Several years ago, while traveling in Mobile, Alabama, I found myself with a terrible toothache. Not having extra funds to spend on luxuries such as dental care, I made my way to an almost free clinic on the outskirts of town. I cooled my heels in the waiting room, surprised and pleased to see there were only three other people; a mother, her young son and a grizzled old man with a beard and walking cane.

The room looked like something from the 1950's. Creaky hardwood floors, glass doorknobs and walls painted a sickly pale green. Hanging on the clinic walls were posters of Big Bird and Kermit the Frog along with black and white pictures of seven or eight U.S. Presidents in simple black frames. I skimmed a Reader's Digest, engrossed in a story about a bulldog from Ohio named Sadie that had 'adopted' a baby pig. The old man was staring into space and occasionally humming and the boy was asking his mother the names of the Presidents on the walls surrounding us.

"Who's this one that looks like his mouth hurts?" the boy asked. 

"Jimmy, you should know that one---that's George Washington; the very first president and probably the best of the lot." Then, with an unusual measure of pride in her voice, she added he was, "first in war, first in peace and first in the hearts of his countrymen."

"Well, looks like his teeth hurt awful bad. Did he use this same dentist?"

Just then the nurse came in and summoned the young boy. He and his mom left for the torture chamber, leaving the old man and me alone. There was complete silence for a few seconds and then the man mumbled something under his breath.

"Dan-berewove-awat-a-buzz"...is what he seemed to say.

I was going to let it pass, but to be sociable asked, "Excuse me, sir, are you addressing me?" No response at first and then he cleared his throat and spoke, "Damn werewolf is what he was."

I don't hear remarks like that everyday so was intrigued. Angling my head toward the portrait just referenced I asked, "George Washington was a werewolf?"

"That's what I said."

"Well I've read quite a bit on GW and never had him pegged for a werewolf. How did you come by that, if you don't mind me asking?" 

"I didn't come by it---it came by me. Oral history's what they call it now, but the story was passed by word of mouth and down to me, lo these many years."

I could hear the young boy in the next room begin to wail. The dentist was just getting down to business---raised voices and the sound of a pleading mother poured through the walls. It seemed like it would be a while in the waiting room and the old man had an interesting look about him. I put down the magazine and moved over a couple chairs to be closer to where he sat. "Hello sir, my name's Danny Cantien. I'd be very interested to know your story".

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Cantien," he replied, sticking out a thin hand to shake. "I'm Atticus. Atticus Jefferson, originally from up in Virginia, but now living right here in town. My great great grandfather was a slave back in Washington's time. He had the occasion several times to meet a Mr. William Lee---Billy Lee, as he was known---who was the famous valet of George Washington from 1768 until Washington died in 1799. Of course back then Mr. Lee was referred to as a manservant."

Being a history buff, I'd read of Billy Lee. He was the only one of Washington's slaves that was freed upon Washington's death. The rest, some 150 of them, were freed after Mrs. Washington passed. Billy Lee was known as a great horseman who tended to Washington's steeds and took care of many personal and domestic duties including setting out his clothes and brushing Washington's long hair---he even served along side the General during that awful winter at Valley Forge in '76 and the siege at Yorktown.

"I have heard of Billy Lee", I said, "but how does this all tie into Washington being a werewolf?"

"Not only was he a werewolf, he darn near became a vampire." He looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. "Well if you really want to know...how I learned about it goes way back. "Billy Lee," he started, then looked me squarely in the eyes to make sure I was soaking it in, "in his last days on this good earth, told the story to his friend who told it to my great great grandfather, who passed it down through our family to this day."

"How does it go?" I asked.

"Well it starts in 1743. The stepfather of young George died when the boy was only eleven. The old man didn't leave him squat---a measly hundred acres, a few slaves and a modest house near Fredericksburg." Atticus cleared his throat again and looked up at the picture of Washington. "He left the two older boys all the good stuff---for instance his stepbrother, Lawrence, who was fourteen years older, got Mount Vernon and thousands of acres of land. Lawrence liked George though, and George had a hero worship thing going on with Lawrence. The older stepbrother became a kind of de facto mentor to George. But the plot really thickened when George was sixteen and on his first surveying party in the Shenandoah. Back then, that area was really harsh wilderness." Atticus gave a far away look and began the story that had been passed down through the years.

It was after nightfall and the small surveying party in the western mountains of Virginia was beginning to bed down. The mountain air was bitter cold. There was a dense fog and the yellow dancing spires from the cook fire the only source of light. A faint mist hung in the air and the men were wet from head to toe. It had been a long hard day and they had gotten a fair share of surveying done. There had been signs of Indians but fortunately none had shown themselves. They had also seen wolf tracks---very LARGE wolf tracks and young George had been concerned after coming across them. An old man, the veteran of the bunch, spit and tersely said, "Dire Wolf" immediately upon seeing the size of the prints, but George knew the Dire Wolf to be extinct and that it was no doubt just a big gray. Around the campfire the old man brought up the wolf again. "That old Dire Wolf has an evil about him...legend has it that he's trying to come back from extinction and looking to rob the souls of thems that can help him---and that a man can draw great strength in exchange for sharing his own and others' blood." It was campfire talk and George knew it was being shared in part to scare him. But another side of him knew the old man believed the legend himself.

Atticus reshuffled in his chair trying to get comfortable. He was quite old and kind of bony. He paused, looked at me as if questioning whether I really wanted to hear it. I urged him to go on. "That night something strange, unholy and historic happened," he continued.

George was asleep in his tent. It was right around midnight when a very large wolf---who knows if it was the Dire Wolf or not---came noiselessly to the entrance of the tent. He padded up as if floating on a cushion of air. The wolf cleared his throat and then called out to young George in a hoarse whisper. 

 "George, it's Lawrence".

I sat on the edge of my chair, unconsciously holding my breath. I could relate to an animal speaking since I had shared that experience many times. Atticus went on.

George had been fast asleep but subconsciously he was startled. He awoke...Lawrence was NOT in the surveying party. In fact he was in South America serving as a soldier. Confused, George opened the tent flap. In a flash, the wolf snapped at the young, exposed arm. It was not a hard bite but instead a nip, almost like an Indian would 'count coup' in touching an enemy. George shouted out. The wolf disappeared. The camp awoke and several men ran to his side.'It's nothing', he said,' just a nick'. But it was bleeding and the old man bandaged it before they all went back to bed. The eerie thing...the haunting thing...was that large wolf tracks were found next to the tent, but showed only two feet instead of four.

"Next morning George was all stiff and feverish," Atticus continued. "He stayed in camp that day while the men went about their surveying but you can be sure he kept a firearm and sword next to him. The wolf never came back. In a few days all seemed to return to normal. If anything, George seemed to be feeling even better than normal. Over the next three years he went through a growth spurt, adding height, weight and muscle, and along with that, gaining strength and confidence.

"Other people noticed it too," Atticus remarked. "And this you can check in the history books because I did. He became the biggest guy around, the best horse back rider, the best dancer and the best everything. His legs strengthened to where these days he would have made a great football running back. Even ol' skeptical, jealous Thomas Jefferson wrote in one description that, 'Washington was the best horseman of the age'. You've heard the story of how he threw a stone from the bed of a stream to the top of Natural Bridge? Well that's 215 feet and it's true, too. Charles Wilson Peal, who painted the famous portrait you see up yonder on that wall? He wrote that while he was at Mount Vernon one day painting, he and a few other young studs were out in the yard throwing a heavy iron bar for fun and exercise. Washington showed up and without even taking off his coat, threw it way beyond their attempts. Everyone everywhere took notice of his strength. It seemed to be unnatural how strong he was and in any room he was a head taller than the rest of the men. On foxhunts it was said he could go for seven or eight hours straight, bounding over fences and was always there for the kill. His determination and physical stamina became legendary in a few short years."

I agreed. I'd read similar stories, but said that didn't prove he was a werewolf.

Atticus heard my objection but discounted it with a wave of his hand and interjected with an aside, "The literature and etymology goes back quite a ways. The word werewolf was first made popular by Archbishop Wulfstan of York, England in 1008. Bet you didn't know that did you? Those who study the phenomenon in a serious fashion, like myself, call it Lycanthropy. Look it up," he said. "Shapeshifters similar to werewolves are common in folklore from all over the world, most notable among American Indians. And folklore has a way of often being true. So the fact that George was thus afflicted should not come as a complete surprise especially given the ruggedness of the wilderness and the dangers to which he exposed himself."

Atticus didn't break stride and with only a brief pause continued the story."Then when fighting broke out during the French and Indian War, he acted outside the norm of common human behavior even more. As bullets whizzed all around him, Washington later wrote, and I'm quoting here from the history books, "There is something charming in the sound." Atticus sniffed. "Something charming in the sound of bullets whizzing past you? I don't think so. The man was fearless for a reason; it would take a silver bullet to kill him since he was a werewolf. But there was something else that happened in those couple years after 1748. After the wolf bite."

"What's that?" I was almost afraid to ask.

"The history books said George had to stop his surveying work at the age of nineteen when Lawrence became ill with tuberculosis. George went with him to Barbados, where Lawrence hoped the warm weather would help him recover. The books cite that this was the only trip outside of the original thirteen colonies George took during his entire life. The history also reports that while in Barbados Washington caught smallpox, but he recovered. So that years later, during the Revolutionary War, having already had the disease, he was immune while hundreds of soldiers died from the pox. These are all historical facts you can double check."

"So?" I said.

"What the history books don't tell you is that it's a medical fact that werewolves can't get smallpox." He coughed and continued. "They also don't tell you that while in Barbados, George sought out the assistance of a Haitian voodoo woman who specialized in breaking spells and curses. He knew that the wolf bite had been a life changer. He was looking to have the curse of the Dire Wolf---the curse of the werewolf---removed. Not only had he grown incredibly strong, smart and almost invincible, he was having strange and unnaturally strong urges toward women. And he was beginning to morph into a vampire. George liked the feelings of strength and invincibility but he was also afraid of his new powers. He became unexplainably attracted to the shapely necks of beautiful young women and found himself overly sensitive to the bright sunlight of the tropics. He also spent long nights tramping around houses of ill repute in the poorer sections of Barbados. His brother Lawrence noticed and became concerned. Though dying himself, Lawrence wrote to a friend back in Virginia about the 'strange gleam in George's eyes, his noticeable fixed gazes on the necks of young damsels and how George's longish kanine (sic) teeth seemed to have grown in length by a factor of two the last few months.'

"Yes, indeed," Atticus said with a slight chuckle, "Brother Lawrence was on to him! Whatever solution George sought from the voodoo woman didn't help. Repressed and deprived back in dreary old Virginia, George was making up for lost time by majoring in sex education in Barbados! His appetite was insatiable. No local records remain but word has it that many a young woman succumbed to his charms during the time of his visit."

Atticus cleared his throat, looked around the waiting room to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. "Another strange thing occurred, too," Atticus said. "While in Barbados George acquired a flying monkey and the two became inseparable for awhile."

I raised an eyebrow and had to let that one sink in. Atticus acknowledged my doubt with an understanding glance, but continued. "Named him Milton---apparently Milton was the result of a love tryst between a large Peruvian fruit bat and a Central American Squirrel Monkey and somehow found his way to Barbados. He took to riding up on George's shoulder the way a parrot might sit atop a pirate's shoulder---spoke the King's English, too. Washington came to count on him a lot. George would send Milton off on errands or to scout for attractive women---having an aerial perspective proved to be an efficient way to cut down on the time it took for courting." Atticus chuckled. "Milton was also quite charming in his own right and would serve as a sort of one-monkey escort service to screen and then send attractive women George's way. During this period, George sported a long overcoat---more like a trench coat really, popular with pirates of the time. And you can bet the two of them cut quite a figure while prowling the waterfront by day and the town at night."  

 I had my own thoughts about the addiiton of the monkey to the story, but kept them to myself. Atticus spoke. "Despite the trip to Barbados in the hope of recovering, Lawrence died from tuberculosis a few months later. "Conveniently," Atticus said with emphasis, "George inherited Lawrence's estate---Mount Vernon---and several thousand acres. Also gone was the only person who witnessed George firsthand as a werewolf, and knew his dark secrets."

"Hmm," I said. The story was getting interesting and I hoped Atticus would have time to finish. I was reassured by the sound of the dentist drill in the other room---it now drowned out the whiney objections of the kid whose teeth were being unmercifully tortured for having a love affair with soft drinks.

"Did you know," Atticus added, "that Washington loved the theatre? He was especially partial to Hamlet but his very favorite play was Cato, by the English author Joseph Addison. Cato was the most popular play of that period, something most people don't know these days."

I certainly didn't know it. "And what significance is that?" I asked. 

"Washington's favorite line from Cato and one he quoted for years, even while President was ''Tis not in mortals to command success, but we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.'

'Not in mortals to command success,' I thought.. Damn---maybe Atticus was on to something. Did Washington reach the point where he thought himself no longer mortal? "Please go on," I urged.

"Lawrence died in 1752 when George was twenty. Now the master of Mount Vernon, George began building his wealth and reputation even further. At twenty-three years of age, Washington purchased a young slave by the name of Billy Lee, who as we know would become his valet. It was another three years before Washington would meet and marry Martha Custis. And it was in those three years that Billy got an up-close and personal view of the man, the legend and the werewolf. Billy had heard of the episodes in Barbados, but dismissed it as spurious gossip. However, reality was about to set in. Talk about a lost weekend----it was during this time that George really came into his own, so to speak..."

It was a bitter cold February night at Mount Vernon---the ground covered in a foot of snow and the moon unnaturally full. Billy Lee had fires burning in four fireplaces throughout the house. The Master was entertaining in his bed chambers---entertaining three young and beautiful women, that is. The bell rang and the Master's voice called out. "Billy, bring two more bottles of port, we're running low. And a couple more beakers of champagne and sweet meats for our guests." Billy did as he was told---leaving the tray with the bottles and food outside the door---and then removed himself quietly---hearing the door hinge squeak as it opened, and then close. Billy felt an eerie chill. 'Lord knows what the neighbors and the girls' parents think', he fretted. A few minutes later he heard the sounds of giggles, passion, and moans of sexual pleasure issuing forth from the bedroom. Like the other ones before, this intimate party of lust and debauchery lasted until the wee hours. 'My goodness,' Billy thought,'that man could go on forever'. The cook and butler gave Billy sideways, disapproving glances from the hallway. He hushed them with stern looks and then admonished them all 'to keep their big mouths closed. This is between the master and the Lord,' he told them. Then thought to himself---'between the master and His master...whoever that is'.

Atticus kept talking. "By late 1758 when George was twenty-six, friends, family and local law enforcement officials had just about enough. The landed gentry of Virginia were complaining that their daughters were becoming harlots and saying that the bites on their necks were visible symbols of their despoiled status. 'How in the hell could they marry off damaged goods?' they lamented. Something had to be done since Washington's bigger-than-life appetite for women and feats of strength were beginning to scare everyone within a hundred miles. After much wringing of hands, an intervention was devised and a plot was hatched---Billy Lee was in on it. In November of that year a group of male friends got together with George one night at Mount Vernon for a game of cards. They spiked Washington's wine with a strong sedative. Though it took five times as much sedative as would have been necessary for a normal man, he eventually passed out cold. Among the conspirators was the local dentist. With much difficulty due to George's large bulk, they laboriously laid him on a bed, tied him down and removed not only his big canine teeth, but also most of the rest of them. The doc replaced them all with wooden teeth."

"Wooden teeth?" I laughed. "So that old tale is true?" I looked up at the portrait on the wall. The closed mouth prevented even a glimpse of teeth, wooden or otherwise. They were hiding behind those pursed, smug lips---I looked closer---those same dollar-bill lips had kissed and feasted on all those tasty young maidens---then thought to myself, "damn George, I would have never guessed!"

"It sure is true," Atticus said. "They took those teeth out and the results were amazing. It was like a horny old hound dog getting neutered---when he awoke the next day, he had one hell of a hangover. But within a few days the benefits were apparent. George retained the better parts of himself---even held on to a good part of that extra-normal strength, endurance and bravery which proved invaluable later on. But when he lost those big ol' fangs he lost the desire to ravish all the local beauties. And everyone seemed to find favor in it---excepting of course," Atticus cackled, "old George and the local beauties who had rather enjoyed the ravishings."

"Well I'll be damned," I said.

"No, you ain't damned. It was George that was," replied Atticus. He added, "The next year, George met up with Martha Custis. By then it seemed his werewolving days was behind him and he appeared to be a suitable life partner. They married and to his benefit her dowry came with about fifty thousand acres of prime Virginia farmland and forest. George fought in the war, became a hero and went on to be the first and probably best President of these here United States. And the rest, as they say, is history."

I chuckled inwardly but thought he told the story well. "Well, Atticus, that's certainly some story," I said. "I'm glad you shared it with me.

"You're certainly welcome," he replied. "You can believe it or not, but it came down through the years told pretty much that way."

"But one last thing---tell me---what happened to Milton, the uh, er...flying monkey?"

"Well it's funny you should ask about old Milt---George and he had a falling out right after Lawrence died---some say Milton got tired of pimping for the future President and was talking back to him a lot---so Washington didn't bring him back to Virginia. Milton did eventually fly up to South Carolina where he set up shop and got hitched with a flying lady monkey named Griselle. Years later, when they went to filming that movie Wizard of Oz, it was the direct descendants of Milton and Griselle that you see up on the screen with that green-faced witch."

I smiled. Just then the nurse reappeared and announced, "Mister Jefferson, the dentist is ready for you." Atticus got up slowly---we shook hands and then he pushed his way toward the open door with the help of his cane. He must have been about ninety years old. "Take care Atticus---and good luck with you."  He didn't respond, just waved back and shot me a grin.

The door closed behind as he left. Two middle-aged women entered the waiting room and signed in. I sat for a few minutes quietly reflecting on the story, then reached into my wallet and pulled out a one-dollar bill. I looked closely and with newfound respect for the visage staring back at me. And for the first time noticed an almost Mona Lisa smile and the hint of a gleam in his eyes. "You old dog!" I said out loud to myself. The two women looked at me curiously as I spoke to the limp currency. And they then moved to the other side of the room as if I might be contagious.

I had my teeth worked on and thankfully the doctor didn't replace any of them with the wooden variety. After settling up the bill, I left the building and got in my car. Driving down the road, I searched for something decent to listen to on the radio. After three of four stations of the usual crap I came upon a familiar and appropriate old tune by the Grateful Dead. Along with Jerry Garcia and his steel guitar accompaniment I sang along...

When I awoke, the dire wolf, six hundred pounds of sin, 

was grinning at my window, all I said was "come on in". 

Don't murder me, I beg of you, don't murder me. Please, don't murder me.

I like to think Garcia had more than a little werewolf in him. The song ended and I was lost in thought as I drove homeward---George Washington---Wolfman Extraordinaire, the first and perhaps only werewolf President. Even had a flying monkey, I mused. I can almost hear him now coming on to a local cutie, 'Hey baby...I vant to bite your neck'. And she comes back , "Yo, Georgie, whatcha got under that cape?" Maybe the story told by Atticus was totally made up, but then again maybe there was something to it. It had been passed down for over two hundred years---or so he said. One thing's for sure---Atticus was quite a character and one I won't forget for some time.

And next time you reach into your wallet? Do yourself a favor---take out a dollar bill and give a good hard look at the man. Look closely. Isn't it reassuring to know you're looking into the eyes of a wild man? Now, that's a thought in which we can all take comfort.

© RDBrooks 2014