A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter One

     The driver, of course, didn’t see the wolf attack, just that I’d been lying on the highway.  He picked me up, a salesman eager to have someone to talk to -- his incidental saving of my life was nothing more than a fortunate side-effect of his finding a driving companion.  After hearing me tell him about the wolf attack that had nearly taken my life, he made the comment “pretty scary” and then regaled me with tales of his travels, facts about the Empire State and his goals for retirement.

     Because we were heading in the same direction and he was thirsty for company, I ended up bunking with him at the hotel when he stayed for the night, he being eager to have me sleep in the chair in his own hotel room, me, his conversational prostitute.

     And I’d ended up riding with him all the way in to New York City.

     I’d stayed with him again upon our arrival into the city, engaging in another marathon conversation session in his hotel room.  And, although he was a little peculiar, I couldn’t help but like this man, not only because he’d accidentally saved my life, but also because of the incredible knowledge he would disperse, all with the innocence and wondrous thirst of a child.

     Fortunately, he also knew the city well, so it was a good initiation to the city for me to spend my first night there with him.

     Actually, Buddy (that’s his name) and I became friends, and he visits me every time he returns to the city, usually for dinner, some drinks, and long conversations -- the one-sided kind he was so enamored with -- well into the wee hours of the night.

     And, although Buddy never really asked me all that much about me and my personal life, he remembered how we’d met during the wolf attack.  So, he often greeted me with the nickname “Wolfman” never knowing how close he really was to the truth.

     I’d been in the city for almost three weeks before my first experience of lycanthropy.  At the time, after getting over the fact of understanding what had happened to me and the reality of living with it, it was desperately hard to hold a job.  Sure, I wanted to be a writer -- but I had to hold a job to keep an income.  And holding the types of jobs I was skilled for, being a waiter or a delivery driver, was often difficult.  Waking up naked far from home often left me late for work.  Never-mind the times that I’d destroyed my uniform when turning into a wolf before I had the chance to get home and undress.  And trying to avoid the night shift for several days in a row every month by calling in sick often left my employer with another good reason to fire me.

     It wasn’t until I was about six months into my curse that I’d discovered I could put my wolf-blood to good use.  Since becoming a werewolf, my human self was able to retain some of the benefits of my wolfish nature.  My senses were all heightened -- I no longer needed to wear glasses, for example -- and my strength had seemed to double, sometimes quadruple, depending on the proximity of the full-moon.

     My ability to heal also dramatically improved and my constitution has never been better.  I haven’t had a cold or caught a flu virus since becoming a werewolf.

     So while it’s not a glamorous life, it’s not all entirely bad.

     My extra strength and immune system allowed me to work the more dangerous labor jobs that paid well and most people couldn’t stay at long.  Then, later, once building more of a nest egg, I was able move up within the companies I worked for, by being able to see and hear things that normal people missed out on.  In essence, my EQ and ability to interact with and influence people was dramatically improved.  I was able to pull off this incredible charisma.

     It’s how I was able to get an editor to agree to read my first novel.

     Along those same lines, the heightened senses allowed me to more properly explore the senses when writing descriptions in a novel, thus improving my writing style and ability to draw readers right into the scene.