-6-
"Experiment"
The day couldn't get much better. Dr. House is on time, which leads Garrett to believe there are positive forces at work in the universe. When the process rolls along smoothly it pleases the committee. For Garrett, this is on par with winning the World Series of Poker (a feat he has come close to achieving two years in a row).
He has not always been good at his job. His choices have not always been ones to put him in good stead with Irie. But he is a quick study and has come a long way from his post as a government research assistant. Through networking, fortitude and seventeen hour workdays he has managed to become an integral member of the team, a shining star in the committee's eye. He is proud of how his savvy and his eye for detail convinced them to let him in on the ground floor of the Getaway project.
This is still so new for all of them.
Irie and her committee have been patient with his gaffes, which have grown less frequent over time; Irie appreciates how much he has sacrificed for this project.
But there is still much work to be done.
Near misses used to frustrate Garrett. They don't anymore. These days he chalks them up to experience. More of life's lessons. No matter how proficient you are, you can never truly predict the deal of the cards, the same way you never know who might ring the 1-800-Getaway line after most people have gone to bed.
This is why Garrett mans the phones through the early morning hours. Marcia doesn't understand, but eventually she will. As more of the Dr. House types start applying and the committee's ideals are being served, the rewards and incentives will grow. Marcia will eventually see that the Getaway project is a worthwhile cause.
Yes, he assures her, it won't be long before they will be able to move from Queens to Manhattan and into the townhouse she has wanted for so long. Material things still matter to her. He can't fault her for that; she has yet to experience a Getaway. Her reluctance is a source of frustration for Garrett, but he will one day convince her to shed that reticence and join him over there.
His footfalls clank against the metal flooring of Station One, the sound playing over and over, morphing, stretching as wide and deep as a football field before zinging back at him like a rubber band. Sounds do strange things here. A fingersnap pings and ricochets off the walls like a gunshot, before fading into the ether.
The noise thing doesn't faze the guests. By the time they reach the Cubes they're usually too out of it to notice. And after the initial Getaway, when they realize the enormity of what they have just experienced, they're grateful.
Those who make the decision to return tell him how grateful they are. The chance to be part of this life altering adventure is not handed out indiscriminately. It is an honor, a fact which the 'guests' worth keeping realize after the first mind-blowing jaunt.
Acclimating himself to Station One took the better part of a year. Marcia worried about Garrett's nightmares, the way he would jolt from his sleep, disoriented and terrified. He went through a bad patch: mood swings and crying jags were the worst. But the committee was patient with him; they had faith he would eventually weather the effects of Station One.
On rare occasions the dreams still get to him. But he is able to wish them away, like Irie taught him.
Everything is still so new.
The walls are midnight black, shining like the sleekest Towncar on the lot. But the room itself seems to go on into infinity; like a pitstop in the cosmos, a oasis in the center of the Milky Way. The Cubes give off the sole illumination. They are soft pastel pinks, greens, blues. Pretty. The guests find them appealing, loping toward their favorite color when they arrive. There are no ceilings or doors or windows. Only the walls and the floor and the Cubes are solid. The thought of what might be out there still has the power to chill him.
After all the time he's spent traveling from Station One to the cities and back again, Garrett still doesn't like to think about where he is in terms of space and time and place. He knows when he is here... he is not really anywhere. The word Limbo has some nasty, 'trapped forever' connotations; how much easier and comforting it was to give this place a simpler, less soul numbing name. Station One. So let it be written...
The Station's temperature is set to a comfortably cool sixty-five degrees. Some guests complain of being cold but they forget all about that once they arrive at their destinations.
They forget a lot of things...
He strolls the area, sniffs the air. The six Cubes lining the wall sit silent, at rest. A faint chemical smell emanates from them. The Afterburn. Nothing can be done to eradicate the odor, but Garrett has grown used to it. Lately he's begun to like it. It stands for success, for progress.
Yes, the process is rolling along. But he never feels truly at ease until the guest has been primed and prepped ready and willing to take the next step.
On occasion, his guest will have a change of heart and blow off their appointment. He can usually sense this eventuality and is able to prepare accordingly, keeping a Cube on temporary hold rather than reserving it. Reserving a cubicle and not using it does not sit well with the committee. It is part of Garrett's job to be intuitive.
Now, his intuition assures him that extending the doctor an invitation was a wise move. Judging by Doctor House's checkered history, which Garrett was able to pull from his various sources, the doctor might be seduced by more colorful, challenging pastures. Maybe he would end up a permanent guest. A resident. Garrett smiles. Perhaps Pleasant Hills is the place he would be most needed. But Garrett doesn't want to rush things. The scans will tell the tale.
The record is one he remembers from when he was a boy. His mother traveled with the same LP's everywhere they went, carrying them in a sturdy plastic case the Colonel bought her for Christmas one year (after her much loved Sinatra "Songs For Swingin' Lovers" album was crushed in transit). She dubbed these LP's her 'Desert Island Discs', and through the years, House became familiar with every note, every skip, every crackle in the grooves.
Right now, Robert Mitchum's "Calypso Is Like...So" is the record jacket stirring up the memories. Mitchum is too cool for words. One brow is hitched up, and he knows you want to be him, knows the chicks want to be with him. The light blue shirt opened to the center of his chest is a perfect complement to his sharp white chinos. He is seated on a table, drink in hand, a liter of rum just within reach. Behind him is one of those pouty, sultry babes you see in all the best film noirs. Red dress, swivel hips, scarlet lips open up...say, ahhhhh...
"Classic stuff." Tony, who wears a badge proclaiming, "Yes, I Am That Tony", tilts his head to the right, leans his palms against the counter and grins. He is an Asian guy in his mid thirties, with spiky yellow hair and an Adam's Apple that bobs up and down when he laughs. "Mitchum was one of those actors who was a frustrated singer...only he could really sing."
House turns the record over to read the liner notes he could probably rattle off by heart. "How much?"
"Twenty-five," Tony says without hesitation. "Special deal for you. The record's worth at least fifty."
"How come I rate?"
"You're here to see Garrett, aren't you?"
Yeah. House planned on getting to that before being struck dumb by this wonderland. He has been on the hunt for a shop like this for a good long while, seeing how his old haunts went bust months ago. Scoping out a place that sold records and only records was a near impossibility. Hell, these days finding a independent music store of any kind was a challenge of Herculean proportions.
The internet was the beast that snagged customers away from treasure troves like Tony's. Push a button, instant tune. House concedes there is something to be said for that, but there is also an indefinable pleasure in placing a record on a turntable and watching it spin, then savoring the magic that pours from the speakers...
Cool, daddy-o.
Records take up every available space in this shop; the perfume of cardboard sleeves mingling with the ancient dust buried in black grooves is intoxicating. Records. House breathes it all in. They surround him like old friends, lining the high shelves, packed in milk crates by his feet. He could spend a day, a year...a millennium perusing the stock.
Tony chuckles, which brings House slowly, reluctantly back to earth.
Narrowing his eyes at the guy, House tucks Bob Mitchum under his arm and wanders over to the next rack. "And how would you know I'm here to see Garrett?" he asks, staring with barely restrained excitement at the record before him. Eddie Cochran...Summertime Blues. He traces a finger along the top of the worthy find.
"Doctor...Gregory House?" House's head jerks up as Tony reaches behind the register and brings out a blue file folder. Stapled to the front right hand corner is a grainy black and white photo of House, most likely printed off the internet. "Garrett's got two appointments this afternoon but you're the only one scheduled for this morning."
Cool fingers skitter across House's shoulder blades and down his spine. He shivers, checks the doorway. The shade is drawn; pale sunlight leaks through the sides.
"Where is he?"
"He's waiting."
"Then lead on," House says, turning to gaze at the empty shop. "Doesn't look like you have too much else to-"
"You gotta sign the waiver."
House taps the tip of his cane against the dusty wooden floor. "I was promised--now let me get this straight--not so much a vacation as a total lifestyle change. I was told I would not be sorry." He lopes toward the counter, Bob and Eddie safe under his arm. "A waiver intimates there is an element of danger, that you don't want to be held responsible for my unfortunate demise, Tony." His lips twitch as he locks eyes with the clerk's. "Nobody said anything about a waiver."
"You gotta sign the waiver." Tony's lost his smile. He's fidgeting, looking like the kid who stole the teacher's chalk.
House thwacks the crook of his cane against the counter, which causes Tony to let out a tiny cry of surprise and stumble back. The papers fall from the folder and scatter at his feet.
With a sorrowful click of his tongue, Tony surveys the mess but doesn't move to pick it up. Instead he meets House's eyes again and lets out a grim sigh. "Look, I don't know what to tell you. All I can say is that this offer you've been made...you should grab it. I'm not supposed to tell you this but they've given you a T2 rating."
"Wow," House says. "That and two bucks will get me a gallon of gas."
"A T2 is someone with high potential, someone they're going to treat like friggin' royalty." His tone is tremulous but he's got the earnest look of a boy who wants to please. He swallows hard, catches his breath. "You won't be sorry. I know. I've been there. It's amazing. It changed my whole outlook on so many-"
"Cut the crap." House fixes him with a glare, tightening his jaw at the pain in his thigh, which is beginning to get impatient for its late morning dose of cheer. "Give me the waiver."
Kneeling down, Tony retrieves the papers, then hands House one from the top of the pile. The text is part legalese, part plain english, as if the writer couldn't quite make up his mind how to express himself. House takes a moment to read each point, and is informed that the Party of the First Part (Getaway, Inc.) takes no responsibility for any emotional or physical trauma brought to The Party of the Second Part (the Guest) by this experience.
Slowly, House meets Tony's gaze again. "This is an experiment."
"Yes."
"So basically what you're saying is that I'm a guinea pig, a fun loving rat in a maze."
"In a way, you sort of get the point."
"Hold these for me." With some reluctance, House sets the LP's on the counter. "I'll be back for them."
"Sure." Tony gives him a relieved grin and places the records behind the desk.
After signing the form, House thrusts it back at him. "Let's go."