Woofin'
by Alex Juffer
My friend told me the lead singer of the punk rock band, Woofin’, was a werewolf. Yeah, sure, I told her, a werewolf, and Tom Waits is a hobgoblin. The singer in question, Kristiana, reportedly had hair shooting out of her armpits, blanketing her legs, and crawling up the back of her neck. But that’s normal. Normal enough. We forget to shave for a week and some guy will call us a werewolf.
I decided to go see for myself. The show was in a condemned warehouse rigged with construction lights and a generator powering the amps. A few bands that all sounded the same played and someone passed me a little circular pill with a Z stamped on it. I dry swallowed it. I’d just been broken up with, old school—tears, slamming doors, carpet-bombing insults. Now all the blondes looked like her, all the brunettes like the girl who stole her away. I needed a change and chemicals seemed the most dependable way to achieve it.
Woofin’ came on and, yes, Kristiana embraced her naturally grown hair. Her shoulders were rounded with muscle and she performed as if she wanted to take a bite out of the microphone. But when she howled, the crowd howled in response, and I forgot all about my growing suspicion that I didn’t just miss my ex, I missed the volatility, the lust, and the feeling that I didn’t need my own direction if I could follow hers.
But it was simply a suspicion. You can’t be your own private investigator, especially when the evidence hurts too much to catalog.
After the show, everyone migrated down to this rocky beach where people were known to set their trash on fire. My body moved slapdash and my mind threw a fit, mistaking thoughts for emotions, emotions for desires. I wanted to live in the world—in the dancing and laughter and clink of bottles against teeth—but my heart kept scribbling out bad poetry. I sat on stacked microwaves and drank until it mellowed the pill out.
Furry feet stuffed into size 15 Birkenstocks planted themselves before my downward gaze. I looked up at Kristiana and couldn’t conjure a single damn word so I smiled all teeth like a gremlin. She reached down and picked me up by the back of my bomber jacket. She sniffed my hair and, satisfied, licked my cheek with her gravelly tongue. I could have hung there all night. It felt good to no longer be responsible for my body.
I managed to get out that I loved the show. She snorted and set me down. I watched her chug a PBR and amble down the shoreline. A guy ran up to ask for a photo and she open-paw slapped him, drawing blood. He seemed ecstatic.
I ended up getting her number from one of the bandmates. I let the conversation go on too long for the attention, so to end it I told him that I preferred women. He took it personally, as they always do.
I waited three days before texting Kristiana. She replied with emojis at odd hours, sending a downhill skier and pineapple at 4 a.m., but I got the idea. She’s a storyteller and inclined to mess with mediums. I kept inviting her to things and rearranging my schedule for her. The chase felt like penance for all the games I used to play, but it left me frazzled after too much dodging. Maybe she wanted me to debase myself. Maybe I needed to debase myself. I at least wanted an audience for it; that didn’t seem too much to ask.
I unblocked my ex to see if she had tried to contact me. Nothing. I blocked her again.
I searched for Woofin’s music but could only find it on obscure websites, uploaded by fans. The audio sounded fuzzy and distant. I listened over and over, trying to decipher the lyrics. After a while all the phrases turned gluey and I could hear anything I wanted to hear.
Eventually, Woofin’ posted the date of a new show. It was in the same neighborhood, outside, at the remains of a burnt-down pizzeria. Kristiana sang until her voice went raw and 3 coarse, but kept at it, flaying her throat. A hundred of us were pressed up against the wide tables they used to make pizzas on. The band stood on the brick husks of the wood-fired ovens. I kept waiting for Kristiana to notice me, but clumpy hair hid her face. She could have been performing in an empty room.
After, ears ringing, we all went down to the beach again. The air was cool and damp and heavy. I felt too drunk so I smoked a cigarette and waited for Kristiana to get within shouting distance. She was busy showing off her howl, so I talked to a girl wearing a white shirt with no bra and made a point of maintaining eye contact.
White light suddenly rippled the oil-slicked river. The full moon had come out from behind a cloud. We all turned to Kristiana to see if the rumors were true. The change was instantaneous. She shed the excess hair, her muscles shrank, and her pale body shone in the moonlight. Seeing her there--vulnerable, leather drooping off her body, searchlight eyes--revolted me. The pity was collective. I cast my eyes away and waited for her to transform back. By the time I looked up, Kristiana had fled. The rest of us finished our beers and slipped off into the night.
As I took the subway back home, I thought about how much I hated her music. How I had always hated it.
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