Metaphorically Speaking

"Honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about, Dr. House." James "Jimmy" Wilson, MD, slammed his shot glass on the table mid-wince. The taste of the tequila, coupled with the inconsistently upbeat music from the band in the corner, not to mention the ever-increasing volume of the chattering crowd in the strange New Orleans bar, was beginning to blur his vision, his motor functions, and his judgment. Actually, this haziness was offering some relief from his earlier sentiments of pure disbelief. In the past thirty-six hours, he'd gotten drunk –twice now, as of those last two shots- thrown a bottle of wine through an old-as-hell window, been put in jail, been bailed out of jail by a complete stranger, and gone out for drinks with that same stranger. And now, that oddly…charismatic doctor was trying to explain…something. And he had no idea whatsoever what that something was.

"Jimmy, Jimmy, listen to me," He laughed and threw back another shot, "What I'm trying to explain to you is…is the whole point of this, here, right now. Listen for a sec, okay?" His hands waved through the air in an emphatic gesture.

Wilson nodded, blinked, and rested his elbows on the table. His mouth felt a little numb, and he tried to recall exactly how much alcohol was required to jump-start cirrhosis in an otherwise healthy individual. However, his worry for his liver was overshadowed by his curiosity for whatever was about to come out of this guy's mouth.

"Okay, so, you wanna buy a car, right?"

"I have a car."

"No, shut up, you want to buy a car. S'hypothetical."

"Oh, okay. Yeah, I wanna buy a car."

"And you're wondering where you're gonna get the car from. Well, you could go to that really nice, shiny dealership. But, dammit, those cars just cost too much. You get me?"

Wilson didn't 'get' him. "Yeah, go on."

"Or, maybe, you could go to that guy down the street who's had a 'For Sale' sign on his pick-up truck for the past six months. But that truck's not really, well, top-of-the-line, is it?"

Now Wilson was entirely befuddled. "Wait…isn't 'top-of-the-line' too expensive?"

House ignored him and kept talking. "So, you go to that little mom-and-pop place over by the highway and pick out a nice one. Plus, it's broken in. And you drive it for years and it's cool."

"And?"

"And what? That's it."

"Dr. House, I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Jimmy, how long have we known each other?"

Wilson looked at his watch. "Um, about eight-and-a-half hours?"

"And how did we meet?"

"You bailed me out of jail. I really don't understand what you're getting at-"

"There are about, oh, I don't know, a thousand other doctors at this convention, right?"

"Yeah, so? I still don't understand you, House."

"And how many other people were there in that jail?"

"I don't know, maybe thirty?"

"Exactly my point! Do you get it now?"

James Wilson still didn't get it, but he paused before answering. His drunken haze did nothing to help the already murky waters of this man's speech. Then, it dawned on him.

"Wait…am I your new car?"

"YES!" House shouted, throwing his arms up in relief. "Well, metaphorically speaking you are." He laughed a little and threw back another shot.

Wilson was proud of himself for figuring the mystery out, but one thing weighed heavy on his mind.

"Uh, hey, House?"

"Yes, Herbie?"

"Wouldn't it have been easier to, well, not use the whole car metaphor, and just tell me whatever it was that that all meant?"

House laughed in response.

"Jimmy, you'd better get used to the metaphors. Learn to love them."

Wilson laughed and tossed back the very last mouthful of tequila. This guy was weird.