Chapter IV: What's in a Name
Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I started to get dressed again and made my way through the gauntlet of furniture and children's toys, towards the front door. I slipped my shoes on quickly, tying them the least of my worries. I carefully opened the door, trying to allieviate the horrible shrilly, squeak, of the rusty hinges and springs. I got it open just enough and I slipped out.
I didn't bother shutting it behind me, but only stood there staring at my Jeep, parked in the driveway.
The vast cornacopia of emotions I felt rushing through my mind was intense and paralyzing. Temporally frozen with fear. Worrisome of what I might find. Happy this strange series of events may at last be coming to a close. Finally, a feeling of remorse and regret that I never did something better with my life; something with real meaning.
That was the thought that finally got my feet working, slowly creeping me over to where my Jeep sat. The Jeep that may hold a slumbering monster, looming creepily, in the late night fog. A beast who just might be furious at me for leaving it locked in the stuffy car for so many hours. It could just be sleeping in there, sort of in a state of suspended animation (we'll be friends to the end!). But perhaps I hoped most, that I would open the door to find it dead (maybe expired would be the better word), suffocated or maybe starved to death; or gone, just simply vanished.
I crept the last few steps towards the Jeep and was grabbing the door handle as I peered through the window. I saw nothing. No creature. No movement. Not even a shadow that resembled the creature. But then I lifted the handle and opened the door.
Sitting there, right as I had left him, was the creature. He appeared to have moved, not an inch.
He made no movement or attempt to reply as I broke the seal to his makeshift cell, finally returning as promised.
It seems he just sat and waited for me. Either like a lost puppy or obedient guard dog; I'm not sure which. But if I had to guess, I'd say less of the former and more of the latter.
I slowly reached my hand in towards him, almost expecting him to turn and sniff my hand, but invisioning him biting my arm off, clean up to the elbow.
But he didn't move at all. Just sat there, still. You couldn't even tell if it was breathing or not.
I finally said, "Fuck it," and just picked him up. He didn't even stir as I lifted him and held him out in front of me, as if he were a bomb (When are you set to blow, little fella?). It never hurt anyone to be a little extra cautious.
As I started back towards the house, creature in hand, I started to think, 'What am I going to do with this?'
I decided sneaking through the front door, this time quietly shutting it behind me, that the garage was as good a place as any. I snuck into the garage as if I were a burgler in my own house, again closing the door behind me. Certainly, I was born in no barn.
I decided that the garage would have to do, it stayed partially heated and hardly anyone ever came in here.
As soon as you walk in, there's a closet-sized cubby-hole with shelves that I built in it; on the left. It's close to the front door, so he would get some heat from the house and I could clean off a shelf and arrange a blanket for him. He could have the whole thing to stretch out on, if he wanted.
But before I placed him on the shelf and went to bed, I sat him on the work bench and watched him for a while. Still motionless, I was starting to think something was wrong.
I was unaware the transendence out of suspended animation can be quite slow sometimes. Signs of life began to emanate from him one by one. A shudder here, a twitch there. Even the adorable gesture of stretching one tiny leg.
Sitting there watching him reanimate himself back to life, I thought, 'If he's gunna be here a while, he oughta have a name.'
Thinking for a moment, I remembered back to my childhood and my favorite bedtime rhyme. My mother would recite it to me on the nights I was too scared to fall asleep, in hopes of sowing a smile upon my face. It usually worked like a charm.
This particular rhyme was about a folicly-challenged bear.
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear,
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair,
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy,
Just as he was fully returning to normal, the words escaped my mouth, "Fuzzy Wuzzy."
He appeared to be looking up at me. Then he started rocking on his soles and cooing; approvingly.
He seemed to recognize it as his name and seemed to enjoy it.
"Alright," I said. "Fuzzy Wuzzy it is, then."
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