A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Three

Confident that Wally was completely out of harm’s way, I quickened my pace and started walking up State Street.

     I needed to get more distance covered before rush hour, when the chance of being spotted became more of a threat.  Well, at least I had pants now.  And it was a summer day, not all that outrageous to be walking around without a shirt on.

     But still.

     When walking up Broadway, near Liberty Street I was overwhelmed with a flood of sensory memory.  I know that it’s been several years since the tragic events of September 11th, 2001, but I swear I can still smell and taste the acrid smell of electrical fire, the jet fuel, the ash consisting of burnt flesh, concrete, paper, wood plastics and asbestos that I smelled in the days and weeks following the disaster.  It was months before I was able to approach this area from within about 10 blocks without being overcome with not just the smell and taste in the air, but with the horrific memories that went with each sensation.

     Even now, though I swear I can still detect subtle hints of those scents and tastes in the air, I’m sure it’s my mind that conjures it all back to full power.  However, even now, there is no mistaking the very clear smell of utter despair that lingers in the air.  Even years later, there continue to be an endless parade of tourists and visitors to the city who seek out the infamous landmark of Ground Zero; and they feed the area with this lasting olfactory image that constantly threatens to burn itself into my very psyche like a image burned onto a cathode ray tube.

     Needless to say, I was glad to move past that tragic landmark.

     I’d made it about three blocks north when the morning rush hour traffic started to really take form.  That’s when I remembered my appointment with Mack Wilson.  Mack was my literary agent, a tough old codger who always had a cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth (recently more unlit than lit due to the city smoking by-laws) and an insulting quip at the ready.

     Mack was basically a guy with a crusty surface and a good heart.  He was a tough scrapper when it came to negotiations, and I was always glad that he was fighting on my side of the fence.  I’d be afraid to face him down even as a wolf.

     One thing I didn’t ever want to do, however, was piss Mack off for no reason.  He was a punctual man who lived by a certain sense of old fashioned honor and principles such as “a man always honors his commitments” and “a man is only as good as his weakest words” -- they always reminded me of the moral that Spider-Man learned in his very first adventure, that with great power comes great responsibility.  God bless Stan Lee for delivering such basic wisdom in a format that could be easily digested by my young mind and yet continue to guide me throughout my adult life.

     In any case, Mack and I had a breakfast appointment, and seeing a few folks in their business and power suits hustling into and out of cabs and office tower entrances, reminded me of Mack and the fact that we were supposed to be meeting in about an hour.  Yes, Mack was an early riser and we always met at the Metro Market just one street up from The Algonquin.

     Considering where I was and the time I had to get home and change, I wasn’t panicked; but I was realistically concerned.  I mean, hoofing it by foot all the way was no longer an option unless I started running at top speed now and ran the entire distance.  It could be done, but it would be very obvious -- I mean, a man in jogging shorts, running shoes and a headband, sure I could get away with that -- but not shoeless and shirtless in a pair of worn and dirty jeans.  That would just be begging some flatfoot beat cop or patrol car to stop me.  At least my bullet wound was covered now, but still, being noticed even that much would not be a good thing.