
"I realize I haven't always been the friend you've all deserved, and I intend to correct that." The inner circle listened intently as he spoke. "I'm here today with a newfound sense of peace. In truth, I really think I'm reaching a point where I can accept the past and be at rest. Once I resolve a few more issues, I'll finally be able to be the "me" I've always intended—the true, ideal Edgar!"
A sudden howl brought his attention sharply over to the right, where the familiar marble statue appeared to have been cleared out in favour of a gigantic, steaming abomination.
Its core was like a gargantuan golden keg, supported and manipulated by three long, screeching pistons. Its head—for lack of a better term—was a dead television set, with beams of yellow light playing off the smooth contours all around the red coals of its eyes.
A Golden Bull? That would be just as well suited to a china shop, Edgar thought with a derisive chuckle. He was a man who appreciated juxtaposition as well as any—and better than most—still, it struck him as an especially discouraging sign. "Bars with Bulls," after all, had become a catchphrase between Jake and himself, used to draw particular attention to the sort of women the pair might hope to find in them and the related talents that could be deduced therein.
Come on Edgar, no distractions, he silently encouraged himself. Just stay focused. You have a lot to accomplish here tonight and can't afford to get distracted by such trivial vices.
"Wheeeeee!" The squeal came again from the tiny figure wrapped around the contraption's bulk like the desperate grip of a terrified child. Tiffany's eyes rolled like a roulette wheel, and she yelped and wretched as the machine whipped her about like a ragdoll. Its frame emitted noxious jets of steam from wheezing joints as she clung to its long, sharp horns like her life depended on it.
The inner circle watched this sight in quiet, dumbfounded awe. Edgar gritted his teeth in silent rumination, a perturbed expression scarring his handsome visage. "As I was saying," he continued proudly, once he was certain he'd regained the attention of his friends, "you're about to witness the second coming of Edgar Vincent."
"Been there." The lurid voice in his ear belonged to Tyra, who ran her reptilian tongue suggestively over shining lips as her carmine form slid past him towards the bar.
Damn angels, Edgar thought moodily.
"Those are some uncharacteristically noble ambitions, Eds. It sounds like you've really grown," said Duncan.
Edgar bit his lip, allowing the memories to ferment. "Yeah Duncan, looking back over all my choices like that—it's a lot to take in. Especially now, knowing that it's all said and done, and nothing can be changed.
"I learned about my death too," he continued absently, "not all of it mind you, but I know now that I was alone when I died, and that I tried to turn around somehow...just before the end."
A crash behind them robbed the triumph from Edgar's gestating redemption tale. Turning with a frustrated huff, he saw a little white mess covered in yellow polka-dots sprawled beneath the now-vacant mechanical monstrosity. The gaggle of angels packed around began to slowly disperse. Several lingered, rambunctiously attending to Tiffany's bent and motionless body.
The golden bull settled back onto its stand with a great hiss, towering above the room as the last spurts of steam snaked out from its joints and dissipated up towards the vaulted ceiling.
Edgar rolled his eyes, and continued only after a long draw from his brandy cup. "That's what tonight is about. It's hard to believe a guy like me could have died alone, I know. But it's true. And hell, maybe I deserved it. But I want to make a change—I need to. It's time I make up for some of my past mistakes.
"I know I haven't always been honest with all of you." Edgar gazed over at Alex as he spoke, the dishonesty of their first encounters casting a deep shadow over his mood. "I always felt like a leader of sorts, as if it was my duty to create memories and provide inspiration to you sorry saps. I wanted to give you stories to tell your children later on or to reflect on when life inevitably grew familiar and tedious. But I know that in the process I've also kept myself from you. I've always maintained this enigmatic ideal of who I am and held you all at arm's length to protect that.
"It wasn't my intention—such things are never planned. But I am sorry, nonetheless." Edgar beamed as he finished and straightened his back, a great weight lifting from his shoulders.
"Hey, that's OK, man," said Alex soothingly. "We understood it was just sort of scary for you to be honest sometimes. We don't hold it against you, guy."
"While that is true, Edgar, and we have only ever wanted you to be your best self," said Duncan, a wicked grin percolating beneath his cool demeanour, "tradition does dictate that we cannot formally forgive you without proper penance."
Edgar's smile vanished like a pleasant fragrance met by a sudden gale. Duncan, you bastard, he cursed his snake of a friend, but knew he had no argument to make. "Shots of Contrition" were a strict ritual established long ago at Edgar's own insistence, when Emeric had once made the mistake of admitting his c
hoice of bar may have been less than ideal.
These fucks have never missed an opportunity to turn it on me ever since, Edgar fumed as he accepted a shooter of dark spirits from Duncan.
To a man, his friends watched with childish joy as he raised the glass and cleared his throat. Then, with a long sigh and exaggerated roll of his eyes, he fell seamlessly into the old routine. "For my thoughtless deceptions and misguided pretensions; my dishonesty, cowardice, and naive intentions, I do hereby supplicate myself." The shot was thick as he pounded it back, and its bitter flavour left his throat feeling hot and dry. He set the empty glass down on the bar and forced his mouth into his best approximation of a modest smile.
"That was real pretty, Edgar," Jake said between hoarse guffaws. The inner circle expressed their agreement with a tirade of cheerful laughter.
"It really is great to see such humility. I'm proud of you, Edgar," said Emeric.
"Oh f—" Edgar caught himself before reacting to Emeric. Shuddering as he recalled the callous and self-serving man he'd been shown in the Hall of Memories, he refocused with a quick swallow of brandy and continued with a smile.
"I know I've been a bit of a dick to you guys on occasion and you most of all, Emmy. I hope that's not how you remember me down there. When I look back on it now, I want to believe I was trying to make you stronger, to prepare you for the trials of life. It wasn't to be hurtful. Well, at least that wasn't the sole purpose. It wasn't right, I know, but it was always meant to have some kind of meaning."
Emeric pushed at his glasses, an uncertain expression on his freckled face. "Well, Edgar, it may have had meaning to you, but it did still get under the skin sometimes."
"It seems meaning and malignancy tread a fine line these days." Edgar frowned. "Nevertheless, I mean it—you're a great group of friends, and I'm deeply sorry I've been so shitty to all of you."
Edgar was on a roll and had rarely felt so proud of himself. His first threesome, his first completed score, and the one time he'd managed to not only bed a well-known model, but also make a stalker of her—were the only competing occasions that sprang to mind.