POOR MAYNARD
     Maynard awoke to see the Mona Lisa leaning against the north
wall of his bedroom.  He hit the snooze on his alarm and went back
to sleep.  Fifteen minutes later he rolled out of bed and walked
over to examine the painting.  He also turned on the tv to catch
the morning news.
    "...Louvre spokesmen have confirmed that the Mona Lisa, the
single most valuable--"  He quickly turned it off, dressed, and
headed into work.  
     "Hey Maynard," said Maggie, the plump, cheery receptionist,
"didja hear?  The Mona Lisa was stolen.  Maynard?  Maynard??  You
okay?  You don't look so good."
     "I--I--tell Kaplan I went home sick, okay?"
     "Sure, Mayn.  Whatever."
     On the street, "Extra, Extra.  Mona Lisa disappears from
Louvre.  Police baffled."
     Maynard, shaken, double-bolted and chained the door to his
West Philadelphia apartment.  He went straight to his bedroom and
propped a chair up under the doorknob.  He walked over and examined
the painting, talking to himself.
     "Yup, it's the real deal all right.  I'm rich.  I'm rich!  No,
don't be an idiot.  You can't fence the Mona Lisa.  You've got to
turn it in.  I'm a hero.  I'm a hero!  No, damn.  I'll be arrested,
laughed at."  Maynard turned on a lamp on a nighttable.  He looked
at it fondly, recalling the teasing game from his childhood:      
 "It's the strain of the lamp pushes Maynard to the brink...to the
brink...TO THE BRINK!"  Maynard smiled at the private memory then
gave more thought to the painting.  He lifted it.  "Damn, it's
heavy.  Must be the frame."  He looked at the figure in the
painting for a full five minutes, then kissed her, full on the
lips.  He masturbated, then found some nails and hung the painting
on his wall.  "There," he said.  "You're mine now.  Mine forever." 
He lay down and dozed off.  When he awakened he found Botticelli's
Venus leaning up where the Mona Lisa had leaned only hours earlier.

He turned on the tv.
     "--Special Report.  Peter Jennings in Italy.  I'm here at the
ufizzi where, like the Mona Lisa yesterday, Botticelli's Venus has
mysteriously--"
     Maynard walked to his kitchen, made himself a bowl of Cocoa
Puffs, ate it quickly, then returned to his room.  He studied the
Venus.  "A little plump," he said to himself, "kinda reminds me of
Maggie."  He kissed the Venus right below her navel and hung her on
the south wall, opposite the Mona Lisa.  His head was spinning and
he was sweating profusely.  "My God my God my God.  I understand. 
I am fat.  I am ugly.  I have no friends.  You have given me the
best friends I could ever hope for.  Thank you.  Thank you."      
A voice boomed through his room.  "Do not disappoint me, Maynard. 
Do NOT!"
     "I won't, I won't.  But more.  Give me more.  Please.  More. 
All my life I've been so lonely.  Please...more..."  He passed out.

When he awoke, Michelangelo's David and the Venus de Milo were
beside his bed.  
     "Oh thank you thank you."  He kissed and fondled both statues,
giggling girlishly as his hand smoothed over their naughty bits.  
   He called in to work.  "Maggie?"
     "Yes, Maynard?"
     "Remember how I always joked about you and me going out
together one night?"
     "Are you all right, Maynard?"
     "Yes.  Yes.  I'm fine.  Fine.  How about tonight?"
     So it was a date.  They went to Ralph's, in South Philly.    
 "Get whatever you like, Mags.  Sky's the limit."
     They started with some gnocchi verdi, then some pasta and
calamari, and numerous bottles of Chianti.  They left, arm in arm,
stuffed and high.
     "Are we going back to your place, Mayn?"  She leaned her head
on his ample shoulder as they walked.
     "Taxi!  Yup"
     "What's gotten into you, Mayn?  You've never been this bold. 
I like it.  A lot."  
     "I've got a big surprise for you, Mags," he said as he let her
into the taxi.  As the taxi pulled onto South Street and headed
west, Maynard pulled Maggie to him and kissed her until she thought
she was Vivian Leigh.
     "Oh Maynard.  Oh Maynard.  Oh."
     He paid the taxi driver and they walked into his grubby
apartment.  "Close your eyes, Mag.  Here comes your surprise..."  
   He led her into his bedroom and closed the door.
     The room was pitch black.
     "Open your eyes, Mag."
     She did and he flipped up the light switch.
     All the paintings and statues were gone.  
     There on the ceiling, over Maynard's bed, was plastered Edward
Munch's The Scream.
     Poor Maynard.

                          CHANGES
     Things are changing for Maynard.  Little things.  When he is
at a convenience store and the bill comes to some amount like 76
cents, Maynard is aware that there is something he *should* do,
something that will enable him to get back a quarter, but he has no
idea *what*.  He fumbles through his red squeezey changepurse and
gives the boy three extra pennies with his dollar, hoping that he
might luck into the correct amount.  The boy gives him back two of
his own pennies and then the big shiny quarter that is his prize. 
Maynard is left with only a vague awareness that he has done
something incorrectly.  A faint residue of thought, that is all. 
Little things.  If the light is on in the bathroom, Maynard will
turn it off as he enters, pee, then turn it on as he leaves.  Never
once during the day does he catch his mistake and reverse the
cycle.  Again that faint residue.  Little things.  Mis-matched
socks, unkept appointments, dizziness.  Maynard is changing and he
doesn't even know it.


         HIS ORANGE JUICE IS WAY PAST THE EXPIRATION DATE
     First, things start to blend together for him.  He is in the
video store, staring intently at a videotape with a picture of a
tornado on the cover.
     "Look at her," he says,  "She is so beautiful."
     "The video is 'The Story of Creation':  music videos by bands
on the Creation label--Primal Scream, for example.
     "Maynard," says the owner's daughter, who works in the store
after school, "that's a tornado, not a woman."
     "No, look."  He shows the box to her.  She is a fresh-faced
red-haired girl, a student at the High School for the Arts.  She is
a painter.
     "I'm looking, Mayn."
     He traces his finger along the inner edge of the tornado and
the countryside shown on the box.  "There's the face, the legs, the
thighs, the oh my."
     "That's the roof of a house!"  She holds the box at arm's
length.  "But you know, Maynard, if I let my eyes blur I kinda
sorta kinda see a picture formi--but no--It's clearly a tornado." 
    "Nope.  Don't see it."
     "Get some rest, Maynard."
     As Maynard exits the store, an enormous Burmese women enters. 
The two of them won't fit in the doorway at the same time, and
Maynard turns sideways and tries to suck in his ample gut.  As the
woman does the same, Maynard suddenly extends both arms as if about
to tango with some non-corporeal being.  His movements are
preternaturally lithe and graceful for such a fat man and he never
alters his gaze from her face.  The fat Burmese woman screams.    
 "I'm sorry, Ma'am," he says.  "For some reason, as you were
turning sideways just now, I got the distinct impression that we
were about to dance."
     "I am a married woman."
     "Iman is a harried cumin."
     She screams again.
     "I'm sorry.  I thought we were about to take turns."
     Later, Maynard gets bits of trivia wrong.  Out with a woman
onw night he says to her, "Did you know that at the time of
Woodstock it was the single largest city in New York state?  Makes
you think, eh?"
     "Yo're an idiot, aren't you?"
     "More people are killed each year in accidents on twisty rides
at amusement parks than die of prostate cancer."
     "You're an ass, Maynard."


                             ODD
     That's odd, thought Maynard as he walked by a trash can on the
street, Why would *anyone* throw away a perfectly good egg timer? 
    He reached into the trash can and pulled out the timer, still
in its original plastic bag, the cardboard at the top still intact,
still stapled closed.  He saw the price tag.  $4.98.  This is a
good find, a very good find.
     Maynard pocketed the timer and headed for home, anxious to try
it out.  Along the way he thought of all the things he'd be able to
do with his new find.
     Why, I can see how long I can hold my breath.  I can make
perfect eggs!  Every time!!  Somehow Maynard had forgotten the fact
that his doctor had put him on a strict no-cholesterol diet--and
that eggs were strictly verboten.
     Soft-boiled, fried, over-easy!!  Maynard was on top of the
world.  He wanted to jump and click his heels.  He tried, but only
ended up frightening a mother and her young daughter.  He patted
his hand on his pocket.  He felt the reassuring bulge.  This is it!

This my ticket out!!  This is a good day!!!
     He eyed everyone with suspicion as he walked along.  They all
seemed to *know*.  All eyes were on his right front pants pocket. 
He circled down the street as he walked, and entered his apartment
building like a sleek jungle cat.
     "You ok, Maynard?" said the doorman.
     "Nothing.  It's nothing," said Maynard, feeling the gaze of
the doorman burning his trousers.
     "What?"
     "Oh, *this*?  It's a--it's--I bought it.  I went to the store
and I bought it."
     "You been working too hard, Mayn.  You oughtta get more sleep.

    Maynard slipped into the elevator and the doors began to close.

A woman's hand darted in at the last moment.
     Damn!  Damn, thought Maynard, pounding on the 'Close Door'
button.  The door opened and closed on the woman's hand.  She was
holding a bag of groceries in her other arm.
     "Could you please--"
     Maynard saw that in her bag was an egg timer.  He relaxed and
opened the door for her.  She got in.  Maynard noticed that she was
quite sexy, wearing a tight, sleeveless dress and sandals with
heels.  Her toenails were painted red and she smelled faintly of
Opium.
     "Doors are funny," said Maynard."
     "You only had to press this button," she said.
     "Nice egg timer."
     "Excuse me?"
     "That egg timer.  In your grocery bag.  It's a nice one.  I
have one just like it."
     "Oh."
     She got out at the twelfth floor and Maynard continued up to
the twentieth.  He kept circling all the way down the hall to his
apartment.  He entered, double-bolted his door, pulled the chain,
and unplugged his phone.  He took the timer out of his trouser
pocket and started to open the bag.  It wouldn't open.  The bag
wouldn't rip, the cardboard wouldn't tear, and the single staple
that held it all together seemed indestructible.  Maynard struggled
with it for over an hour before finally, sweaty and exhausted, he
sat in his comfy chair and drifted off to sleep.
     His nap was fitful and disturbed.  In his dream, legions of
women were lining up to sleep with "the three-minute wonder" as he
had become known.  They each set the timer over his bed and then
slipped in beside him.  They all left, bitter and unsatisfied.    
 Maynard awoke to the sound of his phone.  I unplugged that, he
thought.  He answered it.  It was the woman from the elevator. 
Maynard had an olfactory memory and thought about her Opium.     
"Hi, I was wondering...this egg timer I bought--it doesn't seem to
be working right.  Could I--could you--maybe--I have to make a
bunch of eggs for a dinner party and I was hoping--could I use
yours?"
     "Um, sure," said Maynard.  "Works great.  You want me to bring
it down?"
     "I could come up.  It's no bother."
     Maynard started to sweat again and wiped his forehead on a
sleeve.  "No, really, the place is a mess.  I'm heading out soon
anyway--"
     "Right away?"  She sounded disappointed.  "I was kinda
hoping...well, that's okay.  Bring it by 1224 soon as you head out.

Thanks a lot.  You're a doll."
     Maynard tried to open it with his teeth.  No luck.  He dug up
a staple remover and tried that.  Still nothing.  What the hey??!!
He started up a band saw and tried that.  Didn't even dent it.  All
right, think.  It can still work even *in* the bag.  Maynard turned
the timer to three minutes and let go.  It didn't move.  Shit.  He
tried turning it back to zero.  Wouldn't budge.  Fuck.  
     Then he got to thinking.  *Eggs*??  For a *dinner party*?? 
Something didn't wash.  What the hell was her angle, anyhow??  And
why couldn't she just use a watch??!!  Why did it *have* to be an
egg timer?!!  Jut what the *fuck* was going on??!!  Unaccustomed to
multi-layered thought, Maynard turned on the tv.  On the Home
Shopping Network they were selling egg timers.  He only got one
other channel.  He switched to it.  Mork and Mindy.  
     Fuck!
     They found Maynard days later slumped in his chair, blood
leaking from an ear, the egg timer at his feet, on zero, not
ticking but mocking.


                       MAYNARD'S PERFECT FEET
     Maynard awoke one morning to discover that the middle toe on
each of his feet had been replaced by a woman's toe.  Because he
was so fat it was difficult for him to get a good look at the toes
and could only see them by angling a pocket mirror.  They
looked very odd there, small and pink and sandwiched in by his own
bloated, hairy ones.  These new ones were delicate and sensitive
and perfect.  Maynard felt very giddy.
     He really wanted to touch them and was able to only by
crossing his legs(which took some doing) and reaching around his
belly.  He rolled the toe on his left foot between his right thumb
and forefinger.  It was smooth and had a tiny, neatly-trimmed nail
on it.  He tickled the underside of it, whispering "Gitchy-goo,
gitchy-gitchy-goo."  He then showered, dressed, gave himself a few
spritzes of Drakkar Noir and went to work.
     "Hi Maynard," said Molly, the plump, friendly receptionist. 
"Hey, what's gotten into *you*?"
     "What do you mean?" said Maynard, running a hand through his
hair. 
     "I don't know."  She smiled.  Nice teeth, thought Maynard. 
"But *some*thing's different."
     There *did* seem to be a new spring in the fat man's step, and
he glided into his office, Molly watching him as he sailed.  He
took of his shoes and socks.  Now, all of his toes except the big
ones had been replaced by female toes.  He curled them into the
carpet.  
     "Ooooh," he purred to himself, "that is *so* nice."  He had an
erection, which he adjusted for comfort and continued rubbing his
toes on the carpet.  Soon, he climaxed.  He cleaned himself up and
asked Molly to lunch.  
     "Wow," she said.  "Sure."
     Maynard got little done for the next few hours.  Just before
lunchtime, he removed his shoes and socks again.  All of his toes
were now female.  He rubbed one foot over top of the other and got
another erection.  "This little piggy went to market, this little
piggy stayed home, this little piggy--"
     "Ready, Mayn?" Molly asked over the intercom.
     "Be right there," he said.
     He took her downtown to Sfuzzi, the trendy, upscale center
city eatery with the funny name.  Actually, Maynard knew it was
pronounced 'F(long u)tsee', but he called it 'footsie'.  
     They both got gnocchi verdi and Maynard reached under the
table and removed a shoe and sock.  
     "Maynard," pleaded Molly, sotto voice, "there are people
here."  His foot was making good progress and was already past her
knee.
     "Your foot is so soft, Maynard."  She started to look down.  
   He caught her chin in his hand and said, "No.  Don't look."    
 "It feels nice," she said, her gnocchi getting cold.
     They made love in Maynard's office, she on the edge of his
desk, he curling and uncurling his toes as he moved.   
     Later, after Molly had moved in with Maynard and had
discovered his secret, Maynard could be heard saying, "Hold my
foot.  Hold my foot."  They would spend entire days in bed, Molly
sucking on Maynard's perfect toes while he drifted lazily from one
orgasm to the next.  By this time both of his feet were perfect
women's size sevens and Maynard had gotten a new job working for an
Italian designer of women's shoes.  He soon became famous in
fashion circles and was in heavy demand to try on shoes for
designers all over the world.  In addition to his enormous hourly
rates for modelling, Maynard was also given free pairs of shoes
wherever he went.  In just over a year he had way more than Imelda
and bought himself an extravagant house on Philadelphia's Main
Line.  In every room was deep pile carpet and Maynard seemed to ice
skate over it until the pleasure became excruciating and he would
have to rest.
     He lost weight and would walk around the house naked.       
"I feel barefoot all over!" he exclaimed to Molly one day while she
was painting his toenails.  
     "I love you, Maynard."
     When his calves started to change she left him.