"...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.