A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Thirty

As I continued to walk on stage towards Letterman’s desk – all the while struggling to contain a sudden carnal instinct deep inside that wanted to rush toward the audience, and snarl that this was my city, my territory -- I looked over at the audience trying to determine where the smell was coming from. I gave a tight lipped grin and waved a thank-you for the applause. That encouraged them to cheer and clap louder.

If it hadn’t been for just smelling the other somewhere near, I think I would have enjoyed the sensation of having such an enthusiastic crowd making all that noise for me. But as it was, I was distracted and on alert.

The bright lights prevented me from seeing anything more than the vague shape and outlines of the audience members, and the scent I’d detected a few seconds ago was no longer there no matter how many times I breathed in. Walking towards the stage, I breathed deeply again, realising I had completely lost the scent. I forced myself to keep walking towards the host who was standing behind his desk and smiling at me.

Still on guard and feeling completely on edge regarding another wolf being detected in the area, not to mention being filmed for national television broadcast, I tried to tune in to the various other noises going on below the roar of the crowd and Shaffer’s band which was playing the hook from the sound-track to Print of the Predator. I could hear snippets of stage management and camera and light directions being given, the sound of someone walking in a catwalk above, but nothing at all to suggest the other was actually here.

Could it just be my nerves acting up?

I reached Letterman and he put out his hand, welcomed me to the show in a voice meant just for the two of us, then waited for me to turn, smile and wave at the audience and sit down before he dropped back into the chair behind his desk.

“Thanks for coming on the show,” he said in a voice that this time was picked up by the boom mike.

“It’s an honour to be here, Dave.”

“So tell me something,” David said. “I look at your publishing history, the number of books you’ve had out in just the past ten years, the fact that your novels are being turned into blockbuster Hollywood hits and I think, okay, this guy is a writer. So why doesn’t he look like one?”

The audience laughed. I smiled.

“Thanks. I think.” The audience laughed even harder at my response. This felt good.

“Seriously,” he said. “You’re a good looking guy. Tall, dark, handsome. Full head of hair, a charming smile. You dress normal. You don’t seem to be a loner. I mean, here’s a picture of you at the premiere of your last movie release with an incredibly gorgeous woman on your arm.” At that point David gestured towards an off-stage monitor we could both see where the producers had cut to a picture of me walking the red carpet with Gail. I remembered that night clearly and how fantastic it felt – as if it were yesterday.

“I mean,” he continued. “When the average person thinks of an author, we imagine a few things. An ugly guy wearing wrinkled smelly clothes at least a decade out of style and likely the wrong size. Pasty skinned from not having been outside in the sun for weeks at a time. Squirreled away in a dark room that smells of cigarettes and coffee, completely alone, except perhaps for a handful of cats crawling around the chair, desk and book-cases surrounding him. Pulling his hair out or slamming his face down on his desk as he struggles with writer’s block.”

On the off-stage screen, the photo of Gail and I was replaced with a black and white sketch with the superimposed text “Artist’s Rendition” showing a hideous looking man with dark circles under his eyes and a look on his face akin to Edvard Munch’s The Scream sitting at a desk with a typewriter on it and a litter of cats circling his feet.