Storytime: "WHITE FUZZ"

“White Fuzz”
by William Pauley III

She dissolved just yesterday, and though I can’t fathom ever forgetting her, I‘ve decided to write down the details of our meeting, of those few precious hours, for the hours changed me…

When I awoke, the room was dark and I was lying on my couch, fully clothed. Must have fallen asleep sometime in the early evening, though I wasn’t sure exactly when. I slid across the cool leather sofa cushions and reached up to turn on the lamp. A soft orange light bathed the walls, somehow making that cold, haggard place seem cozy. Immediately my eyes were drawn to the pages of a notebook resting open-faced on the coffee table in front of me.

Scribbled in bold black ink were the words, “white fuzz.”

There was no memory of ever writing these words, or even thinking them, though the handwriting was indeed mine. This wasn’t unusual, as I often jotted down half-formed ideas in the middle of the night, nearly fully unconscious. Some of the best things I’d ever written started with some odd pseudo-profound bullshit scrawled drunkenly inside that notebook.

Often I wondered if I was mentally ill. They say those with severe neurological disorders are totally unaware their problems are due to faulty brain functionality, either that or they recognize the difference between themselves and the rest of the world and are in total denial. Supposing I was mentally ill, I’d have to say I’d be a mix of both—totally unaware, yet also in denial. I didn’t know how it’d be possible to be both of those things simultaneously (I’d never claimed to be a doctor), but I couldn’t deny feeling both in control and something akin to rapidly unraveling, at all times, every day. The line drawn between being a “regular” guy with “regular” problems and someone with full- blown mental illness seemed hopelessly blurred. I’d spent most my life walking down either side of the diagnosis.

“White fuzz.”

The words meant nothing to me, or had they? Though I couldn’t think of a possible meaning behind them, I couldn’t deny the words felt attached to me, as if they had its grip on something deep within, something far below the surface, something hidden. Suddenly I felt sick gazing upon each individual letter and turned away. On the cushion beside me, my cell phone buzzed.

“What are you doing?” read a text from an unknown phone number. The amount of close friends I’ve had all my life could be counted on one hand, and their information was saved in my phone, however getting a message like this was hardly odd, as I apparently had a phone number that once belonged to a pretty popular fellow. I received calls and texts from at least two people a week that I didn’t know personally, all looking for someone else, so without thinking too much about it, I wrote it off as a wrong number and ignored it. I stood up and went to take a piss. When I returned, I was surprised to see I had four new text messages from the same unknown number.

“Are you busy?”

“Want to come over?”

“I have cheese and wine.”

“Expensive cheese. The good stuff. The wine is kind of cheap though.”

I started to write back, to let them know of their mistake, but before I could hit send, my phone buzzed again. This time the person wasn’t sending a text, they were calling. I paced back and forth a few times before answering. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous answering a call from a wrong number, perhaps it was just due to grogginess, but looking back on it now, I can’t help but think it must have been intuition. Nevertheless, my hands trembled as I accepted the call and put the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I said, hoping the sound of my voice would be enough indication for them to hang up and never call again. It wasn’t.

“Hey, why aren’t you answering my messages?” a female voice asked.

“I was trying to, but you were sending them so quickly. I didn’t have time to respond,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t realize. I apologize. I’m so, so sorry,” she said, actually sounding apologetic, and not condescending at all.

“Who is this?”

“Lynda, with a ‘y’,” she said.

“Do I know you?”

She just laughed.

“Do I?” I asked again.

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe, though. What bars do you go to? Ever been to Al’s?”

“I’ve been to Al’s, yeah.”

“Yeah, Al’s! I thought I recognized you.”

I pulled the phone from my face to make sure I hadn’t accidentally answered a video call. I hadn’t. What did she mean she recognized me?

“Wait, you don’t know me. So why did you call me? Is this some sort of prank? What’s happening here?” I asked.

“Do you want to come over? I have wine and cheese. Expensive cheese…”

“Yeah, yeah, the good stuff. I read your messages.”

“So are you coming or not?” she asked. Her voice sounded bubbly and innocent.

My initial reaction was to say “hell no” and hang up on her, but something kept me from doing it. Perhaps it was loneliness, or maybe just boredom. It had been a while since I’d done anything worth talking about, after all. Still, I knew better than to just jump into a strange situation totally blind.

“I don’t even know who you are or what you look like,” I said.

“I already told you, I’m Lynda, with a ‘y’. Want me to send a pic?” she asked.

“Yeah, okay. Yes.”

“Okay, give me a sec,” she said. I could hear the sound of the phone snapping a picture. Seconds later, I received a photo of a beautiful young woman, a couple years younger than me, in her late twenties. She was making a goofy face and flipping off the camera.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“Yeah, I got it, but I’m still skeptical. How do I know you didn’t just pull this picture off of some website?”

“Seriously?”

“I mean, it would be just as easy. How about this…send me a pic of you holding an ink pen in your mouth. That way if the girl in the two photos match, I’ll know it’s really you,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed over my paranoia.

“Fine. Hold on a minute. Let me find a pen,” she said. I could hear her shuffling through drawers. About a minute later I received a video message on my phone. In the video, the same girl from the previous picture was holding an ink pen in her fist while running her tongue erotically up the shaft of it. She put the end of it in her mouth and began to make pumping motions, as if she was giving a blowjob. She took the pen out of her mouth and laughed.

“Is that enough proof for you?” she asked.

I laughed.

“Yeah. Sorry I’m so paranoid. It’s just so easy to fuck with people these days.”

“No worries. I get it. So are you coming over?” she asked again.

I sighed, and against my better judgment, accepted her offer.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Eighth Block.”

“Eighth Block? Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked.

“Fuck off, guy!” she said, actually sounding angry. “I know it’s a shithole, but we’re people too. Entitled prick…”

“Hey, no, no, you’re taking it wrong. I live in Eighth Block too. I’m just surprised we live in the same building is all. Surely I’ve seen you around here at some point.”

“You have. We met at Al’s, remember?” she asked.

“I don’t think that ever happened. I would have remembered.”

“Are you trying to make me feel like I’m crazy? We’ve definitely met. I know we have.”

“There’s no way. I’ve only been to Al’s twice, and both times was with a girl I used to date who would have made it very awkward for us if she saw us chatting. She was the jealous type.”

“Oh, I know who you were with. You were standing outside with her, out back by the garden. She went inside for a beer or to use the restroom or something and you and I made eye contact. You were so cute too. You kept looking up at me like you wanted to say something, but you were too shy. Then your girl came back and that was that.”

I chuckled to mask my frustration.

“You know, as much as I wish I had seen you that night, whomever you’re thinking of wasn’t me. I’m sorry. I haven’t been with that girl in years, and back then Al’s didn’t even have a garden. That was put in more recently. Within the last year or so. We’ve never met. Trust me, I would have remembered. The one thing I have is a great memory.”

“It was you! Jesus, you’re so stubborn. You obviously just don’t remember. Don’t feel bad. It’s not like I’m mad at you for not remembering,” she said, then laughed, probably harder than she should have.

“Are you okay? Have you been drinking?” I asked, not trying to sound like a dick, just trying to fill in the gaps.

“I told you I have wine, silly,” she said, then let out a short giggle. “Are you coming over now or what?”

I looked at the time. It was almost 2 AM.

“Sure, I’ll come over. Where do you live?”

“Eighth Block.”

“Christ, I know that. What apartment?” I was starting to wonder if she was purposefully testing my patience.

“518.”

“Seriously? That’s weird,” I said.

“What?”

“We live on the same floor. It’s just odd we’ve never—” I stopped myself to avoid getting into another discussion about how we had or hadn’t met before (we hadn’t). “Shall I bring anything?”

“Just your dick,” she said, bursting into laughter. “I’m kidding. I mean, I know you’ll be bringing your dick anyway cause it’s kind of attached, but I’m not going to fuck you tonight. Sorry. Christ. Bring more wine.”

“I don’t have any—” I started, but was interrupted by a howling noise out in the hallway.

“Did you hear that?” she asked. “Yeah. What the fuck was that?”

“It was me,” she said. “Come over right now.”

She hung up the phone.

I wasn’t much of a drinker, so I wasn’t sure if I even had any alcohol to bring over anyway, but surely I’d look like an asshole if I didn’t bring something. My only other options were to not drink and risk her feeling I was above it or too good to drink or something, or I could have just drank her wine, but that also seemed like a jerk thing to do. I checked the fridge and was surprised to see four beers left of a six-pack. Modelo. Norman must have left them here last time we had movie night. It’s his brand. I swiped the cans from the fridge and did a quick run around the apartment, making sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. I felt like such a nerd for being as nervous as I was. I pulled on my sock cap and buttoned up a light coat. I knew I wouldn’t be going outside, and it wasn’t cold in the building, but the coat and the cap, as asinine as it sounded, calmed me. They served as a sort of security blanket for whenever I felt uncomfortable, which, let’s not lie, was damn near everywhere, all the time, in every situation. The only times I ever truly felt comfortable enough to walk about without them were the times spent inside my apartment, completely alone. Again, were these “regular” people problems?

I stepped outside my apartment, into the hallway, and had to break off a chunk of gathered salt from the doorknob in order to lock up. I wasn’t sure if the hallway salt was coming down faster than usual, or if I just hadn’t been leaving my apartment as much as I used to, but either way the feeling was unnerving. Looking up at the top edges of the walls, I could see the tiny salt crystals as they pushed through the sheetrock, but couldn’t tell if the pace was abnormal or not. The fact that there were large piles of salt gathered at the baseboards certainly suggested something was afoot, but it also just could have been poor maintenance, because, let’s face it, Eighth Block wasn’t a tight ship operation. Salt should never pour out of the walls to begin with, but it was, and because it was happening, it should have been properly swept up and disposed of regularly. I wasn’t sure of the physical or mental repercussions one would experience living in salt, but common sense told me it couldn’t have been good. Again, I felt like a complete dork for even worrying about the salt situation while there was a beautiful girl down the hall practically begging for me to come over, but I couldn’t help myself. I planned to file a complaint with the building superintendent the morning of the next business day.

I stood outside the door of apartment 518 for at least a full minute before knocking. My heart suddenly felt too large for my chest and the pressure on my ribcage felt as if all the bones that made it up were going to snap in half. I couldn’t breathe. I spent the minute outside her apartment trying to gather composure. I couldn’t let her see what I spaz I was until at least the third time we’d see each other. It was sort of a rule I imposed on myself.

I took a deep breath and knocked.

Almost immediately, the door opened, but only about six or seven inches, then stopped. To my surprise, instead of seeing the beautiful girl from the picture and video sent to me earlier, I saw an overweight tabby cat stepping out from behind the door to greet me in the hallway. I bent down to pick it up and it excitedly jumped into my arms, rubbing its head against my chest and shoulders. It was either a very loveable cat, or it was just completely starved for attention. I ran my fingers through its dark fur and pushed the door open.

“Hello?” I said into the darkened living room, still standing in the doorway. The only light seemed to be emanating from a dim lamp, resting on an end table against the far wall. Immediately a putrid stench filled my nostrils. It was a smell I had never experienced before, so I couldn’t begin to describe it or compare it to anything else. I’d soon find out it was the stench of death…

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