Portrait
by: Ellie Dauber © 1998

When Dorian complains about his neighbor’s music, the neighbor finds a new way to solve the problem.

This is the first story in a set of stories about Stavros and his family. I’ll be posting them all in the next few days.

Portrait
by Ellie Dauber © 1998

In my Mother’s family, the custom has always been that the first son was named for the father’s father, and the second son, named for the mother’s father.

My parents honored that custom with my older brother, who was christened Frank Grey, Jr. But, when my Mother was pregnant with me, it was her father, Dorian Michaels, who asked that the custom be broken, saying, “Who wants his grandson to have to suffer with being known as Dorian Gray? As soon as the other kids learn about that stupid story, he’ll never hear the end of it.”

Grampa Dorry died unexpectedly just before I was born. Mother was a stubborn woman who loved her own father very much. She insisted on honoring the tradition. As a compromise, I was named Dorian Michael Gray, and I grew up using both “Dorry” and “Mike” as nicknames.

****

About a year ago, I moved into my current apartment. It was a fairly roomy apartment: very large living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath, and in a pretty good location. I was surprised to get it -- particularly for as little as I had to pay. The rental office said that they’d had trouble finding a tenant for it, even though the people in the rest of the building seemed happy enough.

My neighbor, Stavros “Something-or-Other” and I shared a common wall between our two bedrooms. He had seemed like a nice enough guy, an older man, about seventy I guessed, of Eastern European descent, who walked straight and erect as a soldier on parade, his bushy white eyebrows and full mop of curly white hair flashing like banners in the light. I tried to talk to him the few times we passed in the hall or met by our respective doors, but we never really hit it off.

Part of the problem was that I ran a computer consulting service out of the apartment, which meant I was home all day and needed the place fairly quiet for my work. Stavros also stayed in most of the day, but his idea of relaxation was playing music. Loud music. All day I could hear that damned violin of his screeching away, just off-key enough to set my teeth on edge. And definitely loud enough to ruin any chance I had of concentrating on my work.

I hoped that somebody else in the building might complain, but it seemed that he and I were the only ones home during the day. He stopped playing about four and generally went out. He must have had some night job or something, because he never came in before eleven or twelve. Then he generally went to bed.

I wasn’t making a detailed investigation or anything. The walls in that building were kind of thin. I could hear his door slam when he came or went, and he talked to himself when he came home and got ready for bed. Nothing in a language I could understand, but I could hear his voice through the bedroom wall.

I tried leaving notes on his door about the playing. Nothing nasty. Just explaining that I also was home during the day and asking if he could play more quietly or in another part of the apartment. My living room had to double as my office, since clients sometimes came to discuss business. If he could just play quietly in his bedroom, I asked, everything would be fine. One note even said that I enjoyed his music as a background, but that it was too loud to let me concentrate on my work.

Nothing worked. Sometimes it seemed like he waited until he heard me typing at the keyboard of my PC before he’d start playing. (I told you those walls were thin.) He also left me a couple notes saying that, since he had lived in the building for years, he had first rights on whether there was music or not on our floor. He also said that nobody else had ever complained, and that I was the first person not to have the good taste to appreciate his music.

After two weeks of his noise, I was falling behind schedule on a couple of important jobs. In desperation, I called the office of the company that managed the building. I was lucky, he was playing particularly loudly and off-key that day. All I had to do was hold up the phone, so the guy at the other end could hear. He agreed that it was a real problem and said that he would try to help.

****

Three days later, there was an angry knocking at my door. It was Stavros. “So, coward,” he fumed, “because you could not get your way, you run like little girl to landlord. He send me letter that say I must stop my music.” Stavros threw a crumpled up sheet of paper at my feet. When I bent down to pick it up, he grabbed at my head, pulling loose a bit of hair. I yelled and told him to leave.

“Stavros go,” he said, suddenly smiling. “Stavros stop the music for a while, but he stop you for good.” He turned and was gone through his own door by the time I stood up. Mercifully, there was no music. I uncrumpled the paper and read:

Dear Mr. Stanipopoulis:

Your neighbor, Mr. Dorian M. Gray, has complained about incessant and loud noise coming from your apartment throughout the day. We have investigated and found evidence to support his claim. We must, therefore, ask that you reduce the noise to an acceptable level -- if not stop it completely. If Mr. Gray continues to complain, we shall have to consider possible action, including, if absolutely necessary, the non-renewal of your lease at the end of its current term in two months, or even early eviction. We hope that such action will not be necessary, and that you will comply with this request.

We will be checking back with both you and Mr. Gray in two weeks to determine the outcome of this letter and whether any further action on our part is necessary.

Yours truly,

John Norman
Mid-City Realty

The letter was a little harsher than I had wanted, but it seemed to do the job. There was no music for two or three days. Occasionally I heard Stavros muttering to himself through the wall. Once or twice, I thought I heard my name mentioned, but I couldn’t be sure. For the most part, there was blessed silence. I managed to catch up on my work, even got ahead on a few long term projects. I felt so good that I thought about knocking on Stavros’ door. Maybe we could work things out. I did have to take a break or go out to a meeting at times. Sometimes I did research at the Library, and, of course, I went out to buy food, run the occasional errand, etc. Maybe we could work out a schedule of times when I’d be out, and he could play.

I went over and knocked, but there was no answer. I went back in and wrote a note,

“Stavros, please come over. Maybe we can work something out. -- Dorian.”

I taped the note to his door and went back to work.

Stavros didn’t show up, but a couple hours later, I heard a knock on my door. There was nobody there, but leaning next to the door was a large package with a note taped to it.

“Stavros taking care of problem. Will talk to neighbor soon as it over.”

I figured that the package was some sort of gift of apology and took it in to the apartment. I was glad that he seemed to be taking it so well, even if I wasn’t sure what he meant by “soon as it over”. Really, all I wanted was to get along with my neighbors and get my work done. I was really sorry that there had been a problem.

I carefully opened the package and looked in. It was a picture of some kind in a beautiful old wooden frame. I carefully lifted it out. It was me! I was dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals posing in front of an old house somewhere in the country. I had a feeling that the picture was intended as a not too subtle hint that I’d be happier living someplace else. But the likeness was excellent. In fact, the whole picture was almost photographic quality. To tell the truth, I was kind of embarrassed at seeing my skinny arms and legs in that outfit. I was also curious about how he’d gotten such a good likeness -- especially in such a short time. “It’s almost like magic,” I chuckled to myself. If only I’d know how true that thought had been.

****

That night I had a strange dream. I could hear somebody – no, a group of people -- chanting. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I recognized the language as the one Stavros spoke. I seemed to be surrounded by chanters. I definitely heard my name mentioned a number of times, and ever time with a laugh as if they found it funny. At one point, I saw the painting. The image seemed to be shifting, but I couldn’t tell what it was turning into.

I thought of the dream as I woke up. I jumped out of bed and walked into the living room. The painting was still leaning against a chair where I had left it. I looked at it for a moment, then I noticed something. Actually, a couple of somethings. My hair -- in the painting -- was shorter, almost a crewcut. And the hair on my arms and legs looked a lot thicker. No, I didn’t look like an ape or anything. I’ve got fairly fine body hair, not really noticeable except for some on my chest, and was clean shaven. The “me” in the picture had somewhat hairy arms and legs, and “he” was sporting a mustache and closely cropped beard.

I shook my head trying to figure out what had happened. Had somebody -- Stavros? -- gotten into the apartment to change the picture. Then I noticed that my own hair was longer. I felt it brush against my neck when I’d shaken my head. I looked down at my arms and legs and saw that what hair had been there was gone. Finally, I rubbed my hand along my chin. No beard. But also no five o’clock shadow, which was definitely strange, since I hadn’t shaved in a day.

I checked my reflection in the small mirror on the inside door of the living room closet. Not a trace of stubble.

This was beginning to get very weird. I decided that I didn’t want Stavros’s gift any more. I stuck it back in the box it had come in and went to get dressed.

While I was changing, I checked out my body hair. Not a trace of hair below the neck except in my groin, and the pattern of hair around my genitals seemed a little different from what I remembered. The hair felt softer, too. I was definitely spooked. I threw on some clothes, an old jogging suit and a pair of sneakers. They seemed a little looser than I remembered, but I had been trying to lose weight for the past month or so.

I took the painting to a pawn shop a few blocks from the apartment. The guy wasn’t interested in the painting very much, but he offered me fifty bucks for the frame. I’d thought about keeping the frame at first, but I decided that it and the painting were a set. It was probably better to get rid of both. I took the money and the claim ticket and headed home. Since I had no intention of reclaiming the painting, I tossed the ticket into a trash can within a block of the pawn shop.

I got back into the apartment and went straight to the kitchen for some breakfast -- well, coffee and a couple donuts, something I could eat while I worked. I had a report due late that afternoon, and I still had some final details to finish. I carried my breakfast into the living room and set it down next to the PC.

The damned painting was back, leaning against the chair where it had been when I woke up.

I stood up and fished out my wallet. The two twenties and the ten that I’d gotten from the pawn shop were still in it. I had a quick thought about using this boomerang painting to get rich. Take it to pawn shop after pawn shop and keep the money when it returned. No, first, I liked to think of myself as an honest man. I would get that money back to the pawn shop that day. More important, I was getting VERY bad vibes about this thing, and I wanted it out of my apartment and my life.

I noticed that there was a small note written on a “sticky” that was on the frame.

“You can neither give away nor sell this painting until its work is done. -- Stavros.”

What work? Then I noticed that the hair on “my” head was now practically a razor cut, just a quarter of an inch of stubble with the scalp clearly showing through. I felt my own hair. It seemed a lot thicker than before, and it had grown past my neck and part way down my back.

The “me” in the picture was still as hairy in the body, but his muscles seemed to be more developed. He looked like a man who spent his day working out instead of sitting at a PC. I looked down and my own body. My arms and legs seemed to have grown slimmer and more curved. I realized what was going on.

In the short story, “The Picture of Dorian Gray”, Gray stayed young and handsome, while his portrait became older and more depraved in appearance. Stavros had said my calling the landlord was the action of a girl. Somehow, his painting of me was becoming more and more masculine, while I was becoming feminine.

I grabbed the picture and ran for the stairs.

My apartment was in an old building with a furnace that was linked to the hot water heater and that doubled as the trash disposal. I got down to the basement and used a steel pole next to the furnace door to open it. It was a warm day, but the furnace was blazing away. Nice hot flames flared up through the open door. I tossed in the painting and slammed the door.

The painting was waiting for me back at the apartment, when I got back. It leaned against that chair as if it hadn’t been moved since I took it out of the box the day before. This time, the note read:

“Nor can you destroy it. I will return when its work is done. Midnight. -- Stavros.”

I kneeled down next to the painting and cried. I don’t know, maybe it was the first sign of a new feminine personality, maybe it was the situation. I cried for about five minutes. Then I decided not to give him the satisfaction. I’d see what would happen, let the thing do its worst. And I’d get Stavros -- get him good -- when he came for the painting that night.

In the meantime, I still had to make a living, and female computer consultants could make just as good a living, could do just as good work as male ones. I went back to finishing my report, just looking up occasionally to watch the painting’s progress.

About two o’clock, the “me” in the painting began to develop washboard abs and what I once heard a girlfriend refer to as “pects of steel”. I looked down and watched as my waist rose and narrowed, my hips widened. I couldn’t watch for long, though.

It was definitely getting to me, and I felt the need to talk to somebody. I speed-dialed Jack Tressler. Jack was a lawyer; a pretty good one from what I’d heard. He and I had met a couple years ago, when I consulted for him on a copyright case. We’d hit it off and continued as friends – good friends; playing tennis once a week, doing the bar scene together every so often, that sort of thing.

“Finch, Day, and Tressler,” the receptionist answered. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’d like --” I stopped short. That wasn’t my voice. I looked over at the picture again. “He” was rapidly losing his neck in a mass of muscles. Which meant that my neck, including my vocal chords, were rapidly becoming feminine. I touched it with my fingers. Sure enough, no Adam’s apple. There was no way that Jack would believe it was me. “I’m sorry, wrong number,” I said and hung up the phone and went back to work.

As I worked, I began to feel an uncomfortable scratching and stretching sensation on my chest. By 3:30, when I e-mailed the finished report to my client, I was sporting rather impressive 38C breasts. My fingers were getting longer and slimmer. I had shaped fingernails about a half inch long by four.

My other self’s face began to change again about then. His jaw got wider and firmer -- or, at least, that’s the way it looked from how his beard changed shape. And his eyebrows got much bushier, even long than Stavros’. I looked in the mirror that -- by now, was next to the PC. My own face had grown thinner with high cheekbones. My nose was smaller -- when I looked close at the painting, “his” nose had grown a bit angular, and I had narrow plucked eyebrows. My lips seemed fuller, too, and I somehow seemed to have developed a pout.

I didn’t eat much dinner. I think it was as much out of fear of what was happening as because my stomach was now much smaller. I was sitting listening to some music, ironically enough, and glancing at the painting. My other self was now a well-muscled brute, his new physique stretching the material of the t-shirt. In fact, I think that he was turning me on a little. I was staring at the painting like I used to stare at Playboy centerfolds, and I could feel my nipples getting harder and rubbing against the fabric of the sweat suit that I was still wearing.

Then I noticed that something was stretching his shorts. He seemed to be getting an erection, and it was enormous. And getting even bigger as I watched.

That could only mean one thing. I reached down into my pants and found my penis. It was flaccid, and no amount of stroking could get it hard. What was worse, it seemed to be shrinking even as I was rubbing it. I reached down to feel my balls. They were still both there, but they felt smaller, too. As I held them, I felt them pulling away, moving up into my body. My scrotal sack was now empty and it was growing tight against my crotch. I felt for my penis. It was maybe an inch long now and sinking down into the folds of the scrotum. I felt things moving inside my stomach and pulled my hand away.

When I put it back, my penis was all but lost inside the two folds that surrounded it. I put my finger in between the folds and felt the wall of my crotch move away, sinking back into myself. It was over in about a half an hour. I had started the day as a man. Now I was a woman, sitting at the edge of a chair in her living room, and crying while she inspected her brand new vagina.

The painting didn’t change any more, and neither did I. I was a woman now, but I didn’t intend to be one for very long.

Stavros has said that he’d be back at midnight. I was waiting for him. I’d gotten a pistol when I moved to the city. The Army had taught me how to shoot at the same time it had taught me how to use a PC. I still practiced twice a month on a range at the Y, and I was pretty good. I figured that I could persuade Stavros to undo what had happened. Either that, or perform a .38 special surgery on his own genitalia.

Sure enough, just before midnight, there was a knock on the door. “Is Stavros,” came the voice on the other side.

“It’s open,” I said. I was still not used to my new voice, so much higher and more musical that the original male version.

He came in. He looked the same as ever, but now he was wearing some sort of green robe covered with ornate symbols embroidered in gold and silver. He looked every inch the evil sorcerer. I was standing, leaning against the couch facing the door. The painting was on a chair diagonal to both me and the door, so both he and I could see it. He looked me up and down, almost leering. “Now you see why nobody complain; why it not good to make trouble for Stavros.”

“Are you going to change me back, now? I promise that I won’t bother you again.”

“No! Stavros been nice before. Change people back and they forget. They just make new trouble.”

I really didn’t want to use the pistol unless I had to, so I tried to argue. “There’s nothing to stop me from making trouble as I am, either. Especially as I am. People will get very upset to find out that there’s an evil wizard casting spells.”

“People not know. Change is full change. Even the past. You call up your people -- your Mama and Papa. They tell you they never had a son, just a daughter.”

“No,” I said drawing the gun into sight. “You change me back, old man, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

“Then you never change back. You go to women’s jail.”

“For what? For defending myself against a crazy old man who broke into my apartment at midnight and tried to rape me?” It was a wild idea that had just popped into my head, but I thought that it might work. If he thought that I might get away with shooting him, he might be willing to change me back.

“Stavros knew you was crazy, but change take care of that.” He was smiling. Why was he smiling?

“Take care of what? The change is over. I’ve been a woman for over two hours.”

“Last part of change take longer. Look at left hand on painting.”

I looked over quickly. There was something metallic looking forming on one of the fingers. It took me a second to recognize. It was a man’s wedding ring! As I turned back to look at Stavros, my head began to spin. I felt myself falling into blackness.

****

It was morning. I could hear the birds in the garden outside my bedroom, feel the sunlight through the window on my arms. I felt warm and protected and very reluctant to wake up. I rolled over and bumped up against somebody. Somebody? Who the hell was in bed with me?

I opened my eyes to see Jack Tressler propped up on one arm and smiling down at me. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Have a good sleep?”

“Um, I guess,” I said, too confused to think of anything else.

“You know, I don’t have to be in the office till noon. So, unless you’ve got something pressing with that consulting business of yours, I thought we could stay here a while and...” Jack let the obvious suggestion trail off, while he reached over with his other hand and brushed the hair off my face. What was going on?

Suddenly a new mass of memories tumbled into my mind. I knew what was happening and who I was. Stavros had solved the problem, all right, but not quite as nastily as I had thought. But now, as my husband’s hand reached down to gently play with my nipple, I had other things to concentrate on. I was Mrs. Doreen Gray Tressler, happily married these past six months and about to be made love to by my sexy husband, Jack.

****

Back in the now empty apartment, Stavros crated up the painting. “Maybe next tenant appreciate good music,” he thought. In the meantime, he had things to do. He sealed the crate for shipping, writing: “John Norman; Mid-City Realty” on the address label. Stavros felt Mr. Norman’s letter about the music deserved a special response.

(fin)