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CONFIDENT THAT WALLY was out of harm’s way, I quickened my pace to a light jog 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.
Walking up Broadway, near Liberty Street I was overwhelmed with a flood of sensory memory. I know that it’s been more than a decade since the tragic events of September 11th, 2001, but I swear I could still smell and taste the acrid smell of electrical fire, the jet fuel, and the ash of burnt flesh, concrete, paper, wood, plastics and asbestos. It was months before I was able to approach within about ten blocks of the area 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 odors, I’m sure it’s my mind that conjures it all back to full power. However, there is no mistaking the clear smell of utter despair that still lingers in the air. Even years later, there continues to be an endless parade of tourists and visitors to the city seeking 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 psyche like an 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. Witnessing a bustling middle-aged man in a business suit with a huge scowl shoving fellow pedestrians out of the way in his attempt to cross the street ahead of the crowd huddled there, made me realize the important thing that had been teasing me since I work up.
Mack.
That’s it. I remembered I had a breakfast appointment with Mack Halpin. 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 he was fighting on my side of the battle. I’d be afraid to face him down even as a wolf.
One thing I didn’t ever want to do 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 continue to guide me throughout my adult life.
Assuming it was now some time between 6:15 and 6:30 a.m. Mack and I had a breakfast appointment in about an hour. 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 worried that I might not make it. I mean, hoofing it by foot was no longer an option unless I started running at top speed. 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 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.
I needed to get some sort of vehicular transportation back up to Mid-Town.
The morning rush hour crowd was starting to fill out, and it would be more difficult for me to elude detection. So, at a diner that already had a line down the street, I walked over to the fold-over street sign and hefted it up and over my shoulders, wearing it like a sandwich board.
I started calling out “Eat at Chuck’s Diner” in a monotone voice, and kept walking down the street and around the next block. Sure enough, the faces started to pay no attention to me.
Good old New Yorkers. All you needed to do to get people to ignore you was to try to get their attention
God, but I loved this city.
Another flash of memory from the night before struck me. A low howl of a siren as the scenery flashed by quickly. I was chasing another four-legged creature that was moving as fast as I. The scent ahead of me was confusingly much like the scent of another wolf, which made no sense. I was the city’s only wolf; at least as far as I knew.
I shook my head and tried to dredge the memory back again.
All that returned was the blur of the alley walls as I rushed past them and the two-toned whine of the police siren from about a block away.
I’d made it about three blocks lost in that snip of memory when I finally encountered the scent of someone intrigued by the sign I wore. What I mean is that the curious nature was obvious, but there was a lingering scent of another emotion – desire.
Basically, somebody wanted my sign for themselves.
I started panning the faces of the people nearby. Across the street and about half a block ahead of me sitting on the curb was an older woman in a long trench coat and faded green slacks. Mingled with her emotive scents was the smell of stale sweat and recent flatulence. Spotting her, I smiled and carefully crossed the street.
She held onto the shopping cart beside her – strategically stacked with an assortment of odds and ends several feet higher than the metal cage sides – with a firm grip. I knew from experience with other folks like her that you couldn’t pry her fingers from that cart until she had been dead for several minutes.
She stood as I got within a few feet of her, still not letting go of her cart and her lips formed a wry, gap toothed grin.
“Nice sign, Cookie,” she cackled with a bit of a slur. Fortunately for her, she’d been able to score some alcohol recently. After gaining my special sensory abilities, I was better able not only to communicate with, but to properly understand others whose perceptions I couldn’t quite grasp before. I found myself doing a lot less judging of people now, and simply accepted them for who they were. If alcohol helped her cope with the stress of what her life was, so be it.
“Thanks,” I said. As I stood close to her, it was a bit more difficult to filter out her vodka breath, her sour-milk body odor, and get through to her emotive scents. “Care to make a trade?”
Her grin spread and she took her right hand off of her cart momentarily to run her palms together before clutching it once more.
“You don’t happen to have a shirt my size in that cart of yours, do you?” I smiled.
She paused and glanced at the cart, her head tilting to one side. I could smell her affirmation. She did have what I was looking for. “I might,” she said. “What else you got?”
“C’mon, lady.” I said, throwing my arms up with my palms out. “Look at what I’m wearing. I’ve got nothing but this sign and my pants.”
“Not sure if that’s a good deal for me, Cookie,” she mused, but I could tell she was bluffing. It was as obvious to me as the fact that she’d just released a silent, but foul packet of flatulence into her pants. She still desperately wanted my sign.
“Fine,” I said, starting to turn around. “See you later.”
I made it about three steps, all the while smelling her anxiety growing exponentially.
“Wait a minute, Cookie! Wait a minute!”