I should mention that drinking is BAD for anyone!
The poor spelling that House speaks is purposefully misspelled so as to provide a better feel for the scene of which I am trying to project to the readers.
I apologize for the shortness of the chapter, and maybe the content. I kinda had a blank because I'm using all my brain cells on The Morning After and I couldn't think of anything.
PLEASE DON'T LET THAT deter you from not reading anymore:o) It'll get better. I am NOT drunk:o)
CHAPTER NINE
Later that night, House sat in his apartment alone again (naturally). He was lying on his back on the couch in pitch blackness, his left leg dangled to the floor from the knee and his right leg was propped up on the back of the sofa cushion. It was quiet, which he liked that way, although he could hear the faint squeaks coming from the wheel in Steve McQueen's cage.
He had a full glass of Scotch in his hand which rested on his stomach, and a dry bottle of Scotch on the coffee table. He started drinking as soon as he walked in the door that afternoon and was surprised he'd finished the remaining half bottle. Well, he'd be surprised if he hadn't been so totally drunk out of his mind.
He lay thinking, but about what it's hard to say. His brain was literally mush at this point so anything he thought of he'd either forget right away or it didn't make sense to him. His eyes grew heavier and heavier as he forced himself to finish the last swallow of the alcohol.
"Steeee…vvvvvv! Brin' meee 'nother boddle of Scotdge,ole boyeee!" House hollered, making his own self jump at the sudden break in the deafening silence. He burst out laughing, at nothing, really; it was purely out of drunkenness.
He tried to sit up but he couldn't. His head started to spin as he sat in a vertical position and he flopped back against the sofa cushion. He looked around his apartment was totally baffled at what he was seeing. The piano – there were two, and they were gold; the guitar on the wall kept sticking it's tongue out at him; and the t.v. was showing a rerun of Mash 2077, but it wasn't even turned on.
"Steeeevvv HICCUP nee' eeewww come pickkk meee upp." Then he burst out laughing again. "Oooh, eye'm sooo funneee! Mousieeee cayunt pickkk mee up."
When he finally succeeded getting off the couch, his head stopped at he stood vertical, but his body didn't, and he ended up smack dap, face down on the carpeted throw rug. "dowww, dat herd," he groaned into the carpet and slowly rolled his head to one side so as not to break his nose, which, come to think of it, he might actually have done it already.
When he finally got himself capable of getting off the floor he did so, granted it was half an hour later, but he did do it. He walked, more like stumbled back and forth, swayed to and fro, grabbed on to the wall or whatever breakable item he could get his hands on to keep his walk steady. But it didn't work; every step he took, even with a lift of the foot by a three foot high advantage, he'd still trip over his own feet.
Just as he approached the bed the right foot landed not on the floor but his left foot and he tumbled forward, right on the bed, on his stomach. "Annn heee scores!" he shouts, lifting one arm in the air as if he was a referee in a soccer game and they just scored a point.
After a few minutes he forced himself to turn over on his back, which left him facing the phone on the nightstand. "Steeev! Ge' mee Anjoeleena's HICCUP fonnn numb! Wannna congrat the HICCUP happeee couple on da baybee!"
He broke out in another drunken laugh and reached for the phone, bringing it to an inch of his eyes. "Yeppp, diss is da fonn!" He dialed a few numbers, but what he didn't realize was that instead of attempting to dial Wilson's phone number he hit 'redial.'
"Hello?" came a sleepy, clearly female voice on the other end.
House hesitated a moment before he slurred, "Willie? Yoooo soun' like a gurl!"
"Maybe that's because this isn't Willie. Wrong number," she said.
She was about to hang up the phone when she heard, "Fifi, esss dat youu?"
"Yes, who the hell is this? Oh, wait, I know that Dr. Jekyll. Greg?" Laura asked.
"Da wuunn an' only!" he said proudly, drunkenly, but proudly.
"What are you doing?" she asked seriously.
"I gunnna call Andalena Joyle-olie! You half herr num-HICCUP-ber?"
"Oh, god. You're drunk, aren't you?" she asked, now disappointed.
"Nooppp, ak-cha-lee," he hesitated a minute, "I'm verily soberrr. Bud poow Steeve, he drank a whole boddle of Scotchchch. I think he's the one dat's drunk."
Laura sighed loudly, purposefully sounding really put out into the phone receiver, but she really wasn't. "Well, I was going to go shopping with Norma but, I think you will need a babysitter tomorrow. Want me to come over?"
"No…yesss…no…HICCUP... well…naught if you don' half too," he slurred.
"Where are you now?"
"I'mmm in New Jerseyyy, where are youuu?" he asked then laughed like it was the funniest joke he'd ever said.
Again, Laura sighed. "Are you home?" There was no answer, just a gurgle sound that told her that was a 'yes.' "Greg, I'll get your address from the phone book. Give me…ten minutes. The hotel isn't that far from you."
"kay," came a stutter and then a click.
Laura looked at the receiver and shook her head. "That man never did grow up, did he?" She then proceeded to get dressed to go babysit a grown man, a drunk one, but a grown man, nonetheless.