Mostly I chased rabbits and, I’m pretty sure, the calico cat who belongs to the art director who lives two mansions down from me. I also went after some night birds, one of which might’ve been an owl.
Fortunately, I didn’t catch anything and my interest in hunting waned after about half an hour. I was wheezing some as I headed for home. Probably from the exertion. “Jesus, I hope I’m not allergic to my own fur. Or maybe it’s wolf dander that’s causing the wheeze.”
Back in my living room, I decided to call Bernie Hersh. I really needed somebody I trusted to take a look at me and confirm that I wasn’t simply hallucinating. I only had to push one button on my phone with my clumsy fur-covered finger and say, “Hersh,” to get the phone to dial his number.
“You’ve reached the residence of Bernard Hersh, one of America ’s most respected wordsmiths. Unfortunately, I’m home at the moment and have to answer the damn phone myself.”
“It’s Tim, Hersh. I have a serious-”
“I can e-mail you a list of rehab centers, therapists, priests, rabbis, and others who can deal with your nitwit daughter,” he said. “I also know a guy who can put her in a sack and convey her to the jungles of Guatemala.”
“This isn’t about Beth, it’s-”
“Whoever might she be? I’m alluding to your daughter, Mutiny Skylark, who was booted out by-”
“Listen,” I cut in, “I’ve got a more pressing problem.”
“Well, I might be able to help you find a new job, but-”
“You knew I was fired from Nose Job?”
“Everybody from Santa Rosa to Tijuana knows you were fired from the show. Let’s have lunch tomorrow and-”
“Could you drop over here?”
“To pick you up tomorrow?”
“Tonight. Right now. Immediately.”
“Are you ailing? Your voice does sound like you’re in the throes of bronchitis or-”
“I need a reliable witness.”
Hersh said, “Fifteen minutes,” and ended the call.
“Did they move Halloween up a few months?” inquired Hersh as he crossed the threshold.
“I am a wolf-man, right? You can see that? I mean, I’m not simply suffering from hallucinations or delusions?”
“You look like a wolf, for sure, old buddy,” he assured me as he shut my heavy front door. “Why have you made yourself up like that?”
“It’s not makeup.” I led him into the living room. “I just… suddenly changed.” And, sitting uneasily down in a redwood and leather chair, I told him what had happened.
Hersh wandered over to a window to gaze up at the starry sky. “That’s funny.”
“What’s funny, the fact that I’ve been transformed into a loathsome-”
“No, the fact that there’s only a half-moon tonight.”
“Hey, you’re right.” I tried to snap my fingers but discovered you can’t do that with hairy fingers. “Traditionally werewolves only change during a full moon.”
“Having scripted not only The Werewolf Hunter but True Yarns from the Graveyard and the unjustly short-lived soaper Haunted Hospital, I’ve become something of an expert on occult and supernatural stuff.” He seated himself on the sofa. “In my opinion, this is unusual behavior for a werewolf.”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “this isn’t anything supernatural at all. It could be a very nasty allergic reaction to something I ate.”
Narrowing his left eye, my friend looked directly at me. “You really think so?”
My furry shoulders sank. “No,” I admitted. “Now, wolf-men change back into human form comes the dawn, don’t they?”
“Traditional wolf-men, yeah.”
My nose started to itch, but when I tried to scratch it, it wasn’t where it usually was. At the end of my furry snout it was and of a rubbery texture. “Let’s get to why I’m in this current state.”
“Have you been bitten by a werewolf of late?”
“C’mon, Hersh. Until I turned into one, I never actually believed that werewolves existed.”
“Well, according to occult experts, there are only so many ways you can make a sudden transition like this,” said Hersh. “If you haven’t had any direct contact with a werewolf, then I’d guess that someone either put a spell on you or slipped you a potion.”
“Would that work?”
“You are sitting there covered with fur from head to toe. Something did it.”
“A magic potion, an evil spell. Who’d do anything like that to me?”
“Besides your erstwhile wife, you mean?”
Shaking my head, I raised my hairy hand to tick off my fingers. When I saw my wolf-man hand up close, I abandoned the notion. “Firstly, Mandy knows that most wolves don’t earn enough money to pay much in the way of alimony,” I explained. “Secondly, it’s too late to change the title of I Married an Asshole to I Married a Werewolf.”
“Possibly,” Hersh conceded.
“Third, and most important. She doesn’t know diddly about black magic and sorcery.”
“This is LA, Tim. There are more witches, warlocks, and sorcerers hereabouts than any other spot on Earth, except maybe San Francisco,” he told me. “Take this guy Vincent X. Shandu, who’s the hottest mystic going. Calls himself a necromancer and charges a thousand bucks an hour. Or Professor Estling, who-”
“Who the hell would pay a grand to turn me into a shaggy beast?”
“Some warlocks charge less. We’ll have to find out who did the job.”
“How?”
“When I was writing Vampire Cops for HBO, we had an occult detective as a consultant,” Hersh said. “Name’s Fletcher Boggs. I’ll call the guy tomorrow and try to set up an appointment for you to-”
“What’ll he charge?”
“A lot less than a thou.”
“Okay,” I said after about half a minute. “Talk to Boggs. Does he make house calls? I don’t want to venture out in the world looking like this. Even with dark glasses and a hat-”
“Case like yours, he’ll come here.” He stood, moving toward the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow, soon as I find out anything.” He stopped just short of the doorway. “Or would you like to spend tonight at our place? Dottie is very understanding about-”
“Not that understanding,” I said as I followed him to the door. “I’ll be okay here by myself. And I really do appreciate your help.”
Hersh took hold of the brass doorknob. “Do you mind if we don’t shake hands?”
It had been, to put it mildly, a trying day. After attempting to pace back and forth across the living room, a process that usually helps me clarify my thinking, I decided to go up to bed. Pacing on furry feet, I found, didn’t aid my thinking at all.
I usually sleep in a pajama top. That night, my first as a wolf-man, the idea of taking off my clothes didn’t appeal to me. Nor did the idea of brushing my teeth.
I’d sleep in my plaid shirt and khakis. Stretched out atop the bedspread, I propped up three fat pillows and picked up the book I’d been reading from the bedside table. It was that bestselling self-help book, Trample ’Em Underfoot: The Route to Success.
Trouble was, it made me uneasy to look at my currently furry hands holding the damn book. Tossing it to the floor, I grabbed up the TV remote. After a couple of tries I was able to poke the on button with sufficient force to get the big set looming at the foot of the bed to come to life.
“Now some exclusive KMA-TV footage of the so-called Wolf-Man of Westwood,” said the handsome, though aging, news co-anchor. “Pretty interesting stuff isn’t it, Camilla?”
“Wolf-man?” I sat up.
The camera pulled back to include the stunning raven-haired Camilla Cardy. “It sure is, Will. And we want to thank viewer Wally Needham for donating this sensational footage that he was lucky enough to capture with his cell phone.”
“As we reported an hour ago on KMA’s All Night All News,”said Will Noonan in his deep, handsome voice, “the alleged wolf-man was first spotted earlier this evening prowling the side streets of Westwood Village. Thus far police have found no trace of him.”