Hector's Demise

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

1
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

2
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

3
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

4
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

5
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

6
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..."

7
 "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.

8
 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!

Hector cooked a dinner sufficient for a full

homeless shelter, in quality and quantity. Amelia was
flabbergasted and happy. She ate till... the beer lasted.

The Guardian Angel looked at the loaded table with

unveiled disgust.

9
 "Are you nuts? You want to kill yourself. What is the
matter with you? Honest... sometimes I feel useless, rather
quit than worry about your guys... I had less problems with
Evel Knevel..."

"Trust me! It is for a worthy cause. Now bugger off!"

He barked at the worried Angel.

Hector released his belt and unbuttoned his pants.

Amelia misread the intention and loudly objected.

"Are you kidding, you want it now? I can hardly

move."

"Don't be stupid. I just want to make room."

The night was long and painful, with no Bromo or

Alka-Seltzer in the house. One, long nightmare
tormented Hector throughout the night. A huge studio
was full of gay painters smearing enormous canvases
with excrement... and he, Hector came late. As he stood
helplessly at the door he listened to the tirades of Master
Dogface who kept repeating... No advances! No
advances!

It was horrifying!

He woke up with a pounding headache, kind of a

hangover, tired and lethargic. He was almost ready to
give up on his "great" idea, but he felt it might, just
might result in renewed interest in his wilting reputation
as a "sellable" artist. After all, there were times when any

10
of his small canvases fetched as much as fifteen hundred
dollars. He used to be the toast of the local critics.

He ransacked his studio, actually, a glassed in

back porch -- but he found no canvas, no stretch frame
not even a good-sized amazonite board to paint on.

He was urgently called to the bathroom and while

sitting on the can, his eyes got fixed on the bathroom
door... well, -- he thought it would do. He unhooked it
and placed it on the easel, decided to leave the knob on,
and since he had no clue what he will paint except with
WHAT, he called the piece: La Porta Numero Uno. Why
Italian? No reason, other than it sounded good.

By the time Amelia woke up, he was furiously

working on his masterpiece. He was really on a roll, with
a wide palette knife, he mixed the brownish substance
with water based paint -- he was surprised by the
bleakness of the "material," so in order to achieve some
impact he cheated by adding some color. The stench was
unbearable. He opened all the windows, the cold
December wind blew across the house, he was shivering
but whistling happily as usual when felt the surge of
adrenaline. These were the happy times when not even
Rosalinda was bothering him with her constant erotic
demands.

"What the hell is this?" - Amelia screamed as she

emerged from the bedroom. - "The sewage backed up?"

Hector gave her a short lecture about the new

media and promised her a new era of success, fame and
of course, money.

11
 "You are a genius, Hecie!" and she wrapped her
warm body around the shivering artist.

"You know what?" -She whispered in his ear. "I

want to contribute. That will be our ultimate oneness, an
everlasting bond."

The La Porta Numero Uno was completed and the

sex was fantastic that night. Better than ever. Wild, loud
and very physical...

The Guardian Angel flipped Amelia's breast aside and

pulled Hector's head free.

"Take a breath, you idiot you'll suffocate."

"Leave me alone, cant you see I'm busy"

...and he exploded in an earth shattering orgasm

in perfect unison with the Bitch. (An apology for the cliché.
The Author.)

Rosalinda sighed with resignation.

As the masterpiece dried sufficiently, Hector

delivered it to The Gallery with great expectation. Much
to his surprise though, Dogface howled with

12
uncontrollable exasperation. He called Hector
everything in his vocabulary under the label of "loser".
The "great" idea crashed right out of the back door into
the dumpster. Bruno kicked him out of his office
swearing that all his remaining "junk", he called his
works "junk" -- will be burned in hell with Hector
included. His boys were standing at the front door
holding their noses pinched and applauding their Boss
as the humiliated Hector left The Gallery. They sprayed
Garden Magic air freshener (Mountain Potpourri) all
over the Gallery. Repeatedly.

The snow was falling, gently, ceremoniously on

the city, creating an early Christmas ambiance. On the
corner a shabby looking Santa was ringing his dull
sounding bell over the Salvation Army kettle. People
were going briskly about their business, elegant women
and self-assured men spending their hard earned money
in the fashionable district. Bored chauffeurs were
reading the morning papers in their idling limos, waiting
for their bosses, all, the whole world as a matter of fact
was profoundly ignorant of the big happening, that
Hector AAmazing's artistic career came to a crushing
end.

On the bridge, over the ravine the traffic was

light...

Hector glanced over his shoulder, checking if Igor

followed him with the limousine, he did, - turning to
Rosalinda he said:

"Lets fly to the Riviera"

13
 *

The touch of the freezing cold steel railing

brought him back for a moment. He looked down to the
ravine below, the snow barely covered the top of the
evergreens. A couple of seagulls were circling over the
tiny pond, with stretched out motionless wings, up and
down in graceful silence. What an unmatched beauty --
he thought, regretting the fact that he never been able to
carry this calming sense of peace and tranquility to a
canvas...

"Hector, you are finished!" - Rosalinda hissed at him

with unprecedented cruelty in her voice. - "We are finished!
You are a pathetic loser, skinny and ugly, and you stink!!!"

Hector wondered, how high was this bridge over

the trail below? Sixty, eighty feet?

The limo pulled up to the sidewalk and Rosalinda slid

into the front seat, not the back but the front and in unison
with Igor, a loathsome scowl on their faces they gave him the
finger. Through the sunroof the moneybag flew into the air
landing at Hector's feet on the sidewalk. It was cut open.
Empty... The obnoxious, big bank logo stained the fresh, white
snow with crimson red. The black limo with the black lover
drove off toward the other end of the bridge... as Rosalinda's
scream echoed over the ravine:

14
 "Jump, you stinking plagiarizer... I dare you. Jump!"

Hector was surprised how easy is it was to leap

over the railing -- "...somebody should do something
about it. It is much to low..."

- and the shocking realization: "Now this was

really stupid!" - The thought flashed through his mind.
For a while it seemed that the whole world came to a
halt. Frozen in a motionless eternity for a split second.
He wanted to scream to the seagulls...

"Please... Hurry! Teach me how to fly! To fly home

to Amelia..."

One of the birds, almost like if she wanted to help,

escorted Hector half way down... and then with a
frightened screech she rose above the bridge. The last
image Hector saw was...

...The Guardian Angel leaning over the railing

"OOPS! he sighed and shrugged his shoulder..."Well,

what the heck! You win some, you loose some."

A headline in the afternoon tabloid:

STARVING ARTIST LEAPS TO HIS DEATH

15
 Dogface stared to the paper and with a mad dash,
raced out to the back. Just in time, a garbage truck was
halfway into the back lane when Bruno pulled La Porta
Numero Uno out of the dumpster.

Before even the rigor mortis fully set in to stiffen

the hand that created it, the bathroom door a.k.a.
Masterpiece, graced the window of The Gallery, with a
gold lettered sign:

The Door No:6

by

Hector AAmazing

1950-1998

and of course a discrete price tag: $25,000.00

(Yes. No.6. Just in case there will be a market for

more.)

"Shell I spray it...? The boy asked Bruno with a

painful sneer on his pretty face.

"For heaven's sake no! Let it stink."

16