Author's Note: They don't call it "Turkey Day" for nothing.
Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D., nor its concepts, characters, and setting, but I do love them, especially Chase. I neither advocate binge drinking, nor mean to imply that others do.
The bar, located just off the Princeton University campus, was quiet, but not empty. Here and there groups of patrons at the small tables talked quietly over drinks, some of them watching the large screen television sets that offered live sporting events in every direction, a different game on each set. Money had changed hands, as would more before the evening was fully spent.
Chase sought out the table in the back corner. Four or five young men lounged around it, several sporting tousled locks similar to Rob's own. Surfer hair, Allison had called it.
Allison.
Never mind her.
There were shot glasses on the table, but no pints. "What happened?" Chase asked quizzically. "The pub had no beer?"
"Rob!" The young men turned to him. "Last place we expected to see you. Thought you'd be at some rellie's of the old ball and chain. Haven't given her the slip already have you? You'll be in big trouble, mate. This is a very important American holiday, I understand."
Chase didn't want to talk about it. He raised his left hand, palm to his chest, to let them see what he was no longer wearing. Concerned looks and some whistles went around the table.
"That was fast," one of the young men commented.
"Somebody needs to get a black dog up 'im," advised another.
"No," said the first Aussie who had spoken. "This is America; we honour their customs. Grab a chair, Rob."
Chase sat.
The young man pushed a shot glass towards him, then picked up the bottle, which sported the image of an iconic American bird, and filled his compatriot's glass. "Please join us in pursuing the only occupation the Yanks say is acceptable on this holiday: consuming Wild Turkey until we pass out."
