A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Eleven

As I hung up the phone I glanced down at my laptop resting on the desk, the first two hundred or so words of the latest Maxwell Bronte novel on the screen in stark black and white, waiting for me to go on.

     It was about half past nine.  I had to write at least another 4000 words and have them to Mack by 2:00.  It might be tight if there was nothing else for me to do, but Gail needed me.

     So I turned away from the laptop, feeling an almost audible hiss of discontent from it at my betrayal as it settled down into standby mode -- and feeling an even deeper queasy feeling thinking about how I might be screwing myself out of a contract.

     But Gail needed me.

     Despite the fact that she was betrothed to another man, I still had deep feelings for her, still cared about her well-being, and would do whatever I could to help her.

     Not wanting to delay further, I left the apartment and headed down the hall.  Her scent was still there, mingled with that new perfume she’d been wearing, so, while I’d originally decided not to track her scent, I ended up doing just that.

     With the exception, of course, of the elevator ride.  I’d ended up taking a different elevator than the one she’d been in.  In fact, not only wasn’t I graced with Gail’s sweet scent, but I had to share the elevator with this overweight tourist with a particularly nasty combination of a body odor and rye smell to him.

     But worse than that, he felt it mandatory to tell me about which Broadway shows he’d taken in and which landmarks he’d visited while in the city.  He stood beside two small packed suitcases in his red flowered button down shirt, black shorts and, you guessed it, black socks and sandals, so it was evident that he was on his way back home and clawing frantically at the fond memories of his stay in this incredible city.

     It was a relief to both my nostrils and my state of mind when we got to the lobby and I scuttled out of that elevator.

     As I walked the few blocks south down to Grand Central, I followed the exact route Gail had taken, not wanting to miss a beat of where she’d been, exactly how she’d gotten to where she was now.

     And though I was focused on Gail, I still relished in the raw sensation of walking down Fifth Avenue during the busy morning rush.  My first time in this city, I’d gotten here on a weekend, and so, though the tourist traffic was moderate and steady, I had no idea the difference a work-day made.  And since I rarely drive in this city (I still don’t own a car, although I could easily afford to own one or two of them now), I’m talking about sheer pedestrian traffic.

     There’s a thick flow of people occupying almost every part of the sidewalk.  But it’s not a thick, unmoving line, like the kinds you see in the middle of Times Square.  No, they’re all moving in unison, like a pack of army ants in some ways, yet like varying species in another.  That’s because while at first it appears they’re all moving together like some thick running sludge, they’re actually all moving to their own unique agendas, and yet create this marvelous flow of traffic, the way a series of sticks tossed into a set of rapids all move purposely and forward, but all taking slightly different paths as they bounce in different directions off of the rocks.

     While a good part of my werewolf nature (and my human nature, as I never liked crowds) enjoys the freedom of space, there was also something raw, rudimentary and powerful about being swallowed up within such a crowd.

     As I approached the station, I marveled at how Gail didn’t even tell me where in Grand Central she was or where she would meet me.  It was as if she’d known for years about the fact that I was a werewolf and that I retained some of the heightened senses in human form and would thus be able to determine where she was by her scent alone.