War memorial outside Atlanta, Georgia. 2009.
SHORT STORY. 1800 WORDS. FIRST DRAFTED: DECEMBER, 1997.
ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN FOLIATE OAK (US) DECEMBER 6, 2018.
Most people on scene find the song irritating under the best of circumstances. Those who like it are ashamed to catch themselves foot-tapping to the rhythm, in such close proximity to a cadaver.
Thursday Nights With Edgar
Edgar Mekarski’s flagrant disregard for hygiene and personal appearance unnerves everyone. Wrinkled and spotted with age, overweight with a fat, bulbous neck, basketball-shaped belly and sagging jowls, he is cursed with a severe stoop and a disconcerting habit of scratching himself in public. His tattered, tormented clothing is brown and grey, as though improperly laundered. The smell of sour milk clings to him, intermingling with chronic halitosis and body funk.
Thick, jet black hair grows from his ears but the unwashed, uncombed hair on his head is sparse, grey and lifeless. He has dandruff, too. A visible powdering is a permanent fixture on his threadbare overcoat. Calling it “Pixie Dust” fools no one. Strangers uneasily stand next to him in elevators or at cross walks.
His right hand is the most troubling. Two decades ago, he severed three fingers in an accident at his auto repair shop. Reddish-purple scar tissue covers much of his shattered palm and looks like it might start bleeding any moment. It never occurs to him to hide his mutilated hand. Shop clerks cringe as he takes money from his wallet, bank tellers look away when he fumbles with a pen and no one wants to shake hands with him – but Edgar is oblivious to their discomfort.
At seventy-three, Edgar has few pleasures in life. A simple man on a fixed income, he lives in a gritty, ground-floor apartment with an ant problem, peeling beige paint, and urine-coloured water stains on the bathroom ceiling. He’s owned the same brown behemoth of a car since before the oil crisis and remembers having all ten fingers on the shiny black steering wheel.
Thursday nights are Edgar’s only social outings. That’s when he and “the boys” – Abe, Al and Tommy, his partners from the auto shop which closed a decade earlier – descend on the Stately Raven, a warm and friendly but dingy little tavern. They come out of habit, keep to themselves, tell dirty jokes and feel younger talking about the old days.
Unfortunately, the Stately Raven is half an hour south on a crumbling, two-lane highway. Edgar refuses to drive if there’s the slightest hint of winter in the air – which is from the time all leaves are on the ground until crocuses bloom on the grassy hill in the park across the street. This means he misses up to five consecutive months of Thursday nights, each year. His buddies live closer to the pub. Edgar considered moving to the tall, grey apartment building nearby but the threat of change overwhelms him.
In mid-October, before half the leaves have fallen, a freak storm dumps ten centimetres of the white stuff. Edgar feels cheated. Late the next evening he walks through the park, kicking at snowdrifts. Hanging like a lightbulb in the dark sky, the full moon diverts his attention until he notices his moon-shadow, crisp and steely-blue against glistening snow. It is the brightest night Edgar can remember.
The glowing terrain is blotched with dark, brittle leaves, lying on the powdery surface like spilled gravy on a white table cloth. Edgar fancies sweeping them away with a whisk broom as though the snowy ground is pearly linoleum.
In the morning, temperatures climb above freezing and fallen leaves dampen with melting snow. Dark patches in a sea of white, they absorb the sun’s rays and sink deep into the ivory carpet, hungrily consuming fragile flakes below.
When Edgar walks to the post office that afternoon, he notices countless pockmarks in the wintry landscape. People saunter along without gloves. He loosens his scarf. It is still autumn, Edgar reminds himself. Looking toward proud maples for confirmation, he sees many red and yellow leaves clinging heroically to lower branches. In three days it will be Thursday. Maybe another trip to the Raven is in order.
The next morning is warmer and wide patches of grass appear. All day, sunshine beats down as leaves gently fall. At noon, the ground shows more green than white and, by three o’clock, a thin, bluish-grey layer of snow remains only in shaded, low-lying areas.
On Thursday afternoon, Edgar takes another walk in the park, bathed in warm, reassuring sunlight. Standing on the path, atop a small hill, he slowly inhales, detecting notes of wet earth with a hint of decay. Approaching strangers see a crazy old man, lost and hyper-ventilating, scratching himself below the waist. Most choose another route. Holding his sour breath, a smile creeps across Edgar’s weathered face. The decision is made: he will drive to the Raven that evening.
Smug and satisfied, Edgar arrives early and nurses a cold beer. The crowded bar is loud and dark. None of the stools match. Edgar sits alone, staring at scuff marks on the floor. Half an hour later, Al sneaks up behind him. “Ed, you crazy ol’ fart.” He greets him with a slap on the shoulder – even Edgar’s friends won’t shake his hand. “Didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Couldn’t let you boys drink alone.” Edgar’s spirits soar.
Al orders a beer. Seeing Edgar’s is nearly empty, he tells the bartender, “Make that two.”
“There’s a good lad,” the older man gushes.
“Don’t mention it. But say, ain’t ya worried ‘bout the comin’ storm?”
“Storm?! What bloody storm? It ended days ago.” His jovial mood tapers. Worry sinks in. “You’re joking.”
“No joke. There’s another blizzard comin,’ just like the one kicked up last week.”
“But . . . but winter’s a helluva long way off. Leaves are still on the trees, for Christ’s sake! That last storm was a fluke . . . a freak.”
“One freak storm, another freak storm. This is a freaky season.”
The bartender slaps two beers on the counter. Al takes one. Edgar stares at the other. Thin traces of mist seep from the narrow spout. No longer wanting to talk or drink, getting home is his only concern. “It can’t snow tonight,” he protests. “It’s Thursday.”
“It’s snowin’ already, Ed. Take a look.” Al points to Abe and Tommy who have just entered. Illuminated by neon beer signs, they weave through the crowd, brushing dime-sized flakes of snow from their overcoats. “That ain’t Pixie Dust, my friend.”
Edgar’s heart pounds. Right hand to his chest, he wipes cold, dry skin on the back of his neck with the other. He turns to see the bottle waiting for him, condensation forming on the label.
When Tommy and Abe pat Edgar on the shoulder, his greetings are gruff and muttered. Eyes fixed on the brown bottle, he fidgets while the others talk. He is morose and his friends know why.
“Maybe you should head home,” Tommy suggests, “before it gets worse.”
Edgar yearns to heed that advice but departing seems cowardly. Leaving an unfinished beer troubles him, too – it’s rude and wasteful. Nonetheless, he drinks faster than usual.
Abe sees Edgar’s hands shake. “Relax, Ed, I can put you up for the night. My son’ll drive ya home in the morning. Forget the weather, we’re here to have fun.”
“I am having fun, damn it,” Edgar claims. To confirm, he takes a long swig from his beer and nearly chokes. One drop spills down his chin. He smears it with the back of his ravaged hand, which he wipes on his pants.
Though tempted by Abe’s offer, Edgar hasn’t slept in any bed except his own in decades. The strangeness overwhelms him.
After his final sip, Edgar pushes away the empty bottle.
“Can we at least call ya a cab?” Al asks.
Hands trembling as he buttons up, Edgar insists, “I’m fine to drive with a few flakes in the sky,” but his refusal is based on cost, not weather. He also wouldn’t know how to retrieve his vehicle in the morning, when the roads will be buried in snow.
Stepping outside, Edgar shudders at a thin blanket of whiteness. Cursing, he unlocks his car, gets in and revs the engine. Falling flakes become magnified in the beam of his headlights.
Before shifting into gear, he takes three deep breaths and is soon heading north along the highway. Edgar’s foot is heavy on the pedal, windshield wipers at maximum speed, defrosters on high. His surviving knuckles are white as they grip the aging steering wheel.
Heart thumping, he switches on the radio, hoping it will calm him. It doesn’t. Tuned to a station playing hits from the fifties and sixties, the speakers suddenly roar. Christ, not that, Edgar thinks. He reaches for the dial as a horn suddenly blares from a yellow cube van headed south.
Edgar jerks the wheel. When his old Pontiac begins to swerve on the snowy highway, he tries steering out of it but fishtails in the opposite direction. Then he slams his brakes and the car spins. Staying on the road, he comes to a halt, blocking both lanes of traffic. A second southbound vehicle tries to stop but rams the passenger side of Edgar’s sedan, shattering two windows.
Following the crash, the southbound driver remains buckled, too shocked to move. Looking straight ahead, he watches Edgar’s body convulse before it slumps over the wheel.
A brave soul emerges from one of six cars stopped on the highway and runs to Edgar’s aid. After laying him on the cold, wet road, he forces breath into his putrid mouth and pumps his blubbery chest. More cars arrive and others come to assist but see it’s useless. Many drift back to their vehicles for warmth while a small crowd stares, awestruck, as a stranger wrestles a gruesome corpse.
Once motorists adapt to the tragic situation, they become aware of indecently inappropriate music. Through smashed-out windows, Edgar’s radio roars like an abandoned child. The Lion Sleeps Tonight, by the Tokens. A high-pitched whine is followed by endless chanting. Repetitive lyrics transport everyone deep into the mighty jungle.
The man performing CPR notices his chest compressions are synchronized with the melody. He shudders, leans over and vomits onto the wet roadway. Sensing hopelessness, he takes Edgar’s right hand to check his pulse but throws away the mutilated claw in favour of the other.
Edgar dies as the Tokens wail happily. Their piercing falsettos penetrate the frigid night and mock the tragedy. Most people on scene find the song irritating under the best of circumstances. Those who like it are ashamed to catch themselves foot-tapping to the rhythm, in such close proximity to a cadaver.
Eventually, the station cuts to a commercial but this offers no relief as the song effortlessly slips from the airwaves to the audio replay mechanism of their brains, where it remains long after police arrive and the road is cleared.
In death, Edgar Mekarski continues to unnerve people. His grim memory lingers like an unshakable song. As long as the witnesses live, the slightest provocation of sound or image recalls that macabre night and the high falsetto of those familiar, prophetic words urging them to hush and not fear.
Courtland Avenue 