-23-
"Market"
There are times when the world turns red, when nothing makes sense and the only thing you can think to do is lash out.
House raises his cane, his eyes moving this way and that over the crush of shoppers who take no notice of him. They are mostly diminutive women, middle-aged to elderly. All are of Asian descent and are much too busy to grace him with a nod or a look.
For there is serious business going on in this place that smells like garlic, sawdust, and day old fish. Against the wall are tanks filled with live clams and crawfish. The water in the tanks holds a greenish tinge, which makes House think of a slow acting poison. His fingers tighten around the crook of his cane. The tip of the cane shivers as House raises it toward the flickering yellow ceiling lamps.
Shoppers push and prod him, hurrying to the counter to purchase Tsingtao beer, fresh water chestnuts, almond chocolate and so many other interesting, exotic items. He remembers visiting places like this when he was a boy. Japanese markets. Hong Kong street vendors. Those shops had the same smells, the same feel, the same rhythm. So interesting. He would like to take his time, peruse the pastes, the packages of Shanghai noodles, the hot trays filled with misua noodles, fresh made dumplings, vats of wontons, hot and sour soups and so much more. But the chatter, the inane, frenetic banter from customers to clerks reminds him that this is enemy territory. This is wrong.
"House, what are you doing?"
Wilson's hand is on his shoulder. House had almost forgotten about him. He shrugs off Wilson's grip as he turns to glare, wishing he would go away. There is business to tend to now. Something is wrong! And as much as House wanted Wilson to accompany him through Station One, he suddenly realizes Wilson is just going to get in the way.
"You should go." Slowly, House lowers the cane, and taps the tip against the sawdust.
"Why?"
"You're not going to like what I might need to do."
"I don't understand."
"I know." House approaches the desk, squeezing the pig snout eraser in his pocket for support. He bypasses the line to go behind the counter where Tony (yes, that Tony) should be. Instead there is a five foot nothing Asian woman taking cash, her face holds a stern 'don't give me any bullshit' warning. Her black and silver streaked silver hair is pulled back into a chignon. She watches him from the corner of her eye. House wonders why she doesn't cry out, send someone running to remove his butt from the premises. He has, after all, ventured into forbidden territory.
House grips his cane tighter and takes a few steps forward. There is a lottery ticket machine and a cigarette rack where the entrance to Station One should be. He sees no knob, no lock, nothing to provide evidence that a door ever existed here. But there has to be. There is no logic behind this. No reason. It doesn't make sense.
He thinks fleetingly of the consequences before lifting his cane, before catching Wilson's eye. Suddenly Wilson seems more than frightened. His eyes go wide with terror.
"You are not doing this."
"I am." House nods and sets the cane in motion.
It only takes moments for the walls to come crashing down.
It's not as if this is unfamiliar territory: the stained mattress, the squeaky cot, the puke green walls, the smell of disinfectant that barely masks the stink of stale piss. The holding cell is like a goddamn home away from home. House leans his head back and rubs his thigh. The pain is a stalwart friend. It wouldn't turn on him just because his sanity has left the building.
He understands the problem now. Confusion has given way to a revelation as clear as the skies in Pleasant Hills. If he had taken the return trip on his own, everything would have been fine. He would have had a nice chat with Tony in the record shop, perused the "New Arrival" bin until it was time to head back to the place Wilson is now certainly convinced doesn't exist.
Stubborn, isn't he? Amber moves like a cat, rubbing her back against the bars of the cell.
"Go away," House grumps, lying in a fetal position now. The pillow beneath his head is actually sort of thick and cushy. He sinks deeper and closes his eyes.
You should forget about that place, let Wilson get you out of here. Her voice is stern but sensual. He always wondered if she talked dirty in bed. Chalk it all up to experience... and stupidity.
"House!"
His eyes snap open. Amber is gone. Wilson has taken her place, standing behind the bars, gripping them as if he is the prisoner and House is on the outside looking in. Wilson's hair is sweaty and lank, falling over his brow in stringy tentacles.
"I'm sorry," He sounds beat, like he has raced through the Mojave to get here. "They've been giving me the royal runaround."
"Yeah?"
"You don't look surprised."
House shifts onto his back, pulls the pig snout eraser from his pocket. After lifting his head to scrutinize it for a moment, he flops back on his pillow and passes it from hand to hand across his chest. "I'm not."
"They told me they have no intention of setting bail."
"'course not."
"You demolished a lottery machine and a cigarette rack, frightened the cashier so badly they had to take her out of there on a gurney."
"All for show."
"On top of that you and your cane bashed five substantial craters in the wall."
"There was supposed to be a door there."
"How do you figure?"
"That's where it was in the record store."
"Obviously we were not in a record store. You had the wrong place." Throwing his hands up, Wilson paces, looking more imprisoned than before. "You're demented. Why am I not surprised?"
"Things aren't always as they seem."
"Really?" Wilson rubs his hands together while looking at his shoes. "Really." He raises his head. "Now I have to call your lawyer."
"No need." House tosses the eraser into the air, snatching it one-handed on its way down. "As soon as you leave, they'll get me out of here, take me back."
"Take you...where? To the limbo land of your Vicodin induced dreams?"
"We've been all through this," House tells him with a tolerant smirk. "If you don't believe me now, you never will."
"What the hell do I tell Cuddy?" Wilson's voice is soft, his eyes beseeching. He looks crestfallen, like some monumental task has gotten away from him.
"According to her edict, I still have another week's vacation." His smirk changes to a slow, sly grin. "So you don't have to tell her anything."
Wilson presses his face against the bars. "I...don't...understand."
House shrugs. "Neither do I. We're like rats in a maze, pawns on a chess board. Who knew we were worthy of such scrutiny."
Tilting his head, Wilson narrows his eyes. His shoulders slump in resignation. "And who do you think is doing the scrutinizing, House?"
"They're watching you, they're watching me. It's interesting how they do that."
"Here we go again."
"Go home," House says. "Go to work, go to sleep. Occupy yourself with something other than me."
A small laugh escapes Wilson as he begins to pace again. "You roped me into coming with you and now you're pushing me away?"
"Oops, my bad. I'm still learning how this works." House stuffs the eraser into his pocket, then rubs his leg again. In a little while nothing will hurt anymore. His memory of this place will take on a sepia tone, like an ancient, fading image in an antique picture book. All will be well. "Find out if the fever kids have been scheduled for tonsillectomies."
Wilson stops pacing and jabs a finger through the bars. "What's interesting is that you can still think about that...now."
It's House's turn to point a finger. "Go away, Wilson," he says, then turns his back on his friend. He closes his eyes. Soon a more purposeful set of footfalls takes the place of the slowly fading ones.
"Doctor House?"
A rattle of keys, a sliding noise and a squeal of metal against concrete compel House to turn over and raise a brow. The Curly-haired Big Nosed guy stands before him, a nerd wanting desperately to be cool, clad in a black leather jacket, sport shirt and jeans. A pair of sunglasses with bronze plastic frames plays peek-a-boo from inside his jacket pocket.
"You okay, Doctor?"
Garrett. The guy's name leaps into House's head like a dog returning from an energetic romp around the neighborhood.
"I broke my cane," House tells him.
"I know." From behind his back, Garrett reveals what is more a walking stick than a cane. It is midnight blue. A bolt of bright azure lightning emanates from its tip, rising to its middle, where it bursts into a brilliant swirl of colors. "Here is a worthy replacement. You won't need it for long, of course."
House reaches to receive the gift. Its designs are textured, fluid, seeming to shift and melt under his admiring touch.
"But you can keep it, regardless" Garrett smiles.
The walking stick brings to mind fairy tales of enchanted frogs, of wizards and kings. The romanticism of those unbidden images inspires an inward cringe. But he can't help wanting the gift, just as he wants the pig snout eraser that is buried safely away in his pocket.
"Ready, Doctor?"
House fixes Garrett with a look. "Why did you do that?"
"What?"
"Get rid of the record shop."
"Oh, didn't you like the market?" Garrett grins, tapping the ends of his fingers together. "Irie's creation. It's a pleasant little place."
"Not any more." House brandishes the walking stick, then sets it down again. "I wanted Wilson to see..." He pauses, struggling to remember the name of the town...
"Pleasant Hills," Garrett offers.
This cane has a more substantial heft than his old one. Twirling it in one hand is a somewhat arduous process. "He doesn't believe in this any more than I would..."
Garrett shakes his head, letting out a sympathetic chuckle. "He needs to find us on his own. Go through the process. Step by step.."
"Why?"
Backing into the cell's open door, Garrett purses his lips and shrugs. "I don't make the rules."
"He'd be an asset to you." House wonders why he is trying so hard to sell Wilson on this guy. The adage 'You can't have everything' should be ingrained deep inside his psyche by now. To get you've got to give. A return to Pleasant Hills means a sacrifice. It used to be easy to get his way by charm, intimidation, reason, craftiness. Those tools have been rendered ineffectual by something beyond the scope of reason, and that's what frightens him most.
"You just want him around because he's your friend."
"No. I hate him and just need someone to berate."
Folding his arms across his chest Garrett whispers. "I have a secret." He winks. "After awhile you won't even remember him."
"Oh." The lightning bolt sizzles with a weak electrical charge beneath his palm. "This is a good thing?"
"It depends on your mindset," Garrett says. "You can't cling to the old if you want to embrace the new."
His words are of little comfort. House glowers. A spray of red and yellow sparks fly from the tip of the cane. "How do you do it?"
"What?"
"Everything."
"A keen interest begets knowledge, and knowledge begets power," Garrett taps his foot, the sound echoes off the cell walls, reminding House of that cra-azy first visit to Station One.
This you remember.
A chill runs down his back as Garrett continues. "I'm offering you a great opportunity. But you need to be patient and to trust. If you're willing to watch and learn, you'll eventually end up with everything you ever wanted. Cool, huh?" Checking his watch, he runs his tongue across his lower lip. A shadow of impatience darkens his features. "So, have you decided to rejoin the party, Doctor?"
It's easy to give his answer. He puts his misgivings in storage and rises off the cot. In a moment he is following Garrett out the door.