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HECTOR'S DEMISE
Page 1 of 2
By Steven Kas
Hector AAmazing walked with measured steps along Maple Street. His frail and slender figure threaded the streets and avenues with comfortable familiarity. He projected a confident, carefree stance, although he had aplenty to worry about. Things weren't going as well as they should in his life and it had started to affect his work. He hadn't produced a sellable canvas in months. The Gallery that handled his paintings refused to give him any more advances. Six pieces were hanging in the back room for ages with no buyers. Two works were out on lease for a measly sixty dollars a month in some lawyer's office downtown, but he gets only forty percent of the money. Dogface Bruno the gallery owner takes the rest and he doesn't even want to talk to him anymore. He had tried all the gimmicks, nothing seemed to work. The market was saturated with abstracts. Now they want realism! Gentle watercolors. Postcards. Landscape. Hell knows what happened to the art world? He can't, he won't do any of those things. After all he is a genuine artist!
Hector glanced over his shoulder to see if the limousine was following him and acknowledged Igor the driver's hand signal that, yes indeed he kept him in sight. He liked to walk home after a busy day in the office, he needed the exercise to clear his head.
"I think I did the right thing - he mumbled to himself - transferring five million to the private account in Zurich, after all it is my money! It will come in handy if I have to take off and leave this rotten city behind. Rosalinda needs pampering, lavish gifts and luxury" - well he sighed - "Super models are expensive, but they are worth it."
His Guardian Angel was sitting on the top of the telephone booth picking chewing gum out of his wing feathers. He was wearing his usual white garb, smoking a Cuban cigar. Their eyes met and Hector winked giving him a thumbs-up.
"Watch out Hector!" - The Guardian Angel cried with a screeching voice, it sounded if he had bronchitis -- "Doggy- doo, twelve o'clock!"
OOPS, Hector side stepped the fresh, steaming pile and cursed. He loved dogs, but he despised the ignorant pet owners who left the shit behind and jeopardized the reputation of the canine population.
"Nice variety of browns though..." - He wondered about it later.
"Marbled softly, mixed with earthy yellows, the kind of ochre found only on old masters' canvases. "I have to try to mix that warm tone some time..." He concluded and gave himself a pat on the back for being such an ardent observer.
And then... Right in the middle of Maple Street, the life saving, fantastic idea struck him. That's it! Suddenly he remembered, Amelia had told him something about it that was on TV, a couple of Englishmen created huge abstracts with their own excrement. He knew about an Italian artist who died recently -- Piero Manzoni, who canned his own product in tuna cans for posterity, but painting with it? Whoa. That should knock Dogface off his rockers. He wondered for a while what it would be like, brush or palette knife, how long does it take to dry, would it crack? He might even mix some Elmer's glue to bond, he concluded. Yes definitely! This was the answer, the ultimate insult to the public and the art critics.
No pun intended but looking back on the pile of feces he suddenly remembered.
"Shit, I forget to buy some beer for Amelia" -- and he abruptly turned around. He had only a little over twelve dollars in his pocket, no advance from the Dogface and the welfare cheque was at least two weeks in the future. So he decided to buy a six-pack only and save a few bucks for emergencies. He was anticipating some angry response from the Bitch, as he sometimes referred to his partner-in-misery. Six cans wouldn't last for long, he sighed.
Rosalinda doesn't drink beer, she is a classy dame, Dom Perigon or nothing. And Diet Coke of course. She is slender, tall and black. Not black black like an African Black, more like Oprah.
Some times she is white, but mostly black. She was sitting now in the back seat of the limo, nibbling on Belgian chocolate and fresh strawberries, well-known aphrodisiacs, to enhance her libido. Hector in all his adult life had dreamed about having a black lover... Specially since he sacked up with Amelia who was white as snow. All red heads were...
He entered the beer store and the clerk greeted him with a loud hello. He didn't like him. Hector always had the notion that the young man was hitting on him. He always touched his hand while he gave him his change. It was no use putting the money on the counter, Hector tried a number of times and the kid always held the change in the air until Hector finally reached for it. And Bingo. The touch. Sweaty, lukewarm touch. He thought he was gay. Nothing for certain, just a gut feeling. He didn't like gays. Dogface Bruno was gay. The whole gallery gang is gay. Without being paranoid, he often insisted -- that was the only reason his paintings weren't selling, because he was an outsider...
The Guardian Angel kissed the clerk on the forehead and he promised to look after him too.
"Holy shit!" - Hector covered his eyes. - "He is one of them."
Hector grabbed the six-pack and left the store on a hurry. A cop was sitting in a cruiser across the street, looking at him with suspicion. In that neighborhood somebody exiting the beer store in a hurry, considered a suspect of some sort, so Hector slowed his pace and waved to the officer with a timid smile. Brown bag in hand, with a who-cares-what-you-think expression on his face Hector headed for home.
...And there it was. Next to the storm drain, half covered with dry leaves and other debris, a moneybag. For twenty years, Hector walked on the outside of the sidewalk, eyes scanning the curbside casually. He knew, one day a moneybag will fall off of a Loomis truck, waiting for him to find it. And this is the day. Hallelujah. He looked back and was relieved to see the cop had gone. He casually picked up the bag... At least a hundred thousand dollars, he estimated by its weight, the logo of the bank was so visible... obnoxious, crimson red and big... He hid it under his coat. He wondered, how he will open it... Having such a massive, tempered padlock on it. I have to get a hacksaw... Will see. The main thing was to get it home. He briskly walked into the lane, to avoid the envious glare of the passerby, pressing the moneybag to his chest. His hearth was pounding like an over heated locomotive.
"My trouble is over, Dogface Bruno can kiss my ass." He murmured to himself.
By the time he reached his house, darkness fell on the city. The streetlight came on, flickering for a little while before it started to glow. A couple of kids were playing street hockey on the road. The owner of the rooming house across the street was putting up a string of Christmas lights over the rusty eaves trough... They exchanged a silent greeting as Hector nonchalantly, swinging the six-pack, entered the side door of the old house. The smell of turpentine and stale cold pizza hit him in the face: Home. Sweet home.
The Bitch otherwise known as Amelia Perfect was sitting on the sofa, in front of the TV, munching on Cheezes. A Jerry Springer rerun was on.
"Beer?" - She cried out, not even looking up from the enchanting socio-cultural spectacle.
Hector peeled one can off the plastic ring and gave it to her. Amelia popped the can open. Like a shop vacuum sucking up the spilled dishwater, she drew the contents of the can down her throat. Burped. She crushed the can in her palm and said with a sexy deep voice.
"Thanks sweetheart, it was goood!"
"Go easy, I had money for only six cans." - And he threw himself on the couch.
Amelia was a poet. A fat poet. A lazy, fat poet. A lazy, fat poet with a writer's block. A ten years long writer's block, who loved beer, trash TV and Hector AAmazing.
Ten years ago, young and naive, and as fresh and innocent as an unspoiled farm girl can be from Saskatchewan she entered the Canadian literary world as the most promising new poet. Her collection of primitive verse was published by an obscure publishing house in Moose Jaw, 'Moose Press' and won a distinguished award. The Cultural Council eagerly threw her a five thousand dollar grant to cough up another collection of virgin prairie wisdom. Well, that was ten years ago, she had moved to the big city, met Hector and fell in love. She quickly lost her virginity and the five grand. Poetry? It is still in her, she insists, and eventually will emerge... soon as she finds her new distinctive voice and urban identity. For some reason she cut herself loose from her past, except from the occasional monetary transaction originated by the proud parents. She avoided all contact with the life on the distant family farm. Patience everybody, she will come back... and in the mean time she is watches TV and gets fat. Big and comfortable like a security blanket... Hector often times muses about her dimensions.
Rosalinda didn't like her at all, she thinks Amelia was common and unsophisticated. Loud and conventional in lovemaking, in short Hector deserved better. Rosalinda always tries to distract Hector from making intimate contacts with her, like now... She was sitting on the top of the TV, legs slightly apart and since she never ever wears underwear, her abundant, black pubic hair cries out for attention. Hector covers his eyes and whispers:
"Darling, later. You are making me crazy. Please cover up the gates of heaven."
"Move away from her." - Rosalinda murmured with her seductive French accent. - Come here, my lion, my Michelangelo... The night is young... My yacht is waiting in the harbor... Take me... Take me... Take..."
"Hector... Sweetheart... You are not paying attention to me again."
"Sorry Pumpkin..." - Hector pacified the girl. "You know my mind is sometimes overloaded with problems. Go ahead, what you were saying?"
"I said, you didn't fix my typewriter. It's stuck, the shift doesn't work. All I've got is the lower case. But listen to me. I think I've got a fantastic idea. What if? What if I write everything in lower case. I tried and it looks pretty cool. What do you say?"
"You stupid ass! Have you never heard of Bill Bucket?"
"Who is he?"
"bill bucket, great Canadian poet, who has written everything in lower case, even his own name. He was, like you a darling of the Cultural Council"
"Don't bark at me Sweetheart, you know I don't read. I write!!!"
"Yap, I'm telling you. The idea is taken. Done with."
Hector remembered his own "great" idea. That is different he decided. He didn't tell Amelia about it, but in preparation for the days to come, he soon withdrew into the kitchen and took inventory of the foodstuff left available at this late date of the month to be converted into usable art supplies.
He came up with volume rather than quality. A few pounds of potatoes, a package of linguini, five frozen wieners, some ice cream so old it was crystallized, a couple of cans of creamed corn, one can of spinach, peanut butter, orange marmalade (white mold on the top), cocoa powder, a couple of onions, a pack of hamburger helper and a half a box of Shake-and-Bake. Bread, a quart of milk and a couple of slices of cold pizza since who knows when. It will do, he thought and he got to work.
"Rosalinda, please get off the stove. Why do you always have to sit on the stove?"
"I like to keep myself hot for you Dahling."
"Cut it out. Shuh, shuh..."
Rosalinda swiftly kicked Hector in the groin and walked through the wall. Talking about classy ladies? Ouch!
Conclusion on page 2
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