Whoever said "time flies" wasn't kidding. The struggling years of internship had finally come to an end. Residency was next. Greg House was now officially a "doctor", after passing his boards the summer after his internship ended, but as was standard practice for every medical student, they also had to complete a four year residency. Again, Greg busied himself trying to research where would be the best place for him to go. Of course, the decision would not be made ultimately by him, the powers that be would narrow the choices down according to grades and spaces available.

Greg and Lisa heard from each other less and less, as they each became totally absorbed in completing their internships. They still spoke on the phone, but it wasn't every week, like they'd been doing. It was more every other month and sometimes longer.

Greg was nervously opening a letter one afternoon, addressed from the Medical Board. He knew it contained the information he'd been anxiously awaiting...where he'd be doing his residency. His eyes raced over the letter as he saw where he'd be going to live for the next four years...New Jersey! He swore silently to himself. What were the chances of that happening? Of all the places to be accepted, he'd end up going back there!

Lisa called a few days later. She'd been accepted as well, but she was going to New York City. 'At least we're not on opposite ends of the country', Greg mused, vowing he'd try to keep the lines of communication open and call her more often.

But the residency program was even tougher than internship! They were doctors now, and doing real live procedures on real live people, who entrusted their lives to them. When they weren't at the residency, there was research, medical book reports, thesis, just like school again. He and Lisa once again lost touch.

'Finally, it's all over', Greg thought to himself the day of his testimonial dinner. Several "residents" graduated in the top percentile of the program, including Gregory House, and were to be given special commodations. After it was over, he was anxious to just go home to the little place he'd rented when he arrived in New Jersey. The city was Princeton. It was home, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it. Lisa was gone, his Terry was long gone, his parents were still living in Germany. He was alone again.

He was so busy doing his residency, that it was impossible to go back to the club and play in a band again. He winced as he recalled the desperate phone call to his parents, pleading with them to send him money.

"What the hell did you do with all that money you made in the clubs?" John House bellowed to his son.

"Dad, I-I got sick for awhile and had to quit", Greg stammered. He hated when he did that. It meant his father was getting to him. It meant his father still had control.

"What do you mean, you got sick?!" his Dad persisted.

Sighing heavily, Greg made up a story about coming down with an infectious disease while interning, and had to miss school and playing in the band. Desperate for another keyboard player, Greg had to be replaced, which left him without a job when he got back on his feet.

Greg held his breath as he waited for his father to digest this information.

"Well, alright then, we'll wire you the funds to keep you going for awhile", his Dad had finally agreed.

It was the first time he'd ever lied to them. Actually, it was the first big lie he'd ever told anyone. It would be the first of many. His mantra in later years at PPTH would be "everybody lies".

Absorbed in his thoughts one Sunday afternoon, he subconsciously had walked several blocks to the jewelry store where he had bought Terry the diamond ring. He'd remembered old man Jacobs and his promise to him about paying him back. But when he stopped in front of the store, which was closed on Sundays, he noticed that it was under new management. It had a different name and look to it.

Puzzled, Greg went back to the old club to ask about Jacobs. The bartender was wiping down the counter where Greg had sat, drowning his sorrows with many a Chivas or beer.

"What's yer poison?" the bartender asked.

Greg shook his head.

"I'm looking for old man Jacobs...he used to own the jewelry store on Prospect, and he managed this club".

"Sorry buddy", the bartender said, with an apologetic look. "Sam Jacobs retired a few years ago...I think he moved to Florida...isn't that where most of them go?"

But Greg didn't respond. He just walked out of the bar, without ordering anything. Jacobs was gone too! The only man who'd given him a break. He wondered if he could go back to the club some other time and find out about a job with the new manager. He'd find a way to work and do his residency program. He hated being dependent upon his parents, more especially, his father.

House sat at his desk, and tossed a tennis ball up in the air, caught it and threw it up again several times. Bored, he took out his Gameboy, but the battery was dead. Flinging it across the room, he reached into his bottom drawer of his desk, and opened it with the key he kept hidden under the desk, scotch taped to it. He grabbed the flask containing Chivas, and took several swigs, as he popped open his bottle of Vicodin.

'This going down memory lane's a real bch!' he groaned, as he rubbed his bad leg, the one that had the infarction several years ago. He took another swig from the flask, as he laid his head back against his swivel chair, and thought back to another time.

Back to Stacy Smith, now Stacy Warner, the woman who caused the pain in his leg, who he'd never forgive as long as he lived...

to be cont'd.