-5-
"Uncharted"
His first thought of the day is of House. Before he even wonders about the weather, considers the unfortunate results of Mr. Eisenstern's colonoscopy or turns over on his pillow to look at the still sleeping Rosa, he thinks about House.
Something is wrong with that. But that's the way it's been for the last fifteen years. The only difference is now Wilson feels more than sorry about it than apathetic. Anger also finds its way into the mix. It's as if House is a criminal, leeching precious minutes from Wilson's life, the same flippant way he steals half a sandwich from Wilson's lunch tray.
Being angry with House isn't anything new.
The only good thing is that nobody needs to know. Wilson can keep a good face on, keep this to himself, and no one will be the wiser.
Rosa wakes, smiles that sunny, sleepy smile at him.
He returns the grin, kisses her good morning while wondering what House might be doing right now.
It seems every traffic light is dead set against him this morning: an overload of stop, go, stop, go. The radio offers nothing but morning drive-time chatter, risque barbs about politicians and movie stars, a call in to win contest for a facial at Dominique's Salon in beautiful downtown Princeton.
He taps one finger against the steering wheel and wonders for the tenth time that morning what House might be doing. Sleeping? Maybe, if his leg isn't giving him a problem. More than likely he's dragging his ass off to bed after a night of TV, bourbon and pills.
The man is a creature of habit and being wrenched from the old routine could mean trouble. If boredom strikes hard, House might do something totally off the wall, maybe buy a rifle and a hunting license and go off into the woods, forget to wear one of those bright orange vests...
The thought is totally ludicrous. House never expressed the slightest interest in hunting...
...which is exactly why he might do it. New, interesting, uncharted territory.
Why do you care?
He might go out on a fishing boat, get ossified on beer and tumble overboard.
He's a big boy. Stop worrying. Why do you care?
It's a good question, a logical one. Wilson supposes Cuddy did the right thing by sending House away for two weeks. It was obvious House's recklessness with patients and his snappish, more brutal than usual attitude was putting a strain on everyone. Last week, he made Nurse Billings cry...
With a sigh, Wilson steers the Volvo into the hospital parking lot. His eyes automatically flick toward House's vacant space. Three yellow leaves dance and swirl in that spot before being carried off by the breeze.
Wilson knows he should get to his office. There is work to be done, appointments to keep, but magically, mystically, his cellphone appears in his hand. House's number is highlighted on his contacts list. He pushes the 'call' key, hears the burr of the phone on the other end, then the curt, almost sinister sounding voice that informs him he is 'shit out of luck today, Greg House has gone away...'
Wilson decides he hates voicemail and, at this moment, phones in general.
No sense worrying, Wilson tells himself...again, making his way into the building. There are more important things to mull over besides House's welfare. But standing in the rear of the elevator, watching the doors close, he can't seem to think of one.
Acceptance actually feels good. House doesn't make it a habit of worrying what people think of him. But the committee's yay vote had been important. No, more than important, it had been crucial.
It came through thirty minutes after he had emailed the application back to Garrett.
And just like that...he was in!
In what? The letter accompanying the application was vague, telling him next to nothing. Lots of rhetoric, very little facts.
Garrett promised to explain.
And this matters...because?
Like Garrett, the application was a half cooked goulash of the straightforward and obtuse. It asked for Name, Address, Phone number, it also asked what the applicant might do in certain situations (Would you turn in the billfold with the thousand dollars you found on the library steps? Hell, no). The information would be gathered and analyzed, then used to help figure where best to send him: a place most suited to his personality and ideals.
Ooookay...
It was a game. But no matter what, it wasn't work; it wasn't dealing with clinic hours or the inanities that accompanied diagnosing an illness. This was a puzzle of another sort. And, yeah, it was mad interesting.
He drives through midtown Manhattan this Tuesday morning. Rush hour is almost history. Still, traffic flow is slow; cabbies take chances, cutting him off as he tries to switch lanes. Ordinarily this would piss him off, but today he is on a mission and wants to get where he is going with a minimum of fuss. He doesn't need an altercation to ruin his day.
What is Wilson doing now? House can't help wondering as another red light hampers his progress. Wilson. He would be at work, of course, setting the course of his day according to other people's whims and schedules. It is intriguing that Wilson found the time to ring House's cell earlier. Maybe he's wondering too. For a moment, House considers returning the call, then thinks better of it. Let Wilson stew for awhile.
Traffic moves again. House is headed downtown, way downtown, past Mulberry and Mott Streets. Down here the sidewalks are teeming: tourists meander with cash in their pockets, eager to spend it on Louis Vuitton knock-offs and bargain bling. Impressing their friends is going to be easy when they head back to Ohio, or Minnesota, or whatever suburban hole they slithered from.
Little Richard is hollering the praises of Tutti Fruitti through the front and rear speakers of House's heap. Woooo! Today House has opted for raucous old rock and roll rather than the lowdown blues which are usually his pleasure. The music joins with the bright mystery and the Not Knowing of this day to make his heart pound a lively tattoo against his ribs.
Down, down, down. The traffic has thinned; the buildings here are way older than he is, their faded bricks and rusted fire escapes are artifacts from another age. He spies an elderly woman sitting on a stoop, her knitting needles work together but there is no scarf or winter cap between its tips. Hell, there isn't even any yarn.
He grimaces, shaking his head, amused and repulsed at the same time. Whoever professed that crazy is the new normal might have had the right idea.
He drives on until he finds the corner of Essex and Maitland. Slowing, he turns the corner and sees Tony's Records in the center of the block, just as Garrett promised. Parking is easy and free in front of the shop. The sole other vehicle is a tan Mustang with California plates, its bumper dented and scraped. A ruined classic. Too bad.
Moving from his car, he leans hard against his cane and ambles around in a circle, attempting to get the blood circulating in his legs again after the nearly interminable drive.
Tony's seems to be the only game in town, at least in this part of town. The shop is a tan brick structure flanked on either side by two vacant storefronts. How much business could the guy possibly do?
Well, you're here. Garrett sent you. Tony's front window shines. Recordings from a thousand years ago make up the display: Louis Armstrong, Pat Boone (!), Doris Day. The records are vintage but the jackets' still have a newish gloss, the corners are sharp.
Why a record shop; why not a travel agency? Interesting.
He paces, not wanting to go in just yet. Hand in pocket, he stares across the street at the vacant lot filled with with crushed soda cans, burger wrappers, rust mottled car parts, and miscellaneous crap that looks like remnants of an alien spacecraft.
A towering graffiti riddled fence overlooks the lot; the graffiti is striking, bold and dramatic, all curlicues and balloon letters (TAZ MANIA Z! LITTLE BOY SCREW-UP!). Beyond this is the unmistakable whoosh of traffic, cars and trucks and buses rushing off to somewhere. The noise nearly drowns out the big band music pouring from the speakers in front of Tony's.
The sky is strange. It seems too bright, too perfect: as cloudless, blue and pure as a Bermudian sea. But a warm, sultry breeze ruffles his hair, assuring him everything is as it should be.
An 800 number and a voice on the phone brought him here, and maybe that's wrong.
Everything is as it should be...
Maybe he shouldn't be here. He doesn't trust. Nothing's for free. These thoughts are a whirlwind, challenging him, daring him. His heart triphammers; his temples pound, his breath hitches in his chest.
This is...this is...
...more than just interesting now, the whole thing is mindblowing, disturbing...surreal. Whipping around, he squints at the display window again: Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra have replaced Louis, Pat and Doris as the picks to click.
He considers taking refuge in his car and speeding away from this place. But the intrigue is too delicious. Sinatra is crooning "My Funny Valentine". The window shimmers, the album jackets change again: Rosemary Clooney, Glenn Miller...
Not his kind of stuff, really, but oh, so cool.
His feet are leading him to the door. He imagines stepping inside, getting thwacked on the head and carted off somewhere, never to be seen again.
You're an ass. You're losing it.
The wind picks up, playing at the nape of his neck, his cheeks, his brow. Warm. He takes one last look at his car that waits for him, a loyal, patient friend, more giving than most of the people he knows.
Wilson wouldn't go in that shop.
Wilson's a candyass, a wuss.
Wilson is...careful.
Make a decision. Now.
House crosses the parking lot and grabs the door handle. He pulls with more force than he has to, stepping quickly inside before he can change his mind.