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DOWN ON THE CORNER by Crazy Baron NOTIFICATIONS AND DISCLAIMERS This work may be distributed to forums where it can be read free of charge, provided that the author gives his explicit permission and the text is not altered. Please note that this story is intended for mature readers only. The people and incidents depicted herein are completely fictional. THE STORY First things first. I will freely admit that my imagination is on the active side and I sometimes have the tendency to read a bit more into people and situations than is definitely there. Second, I enjoy stories about gender transformations and I also write them myself (strictly as a hobby, mind you). Some might think I'm slightly weird for that, and a couple of other reasons, but to my knowledge I have no issues with my mental health. I don't typically see things that others don't, I don't believe I'm being harassed by secret societies and I'm not sick with mysterious symptoms I can't explain. I don't do drugs. I have no problems to speak of at work and I get some exercise walking to and from there almost every day. I usually sleep well. Granted, that only goes so far. Chances are I wouldn't necessarily recognize it if I was seriously losing my grip on reality, but at least I can confidently say nothing is pointing in that direction, possibly apart from this one particular incident. It happened earlier this week. I had come home after a perfectly ordinary day at the office and was relaxing by my living room window when I saw a man walk down the street, stop at the street corner, under the metal roof overhang above the shop entrances, and change into a woman. I have no idea what it actually was that I witnessed, or if I hallucinated the entire thing, but it was as unexpected as it was instantaneous and drastic. In the blink of an eye or less, he went from a run-of-the-mill middle-aged guy to a gorgeous woman. And as if that wasn't enough, she was a spitting image of Jennifer Aniston--or rather Rachel Green, her character on Friends that made her a household name way back when. The new girl had Rachel's face, hairstyle, clothes and everything. In the end, she just walked on, totally unfazed. When it comes to surprises, there have been precious few in my life that have left me anywhere near as astounded as that one. A categorically impossible event took place literally before my eyes, out of the blue and on a regular Wednesday, and nobody on the street seemed to pay any mind to it. All things considered, I think I can be excused for harboring a few teeny doubts about my sanity, but at the same time, I'm next to certain the transformation did really occur. It was too shocking and vivid to have been a daydream, and like I mentioned, I have no history of mental or perceptual troubles. On the other hand, it flat out defies any other explanation, and it's bothering me incessantly because I can't make heads or tails of it. The scene was this corner here, the exact spot where I'm standing now. It's by the intersection of Wilson and Stoner Avenue, close to the heart of the city. This one doesn't have traffic lights although the next, slightly busier intersection down Wilson does. The buildings are between four and seven stories high, with mostly small shops at ground level and apartments and condos higher up. Dull gray, worn concrete pavement of square tiles, a few of them cracked, and a large, dried, mildly disgusting splatter of something purplish blue to add a dash of color. A bus stop on Stoner in the middle of the adjoining block, and angled car parking spaces. Going to my left, there is the pharmacy and then the pawn shop (they have a red motorcycle and an electric guitar on display in their window, behind a metal security grill). Common people coming and going like they do anywhere else in this town. On the outside, the locale is nothing to write home about, no different from tens of thousands of other street corners around this part of the world. Nevertheless, it doesn't take very long for something decidedly out of the ordinary to turn up. A stately brunette woman is strolling on the sidewalk; she has a captivating, classically beautiful face, voluminous raven hair and laughably big breasts and butt that her revealing clothes- -a leopard print top and short, tight, black leather pants--are straining to contain. On account of her impressive physique and the heels of her boots, she is half a head taller than the average man, and the crowd all but parts to let her through. You get a fairly good idea of the sight if you imagine Wonder Woman ditching her job as a superheroine, stuffing her body with oversized silicone implants and starting a career in the adult entertainment industry. I notice how her eyes pick me out and zero in on me, leading me to realize to my consternation that I have been staring at her. She's one to attract attention under pretty much any circumstances, but I should have been more discreet. I avert my gaze deliberately and pretend to be examining something nonexistent on the other side of the street, but it's too late. A sly smile finds its way onto her features as she makes a beeline for me, walking in a confident and steady stride. In a matter of moments, she arrives within a conversational distance. "Hi, darling," she says, resting her hand on her hip. The shamelessly seductive, low-pitched purr is a perfect match for her appearance. "I'm Arielle. You looking for something by any chance? Or someone?" "Thomas," I introduce myself. "So, Thomas. What's cooking?" I have to tread carefully, I remind myself and shift my weight from one foot to the other. It's extremely important not to send out any signals open to misinterpretation. "I was... taking a walk, basically. Sunny weather and all that." "Yeah." The smile stays on her lips. "It's a nice day to go out and get some fresh air." I'm aware that body transformations are not necessarily a topic she's keen to discuss in public, for a certain personal reason, but I decide to bring it up regardless. Since she hangs out in the city center a lot, sauntering on the sidewalks to show off her body and snag partners for quick afternoon romps at their homes, there is a chance she might know something about the bizarre happenings if they are a recurring phenomenon. What's more, that provides me with a means to deflect the conversation away from me and my plans for today, and I'm happy to go for it. "By and by," I pipe up, "people are saying something strange is going on at this street corner. Have you heard that rumor?" "What do you mean, strange?" I fumble for words for a second or two. "As in... I thought I saw a man change into a woman right over there a few days ago, clothes and all. It was sudden and complete, and there wasn't anything that could explain it." I pause and add a forced, embarrassed grin. "I know this sounds loopy and I'm not sure if that actually happened, but it did seem real to me. I was wondering if you..." "Oh, I see," she responds, and a look of realization and another smile appear on her face. "You're into mind expansion too, aren't you?" "No! I'm---" "It's okay," she cuts me off in a reassuring, friendly tone. "Nothing to be ashamed of, honey. We're not living in the dark ages anymore. You've heard of the Managua Specials? I can hook you up if you're interested." "Thanks, but no thanks," I manage to say. (So that's what the blue transformation pills are called now; Managua Specials.) This twist is taking things fast in the wrong direction, but I do my best to maintain a cool exterior. "That's not my kind of thing." "They're amazing, and totally safe despite what some folks would have you believe. Did you see the piece on CNN about the Government investigation yesterday? It was absolute made-up bullshit, basically just another horror story going around. I can tell you, people are badmouthing the Specials only because they're afraid of them and the sweeping change that's going to come! The world will be a different place when anyone can get a crazy high whenever they want, and you don't have to risk your health or rob a bank to keep doing it." "I don't doubt that, but---" "So, how about it? Feel like a little trip to outer space? Trust me on this, Tommy; you can do it, you'll live to tell the tale, and it'll blow your mind." She would know. Arielle herself is a satisfied user--or, to be precise, her male incarnation Marco is. In a stark contrast to her, he is a nondescript guy all around, in his late twenties, perpetually single, works for his uncle's pest control company and lives in a miserable efficiency apartment overlooking the railway line. What little remains of his earnings after the bare essentials and monthly bills are covered invariably ends up in the pockets of his trusted dealer. As soon as a non-working day dawns, he wakes up bright and early, swallows a pill and watches the show in a mirror. It starts with his skin turning sickly green before his body becomes taller and leaner, his hips flare out, his butt inflates, his facial features change into those of a ravishing woman, his male equipment inverts itself to form a fully functional vulva and vagina, and his chest develops two humongous breasts with swollen dark red nipples. Arielle is his polar opposite, enticing, outgoing, sexy, wanted and very much a woman, and being her and everything she embodies is Marco's personal definition of heaven. Thanks to the pill, this fantasy can come true for him, one dose and 24 hours at a time. "It's a tempting offer, but I have to say no," I decline as politely as I can. "I don't... swing that way." "Pity," she remarks and shrugs her shoulders. "I was thinking you might. Still, the day doesn't have to go totally to waste for us. Could I treat you to something else back at your place? How's a bit of afternoon poontang sound to you?" "Maybe, uh, some other time," I stammer with an apologetic chuckle. "I'm not really in the mood at the moment. So, I take it you haven't heard about random people suddenly transforming? There's no talk on the street or anything?" "I'm afraid not. It'd be sort of cool if it was true, but I don't know of anyone who's had that happen to them." "Okay. Thanks anyway." She takes this as her cue to leave, but she gives me a teasing little smirk and a wave with her fingers as a parting gift. Her message is not lost on me. More likely than not, and like it or not, I haven't seen the last of her. The next development comes along before I can dwell on this thought. I glance back in the opposite direction, towards the traffic lights on Wilson, and I'm startled to spot a familiar face among the pedestrians: a young woman, around thirty, with dirty blond hair and smart clothes, walking this way. She can be none other than the transformee from Wednesday, the newly-minted double of Jennifer Aniston. The hair at the back of my neck stands on end when I watch her approach. This is an incredible opportunity, something I can't afford to let slip away; she is the one person in the world who's guaranteed to be an expert on the subject that keeps vexing me, and with any luck, I can hear the full story from the horse's mouth (so to speak). I must stop her and talk to her, no matter what! Unlike Arielle, she is not giving me any extra attention but simply going about her business, whatever that might be. Despite her undeniable beauty and resemblance to a celebrity, she seems to blend in instead of causing a scene merely by being there. When she's about to go past me, still just peripherally aware of my existence although we're separated by not more than three or four feet, I call out to her, "Hey, excuse me!" She turns her head and halts in mid-stride, and a lock of her long hair spills over her shoulder. "Oh?" she reacts. Two sparkling blue eyes focus on me. "What is it?" "Um... Do you have a minute? I want to ask you something, if that's alright." "Yeah, sure." My tongue threatens to go stiff in my mouth, not so much because of how prepossessing she is but because of the air of unreality that she brings with her. It springs from the fact that she both looks and sounds exactly the same as the actress whose one-time physical form the mysterious force has bestowed on her. Fashion sense was apparently included in the package too, seeing as her attire of a white shirt underneath a smart gray jacket, straight leg pants and heels is nicely fitting for, say, a personal shopper at Bloomingdale's. "Okay, here's the deal," I begin. "I noticed you around a few days ago, and... You see, I..." I realize how incredibly awkward this sounds, but not in time to stop myself and replace it with something more refined and to the point. Happily, though, she seems to have decided to give me the benefit of the doubt, her quizzical expression notwithstanding. I try to save things with, "What I mean is you seem familiar to me even though chances are we haven't met before, and I, uh, wanted to check if you're the person I think you are. I know you're probably not, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to, well, find out." "That's a pretty roundabout way of asking me what my name is," she responds to my blathering, "but I can humor you. I'm Rachel." She drops the name in a casual and offhanded style that goes well with the unnatural naturalness of the situation. 'Uncanny' is altogether too mild an expression for this--her every gesture and mannerism, her style of talking and her appearance are all perfectly true to form. I have no idea if she was somehow lifted from TV Land and made into a living person that I can touch, as opposed to an electric phantom on a screen, or if it's me who's been beamed over there to guest star in a lost episode of theirs, The One With The Flabbergasted TG Writer. "So, we know who I am but not who you are," she says, putting an end to the silence that resulted from my stupefaction. "Me Rachel, you...?" "Thomas," I blurt out and offer her my hand. She takes it and gives it a light shake. "I'm Thomas. Pleased to meet you." "Likewise." "Anyway, about you," I carry on, intensely uncomfortable because I have to steer the discussion to very strange waters next. It's probably unavoidable that I'll make a complete fool of myself, but if I can hold her interest for a brief while longer, it might be worth the trouble. "Have you been living around this neighborhood for long? Or do you live here?" "Yeah, for a couple of years now," she says, a good deal more tentatively than before. "Why?" "I was... Do you recall if anything unusual happened to you last Wednesday? During late afternoon, when you were walking past that street corner there?" "Okay, mind explaining just what you're getting at?" she inquires sharply, albeit still with a smile as though she's expecting me to let her in on the joke at long last, and crosses her arms over her chest. "Is there maybe a pickup line coming at the end of this interview, or are you doing some sort of super-postmodern street theater where the audience has to participate?" "No, it's not that. What I really wanted to talk to you about was... Well, I saw this funny, weird thing, and---" "What kind of thing?" I have no choice but to show my hand. "Do you ever think you have, uh, been someone else, Rachel? Like an older person, or a man, for example?" "No," she rejoins without missing a beat, "I can't say I have, but I have a friend whose mother died and came back as a cat. Does that count?" The sarcasm in her words is plain, and it's also no less in character for her fictional version than the rest of her demeanor. "Hey!" a male voice cuts in and interrupts the proceedings. "Ma'am?" Rachel and I turn on our heels and see a man walk up to us; fortyish, a good four inches taller than me, wide shoulders, wearing an expensive steel blue suit and a tie, light brown hair neatly cut, a suitcase in hand. He sports masculine, mildly rugged looks that are admittedly handsome and even pleasant, or would be if there wasn't some indelible smug quality to them and the whole person. The man certainly knows he is attractive and successful, and that comes through, as most anyone who has met Reginald D. Halloran can testify. "Ma'am," he addresses Rachel formally, "was this creep giving you trouble? Are you okay?" Her lips curve into a flirty smile as she eyes her knight in shining armor. "Okay, me? Fine. I'm fine, thanks!" I can't keep an angry, despising sneer off my face. You actually have the gall to call me a creep, do you, Reg? Speaking of creeps, do you remember the guy who booked a session at Mistress Corinne's transformation salon not two weeks ago--the sharply dressed, successful career man who was injected with nanites in the basement of the apartment block where I live and transformed into a slutty, voluptuous, blond high school cheerleader named Tammi Sue? Correct me if I'm mistaken, but didn't she wander to the boys' locker room by "accident" and get gangbanged by three footballers, including the star fullback of whatever pretend school they supposedly go to? (Yeah, that's right; there were four of the boys. Sorry!) And after that was over and Tammi Sue staggered out of the locker room with her crotch and butt sore, her pink panties soiled and her uniform torn, wasn't she given another injection that made her revert into the man? Didn't he then go back to his wife, his 9-year-old son and his sumptuous suburban house with a swimming pool and sundeck, pretending that absolutely nothing had happened and that he was always and ever just the fine, upstanding, hard-working, not at all perverted daddy of his family? That man was you, Reg. I know your secret. Don't you dare act morally superior to anyone, you sick little asshole! Sadly, though, I can't put him in his place with this tidbit of information, as satisfying and deserved as that would be. What I have gleaned of my landlady Corinne Carmichael's double life and exploits as the ringleader of her ultra-exclusive club is much too explosive to let out in the open. I would be stepping on some really big toes if I hinted in public that I know of the amazingly deviant and unsettling activities going on a few floors below my apartment. This leaves me no choice but to swallow my rage and limit myself to staring angrily at the disgusting hypocrite. As if I didn't already have enough motivation to loathe the man, Rachel is obviously taken with him. She gives him an encouraging look and flips a lock of her hair over her shoulder, saying, "Umm... I don't think I caught your name." "It's Reg," the man answers. Why, of course it is. "Or Reginald, but my friends call me Reggie or Reg." "Does that group include me too?" "Of course," he replies and smiles back at her. "No problem." "Reg," she repeats and shakes his hand. "I'm Rachel. Any chance you're free tonight? I was planning on having dinner with someone at this nice little place in Greenwich, but that kind of fell through, and because the table reservation's in my name, I was thinking it would be a shame to go through all the trouble of getting it and then not do anything with it." "I appreciate the offer, but my wife and I were thinking we might eat out today too," he remarks and lifts his hand in an outwardly nonchalant manner to show her his wedding band. "Not that I have anything against your company and a good dinner, but I thought I should let you know." Although she tries to cover it up, Rachel is a bit crestfallen. "Oh. Still, in case you change your mind about the dinner or, you know, being married"--she adds a little laugh--"here's my phone number." A white business card has magically appeared in her hand, and she gives it to him. "Thanks," the man says and deposits the card in his jacket pocket. "If you'll excuse me, I really have to be going. Stay safe, Rachel." "Yeah," she nods. "I will." Reg Halloran leaves in a brisk, energetic walk, headed for the meeting or shop or restaurant or whatever he was on his way to before this interlude distracted him. Like every single person in the city except for me, he is merrily untroubled by seeing and running into a flesh-and-blood Rachel Green, a sitcom character. For her part, the aforementioned sitcom character stays behind for a while, rifling through her purse. Her expression conveys a mixture of concentration and quiet disappointment, with a sprinkling of uneasiness added in. Then, she looks up and her eyes go wide. "Damn!" she cusses. "That was my number at work! My old number!" She takes off after Reg in a half-run, going as fast as she comfortably can in her heels. "Hey!" she calls out. "Hey! Reg, wait!" All of this goes as though according to a script, and the only thing missing is the guffawing of the studio audience in the background. I was toying with the idea of confronting her once more after we got rid of Reg and pressing her for answers, but that option is now effectively wrecked. I risk being mistaken for a stalker or worse if I follow her through the streets, and she might blow up in earnest if I talk to her again. To hell with Reg Halloran, his depraved fetishes and his sanctimonious, fake-gentlemanly meddling! If he hadn't shown up, I might have had a chance to squeeze at least something out of Rachel, be it that she didn't strike me as overly willing or able to shed light on her transformation. I can do little but fume in silence, watch the people walking past with sullen disinterest and wonder what I should do. The sum total of my investigative progress continues to add up to zero. It's a pure coincidence that I have my wandering eyes focused on a particular passerby and not somebody else at just the right moment; he doesn't stand out in any conceivable respect. He's a man of average height and more or less average weight, clad in khaki shorts and a long- sleeved shirt, he wears sunglasses and his thin, hairy legs are a smidgen crooked. The only somewhat noteworthy detail of his appearance is the silver color of his hair, given that he impresses me as rather young to be graying all over. Then it happens. Unaware of the danger, he slows down and stops under the roof extension (probably to check his phone), glances absentmindedly off to his left, and... Bang! My jaw drops when it abruptly hits me that I'm no longer seeing the man, or anyone even remotely like him. There has been another discontinuity in reality: he has vanished, and occupying the exact same space is an elfin, extremely pretty Asian girl. She has long, straight neon pink hair (or perhaps a wig) and a cutesy face with two big brown eyes and pouty lips. His clothes have morphed into a baby blue jacket, a turquoise shirt, a pastel-toned, yellow and orange skirt, white stockings and loafers, and a Hello Kitty backpack. In addition, she's wearing a set of large headphones that seem plain massive on her. I catch a glimpse of bewilderment on her features, but that fades in another second or two and changes into a smile. Whoever this girl is, she is cheery and enjoying her day, as her beaming face and springy step show when she gets going again. She almost appears to be dancing her way down the sidewalk. "Hey!" I call out to her, but thanks to the shock, my mouth and throat have trouble forming the sounds. "Hey, Miss!" It must be the headphones-- she's listening to music and can't hear me. Desperate to get her attention, I wave at her, but she doesn't notice and keeps going. She crosses the street without so much as glancing back once, and I'm too stunned to run after her. Before my brain has returned to anything close to its normal functioning, I see something black out of the corner of my eye. I spin around, my skin crawling, but the shape is revealed to be nothing more sinister than a nun in her habit. I stare at her with my mouth agape as she passes me by, whereas she has reserved a brief but warm smile for me. If she were virtually anyone or anything else, I probably wouldn't have the courage and presence of mind to talk to her, but as it stands, I decide to take the chance. "Excuse me, Sister!" She stops and turns to face me. The woman is short, with her bright gray eyes barely level with my upper chest, and not very old, judging by her friendly visage. However, since that is the sole part of her not completely hidden under the habit, I can't distinguish much else about her there and then. "What is it, my son?" she asks me in a soft voice and tilts her head slightly forward and to the side, to emphasize that she's listening and prepared to help in any way she can. "Uhh..." I begin. I'm still at a near-total loss for words. "Did you... Um, did you see the man who was here a second ago?" "What man is that?" "The one who turned into that Japanese chick, that girl with the headphones?" My cheeks feel hot as I utter the sentence. A muted expression of surprise briefly gives away her true feelings, but she reins in her reaction and, presumably, allows only a fraction of it to show openly. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she says. Her tone is soothing and nearly apologetic. "I can see the girl who I think you're referring to, but if there was a... strange event of some sort, I have to admit I missed it." "It was crazy! He was just over there, by that wall, and then he became the girl. I'm telling you, first that was him, and then he was her! I don't understand it." "That does sound remarkable. Do you see such unusual things often, my son?" I pick up a hint of cautious reservation in her voice, which is more than forgivable, but to her credit, she is taking my nutty exposition in stride. If a random guy on the street came up to me and claimed to have observed what I have, chances are I'd be less patient and charitable, or (especially if he towered above me like I tower above the nun) in a big hurry to get away from him. All the same, I tell myself, this is useless. It's crystal clear by this point that she either didn't see or took no conscious note of the transformation, as ridiculous as that sounds when you consider she was facing the man when he changed and couldn't be more than ten yards distant from him. The incident should have registered equally with her as it did with me, but for some reason or other, it didn't. And the same goes for everybody else present; not one person stopped in their tracks, not one stunned expression or bug-eyed stare is to be seen anywhere. Seriously, are they blind, or have they agreed to ignore the miracle they stumbled on? "Okay," I yield. "Maybe... I don't know. Maybe it was nothing. Sorry to have bothered you, Sister." "Do you feel well? Would you like me to escort you to your home or call someone?" "No, it's... alright. I'm fine." "Are you positive?" "Yes. I am." "Ah, very well. If you say so. Good day, my son, and God bless." "Good day, Sister." This is insane, pure and simple. I may have thought and hoped that I could find out what's going on and make some sense of it, but I certainly don't think so anymore. Something has to be wrong on a fundamental level here, regardless of whether the problem is with me, the other people or the entire Universe. I stagger back to the corner in what is presumably reminiscent of a drunken daze to an outsider, stand under the roof extension and scan around myself. I see nothing interesting, the same as before, but I feel as though I'm compelled to keep looking anyway. I can't bring myself to walk away and let go, no matter how sensible that would be. I'm far too invested in this to give up, and I know perfectly well the mystery will haunt me for the rest of my life unless I find some answers. Without warning, a painfully brilliant white flash washes out my vision and makes my heart climb up to my throat. I reflexively raise my hand to protect my eyes and bend down, expecting to hear and feel an ear- shattering explosion, but there is only an ominous, empty silence that--- I blink and straighten my back. What am I doing here, standing like a statue in the middle of a sidewalk? What happened? I'm on my way somewhere, that's obvious, but I'm temporarily so stunned that everything else has completely slipped my mind. Did I black out, and why? Maybe I was going to check my makeup. Yeah, that must be it! This is a warm day so there's a chance the mascara could be running. I open my purse, dig inside and fish out my compact. A quick check shows my face is presentable, and my hair is too; I collected it in a tidy but comfy loose bun before going out. No problem there. Well, it didn't hurt to make sure. I close the compact and put it back in my purse, and I take the opportunity to adjust the hem of my red print dress a little. At any rate, I'm still a bit nervous and self-conscious because I'm no closer to remembering what I was supposed to be doing. Hey, wait! Wasn't Rachel here a minute ago? Yes, she was, plus there was a guy. There definitely was a guy, I'm convinced of that, and she was coming on to him. Not very surprising, I might add, but then again, that's just her. Anyway, I'd better be heading back to the apartment. The guys are coming over to watch a movie with us later tonight, and I promised to take care of the snacks (I was thinking cheese croissants, chocolate chip cookies and lots of paper towels to go around--I hate it when people leave crumbs). Besides, the place really needs to be cleaned. I haven't had the time to vacuum it properly for two whole days, and it's getting downright filthy. Not that the others and especially the guys pay much attention to things like that, but fact of the matter is, you can never clean up your house too well. It's so much more pleasant for everybody when your floor and tables are dirt-free and your stuff is nicely organized. Clean is good! I wonder why they don't always get that.