Hector's Record Collection
by Fred Osuna
Hector Gonzalez, feared by the neighborhood youth, lives in his family's garage and hangs black lights on the big door, forcing us to sneak in from the side. We rifle through his records: Zappa, Santana, Hendrix. I steal one I know he won't miss. When he names me the perp, my sister gets up in his face, defensive. Hector swings a roller skate, grazing her scalp. Soon after, Mr. Gonzalez begins parking his Plymouth in the garage and Hector vanishes. Forty years pass. Hector fatally overdoses. Memorially, I spin his Watergate Comedy Hour LP, laugh, stop, look over my shoulder.
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Author's Note
"Hector's Record Collection" was submitted to 100 Word Story in a different form than that posted here. At an editor's request, I revised the ending (while also polishing up the rest, to improve the flow and stay on the '100 words exactly' mark). The editors, however, inexplicably ran with the original version (shown here: http://tinyurl.com/3zsk4ko). The revised version - which I prefer - is what you currently see before you.
Definitely prefer this version. *
Hear, here.
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The shift to present tense is the right move, Fred. Memory as it moves with us now. Great piece. And the closing look of the shoulder - a strong way to end - keeps the imagery, like the spinning lp, moving.