I was raised by wolves, of course. Raised by wolves in a plush two-story apartment building downtown. Heaven knows how they got such a nice place, but I do know that it was rent-controlled, and we paid at most half what our neighbors did. My parents kept to themselves mostly, owing to the fact that they were wolves. The neighbors tried to make small-talk at first, but soon realized they would get nothing more than the usual growls and stares. I, too, could get nothing out of them, save the nightly meal at 6:00, over which my father would invariably paw at the newspaper for a few minutes, give up, and tear it to shreds. Needless, to say, parent-teacher conferences were a breeze.
It makes for the perfect excuse, being raised by wolves. “I’m sorry I was late for work, my sense of time is based on the position of the sun in the sky because I was raised by wolves.” Or, “Was that your purse that I was chewing on? I’m sorry, I was raised by wolves, and old habits die hard.” You can hear any such rationalizations on a night in town, coming from some unlit street corner, where I may be haunting. I only come out at night, to wander the streets under cover of darkness. Except for when I come out during the day, which is pretty often too. You might see me in mid-afternoon, crouched next to a newspaper box, waiting to attack. But not from around 2 to 5 PM, as I usually spend this time napping.
Just what am I trying to find? All the townsfolk have their different theories. Some say I prowl for food, having been raised by wolves, and thus inclined toward scavenging my meals from leftovers. This is a fallacy I’ve been waiting to address for some time. When I lived with my parents, I was used to punctual, well-cooked meals, just like any of you at home might eat. I am sick of hearing these urban legends about how unclean I am, or that I eat out of dumpsters. That’s just not me, and I’d like that to be the last time I have to speak of it. But, to return, others say I am forever on the trail of a love I once lost, who disappeared into these same dingy alleyways, one brooding summer night, ages ago. I have a pretty bad memory when it comes to that sort of stuff, but I don’t remember that ever happening. I won’t go ahead and rule it out just yet; if you think you and I once shared a special bond, and are free of any active sores or lesions, feel free to get in touch with me. I’ve attached my contact information. But be careful about what time you call—if it’s towards the first of the month, I might not have gotten my phone bill in on time, so they sometimes shut off my service for a week. Just keep trying, you’ll get me eventually.
There are those who call me a modern day Odysseus, made to wander the Earth forever, in search of the unattainable. I would very much like to agree with them, in that I embody so many attributes of the handsome, noble hero. Except that I have a house. Which I’m fairly certain Odysseus didn’t, because otherwise, why would he be wandering all the time? In my natural habitat, I have cable, and a decent collection of snack foods. I am usually here, except when I’m working. Some say I hold down a steady weekday job as a greeter for the Wal-mart, on the outskirts of town, at the Shop-n-Save plaza. I may sometimes be spotted outside the store front, in my characteristic blue and white markings, on weekday mornings. That is, when Larry, that bastard in the main office, doesn’t have me working nights. Honestly, right when I started I told him I need 8 PM and on free, or else I’ll miss Night Court. In my environment, Larry is my only natural enemy; he attacks often, pointing out my lateness for work, saying things like “You’re forty years-old, and you still work at Wal-Mart. When are you going to grow up?” These are vicious attacks, but it is said that I take my revenge subtly. Legend has it that I keyed his car two summers ago, and blamed it on the new teenage intern. In that respect, I might be responsible for her firing. But it’s not like she brought much to the table anyway.
These are all only myth and folklore, assembled by the common chatter among the townsfolk. The truth is that I am an elusive being, and almost invisible in my environment. Natural selection has given me an uncanny knack for camouflage, and I am all but impossible to spot amongst my habitat of dirty-brown armchairs and Pabst blue-ribbon cans. If you are one of the lucky few who can spot me, though, congratulations—you are in rare company. In these situations, it is custom to approach me reverently, and offer whatever cash you can spare. Because I need beer money.
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