Excerpt

Friday, July 31, 2015

5:54 AM

You'd think, after all this time, that I'd be used to it.

But no matter how many times I wake up naked, with my body mostly hidden away in some sort of greenery and no memory of the previous night or how I got there, it is still a startling way to begin my day.

Since I have no conscious memory of the change between man and wolf, I have to rely on how Gail, my closest friend, has described it. She says it looks like a cross between an episode of violent childbirth and the Wicked Witch of the West melting as, over the space of about sixty seconds, I change from a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound human into a one-hundred-pound, six-foot-long grey wolf.

The memory loss is likely a sanity-preserving side effect of the terrifying physical transmogrification.

I imagine these mornings are similar to what career drunks or drug addicts might experience waking up in strange places every morning, those first few confusing seconds at least. For me it's a little different. Sadly, there's no manual, no Werewolves for Dummies book to help explain my specific situation or predicament. But I have, at least, established a bit of a routine, or a process, of dealing with the cycles of the wolf I experience every month. I tend to plan out most of my transformations in the large green space of southern Central Park in Manhattan, and have the presence of mind to hide a change of clothes for the next day.

Where else, after all, can a werewolf safely make his change in such a large metropolis?

* * *

As I sit up and pay attention to my surroundings, I take in the sights, sounds, and smells and recognize the part of the park where I am, an area known as the Ramble, across the Lake from Strawberry Fields, the well-visited memorial to John Lennon.

One of my usual clothes-stash areas is just a few meters north of Bow Bridge. I have a half-dozen stash areas. Sometimes a crafty homeless person comes across one of them, or a small animal tears the bag apart to use some of the clothes for nesting material.

I listen for anyone nearby.

And, despite being male, listening is something I do extremely well. Or at least, in an enhanced way. When in human form, I retain heightened senses, extraordinary strength, and a super-charged immune system. Those side-effects come in extremely handy.

The closest human-generated sound is a pair of joggers on the other side of the Loeb Boathouse about a quarter of a mile across the lake. Dozens of birds are singing a multitude of beautiful choruses and zipping about in the treetops. There's a rabbit about twenty feet or so north of me that pauses in its shuffling and tenses into high alert the moment I started to stand up. And a few feet to my left, a squirrel is scurrying up a tree.

But, other than that, I'm alone. It takes me less than a minute to make my way to the fortunately unmolested stash of clothes, tucked in a small crevasse between the thick roots of a tree trunk.

One can't simply walk down 5th Avenue butt naked, after all.

I pull the day's ensemble—a cheap pair of track pants, a t-shirt and sneakers—out of their plastic bag, a bit damp from the rain and heavy fog yesterday afternoon.

At least I have clothes.

As I pull the pants on, I cringe slightly at the dampness. Once I have them on, I see a fully soaked spot about two inches wide, located dead center at my crotch. Great. The wet spot, which, on the grey material is as subtle as a slap in the face with a trout, makes me look like I've wet myself.

When I finish dressing, I head over to the trail, cross Bow Bridge, then head south through the park. There's something calming and peaceful about being in the park this early, before it starts to fill with local joggers and dog walkers, and later on with tourists. I quite relish this part of my walk. It's a great chance to recharge and refresh the mind, preparing me for a decent hour or two of writing.

My writing time will be limited this morning because of my plans to meet Gail, the only woman I've ever loved or trusted with the truth of my condition, at eight a.m. for breakfast. We're meeting at a café in the East Village not far from Gail's metaphysical supply store, Enchanting Magic. Gail has owned the shop for more than a decade. She has three staff members who work for her, but she regularly likes to be the one to open the shop, which she does at eleven a.m. most weekdays. It is typically quiet there until mid-afternoon.

The fifteen-minute walk to The Algonquin Hotel, which is my full-time residence, is a chance for me to contemplate the next scene in the Maxwell Bronte novel that I'm working on. Although, to be honest, picturing Gail's smile across the diner table from me keeps interrupting my thoughts.

Gail and I had something truly special once. A love like nothing I had ever experienced before. And I screwed that up. But at least we are friends, dear friends. Despite the fact I wish there could be more, despite the fact I can sense she does too, though she isn't able to be more than friends right now. She is still coming to terms with recently finding out her ex-fiancé was an underworld criminal. And I have no intention of pushing her. So I'll be there for her as a friend, and I'll wait patiently until she is ready, the way she patiently attends to me when I am forced to spend the night as a wolf when I'm trapped inside.

But in the meantime, I really need to get a new hobby. Something to stop me from obsessing over her.

"We're good friends," I mutter as I leave the park on my way to cross West 59th Street. "We're good friends." It's a mantra I have to keep repeating to myself.

"Buddy, we just met," says a gruff male voice off to my left. "How about you buy me a coffee and at least ask me my name before we get that intimate?"

I look over to my left to see a homeless guy leaning against the low brick wall at the edge of Central Park. He looks like he is in his mid-sixties, with weathered, sun-baked and leathery skin, smelling of sweat from wearing the same clothes for weeks. He has a hearty and healthy heartbeat, and, obviously, a good sense of humor and a solid mind.

I smile at him as I pause on the sidewalk, turn towards him, and pat at the tops of my legs where pockets would be if I had any. "Wish I could, my friend. Afraid I'm fresh out at the moment. I'm Michael."

"S'all good," he says. "You can call me Saul."

"Good to meet you, Saul. We'll have to take a rain check on that coffee, okay?"

"Sounds good," Saul says. Then he notices the wet spot on the front of my pants. "Tell you what, Michael. If you come into any dough, maybe you should invest in a pair of Depends. Sound like a plan?"

I laugh, looking down at the still obvious blotch of dark wetness.

"It's a marvelous plan," I tell him, and then turn to continue my walk.

"You have yourself a good day, Michael," he says. "May the wind be ever at your back."

"You too, Saul." I call over my shoulder.

Over the years my extrasensory abilities have allowed me the chance to really understand the unique comraderies of the people of this city, all of them—from the ones living in the richest towers to the ones who struggle to find a spot to sleep at night. On the surface, the Big Apple can appear cold and harsh. But underneath, it's no different than any other city or town. Sure, there are jerks. But there's also some decent heart.

I manage to make it back to the hotel without anyone else making commentary about the wet spot across my crotch. That's not to say people don't notice. I can sense and scent their reactions. I often wonder if the unspoken judgements we hold against strangers could sometimes be harsher than words spoken in truth.

I make it up to my room and am greeted by a blinking light on my phone. There is a voicemail waiting for me.

The first message is from Gail at 9:20 p.m. last night.

"Hi Michael. It's me," the message says. "Just letting you know that I won't be able to meet you for breakfast in the morning. I'm on my way to the airport to catch a flight to Vermont. It's my Uncle Albert. He had a stroke. I'm grabbing the first flight. I'll let you know when I get in."

The devastation in her voice is intense. Uncle Albert wasn't just a favorite uncle to Gail. He was, and still is, a father figure to her. He practically raised her.

The next message is also from Gail. It came in at 3:41 a.m.

"Hi Michael. I'm at the University of Vermont Medical Center in Burlington. I'm with Uncle Albert. He's not doing well. He's still unconscious and his vital signs are weak."

I can almost smell the fear and helplessness in her voice.

The third message from Gail came at 5:01 a.m.

"There's been no change. I don't know," her voice breaks and she lets out a stifled sob, "I don't know what I would do without him, Michael." There is a long pause while she struggles to gain some composure. "Also, my phone is down to one percent battery. I didn't pack a charging cable, so I likely won't be able to call again for a while. I will when I can."

Uncle Albert is well beyond a favourite uncle and mentor; he's the one person in the family she could count on for support and guidance when things went south for her and she stumbled in her teen years. He is the inspiration and the support she counts on in order to pick herself back up, to keep going any time she feels herself slipping. His presence, his love, and his compassion were among the main reasons she didn't take her own life when she was in her darkest, weakest moment. Uncle Albert is the one person she can count on to be there for her when she needs it the most.

The immediacy of the moment hit me hard. I understand how alone, how vulnerable, how terrified Gail must feel.

I needed to get to Vermont.