The Wolf King

I found an old note among the stack of my papers.  The writing on it is obviously mine. Obviously, because it is unintelligible. Still, while I can, after some effort, discern what it says, short notes referring to jokes, four of them, I can not recall the jokes themselves. It's been a while.

I can however recall the occasion when I used this note, and will try to describe it below. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. As I said, it all happened many years ago.

I walked out of the cafe where I injected my daily dose of caffeine, and saw sitting at one of the handful of tables outside my good friend. I had prepared this note as a reminder of these four jokes for the next time we saw each other.  Our relationship at the time was mostly about relating to each other jokes we had heard and not much else.  I sat down next to him, he was sipping his espresso, reading the  novel  I had recommended a month or so earlier.   I remembered the four jokes without having to consult the note in the back pocket of my jeans and recited them one by one.

In exchange, he told me four jokes of his,  and as always we had ourselves a fun time. I told him then that I was out of jokes,  and was about to get up and go on my way, when a pedestrian approached our table asking if we could spare  a cigarette.

My friend pulled out a pack of Winstons, I my pack of Gitanes, and he took one of each, saying, "Thanks, why not!" stuck the Winston in his mouth and asked for a light.  I then reached for the gold lighter that I had found, some said stolen, the previous year while working at a downtown hotel, and I lit his fag.  He inhaled like he hadn't smoked for days, and then asked my friend, "What are you reading, mister?"  My friend flashed the cover of the book and said, "A book narrated by a dog."

"Ah," said the stranger, "I haven't read a book narrated by a dog since Jack London."

"'Call of the Wild' is not narrated by a dog," corrected my friend.

"Whatever," replied the stranger, "but I did spend time with wolves!"

"Oh," I said, disbelieving, "are you a foundling?"  I remembered stories, legends of children raised by wolves, was he one of them? I look at him more carefully now.  He reminded me of the photograph of John Phillips on the cover of his solo album The Wolfking of L.A., recorded after the breakup of the Mamas and the Papas quartet, the brilliant work hailed at the time by critics and completely ignored by listeners, a failure leading to the destruction of John's career.  The same pose, the same dangerous look.

He laughed, "No, I was a zoologist working on my Ph.D thesis up in Canada.  Befriended a pack, wrote about them, defended my thesis, got my degree and lost my job. I was too animal like, you might say. Or that's what they told me, anyhow."

He continued.

"I've been inside their holes, their caves, man. Once they're used to you, you become their buddy. But you have to earn their trust and never show weakness. Never.  Wolves will stay away from anything they don't know, so they have to first get used to you, and that takes time.   Once they approach you, sniff you, and get to know you, you have to go through a ritual with them.  Get on your knees, and let them lick your face, let them put their jaws around your head, put their tongues in your mouth, they are measuring you. Don't move, don't ever make sudden moves. After that, everything is copacetic."

"Like women?" said my friend, and we all had a good laugh. I let the stranger have the rest of my pack of Gitanes.