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James Wilson finds himself in the world’s most depressing bar in the worst state of the union: New Jersey. There’s little to celebrate aside from being back on US soil, this time for good.
A haze hangs low on the ceiling— weed, tobacco, maybe both. He chokes on the acrid cloud that invades his lungs. Tinny speakers blast seventies rock, and he can barely hear himself think. When he orders a drink, the bartender gives him a look of pure disdain.
The only thing this bar has going for it is the lack of college students. Didn’t take a genius to figure out why.
“Wilson?” says a voice from behind him. Wilson’s halfway through his first pint, not eager to be bothered. He looks at the half-filled pint glass with disgust. Even the beer here tastes off.
Wilson turns, placing the voice a beat too late.
It’s Hugh Stamford, just a year behind him at Columbia. They’d crossed paths in their dorm building. Shared some friends, had the occasional game night. Never close.
“Stamford?”
“You do remember me,” says Stamford, beaming. He politely ignores Wilson’s grimace. “What brings you to Jersey?”
His optimism, even in college, had verged on cloying.
Wilson gives a bleak laugh.
“Ah, you know. Job hunting,” Wilson says, fidgeting with his wedding ring. He should’ve taken it off, lest someone get the wrong impression.
“PPTH?”
Wilson nods. “I have a connection there. Seems like I have another.”
“Absolutely. Been there a few years. It’s not a bad place to work.”
“Glad to see you’ve done well for yourself.” He means it. “I’m apartment hunting, too, while I’m at it. Trying to figure out if there’s anything around here at a reasonable price.”
Stamford grins. “Funnily enough, you’re not the first person who’s said that to me today.”
Wilson perks up.
“Who’s the first?”
Wilson has to admit: this hospital’s pretty nice.
His run-in with Stamford could prove lucky— if he can play his cards right.
Stamford leads him down the main corridor to a door marked:
Gregory House, M.D.
Department of Diagnostic Medicine
Stamford ushers Wilson into the office, giving him an encouraging grin. His pager buzzes. He gives Wilson an apologetic clap on the shoulder, mouthing “Sorry” before hurrying off.
“Wait–” says Wilson, but Stamford’s already gone.
A man sits behind the desk, laser-focused on a small tv. He doesn’t look up as Wilson walks in.
Wilson takes stock of the office. It’s large. Very large. To his left is a glass-walled conference room, unoccupied. If he has any employees, they’re nowhere in sight.
The desk looks more like a teacher’s than a doctor’s—rubik’s cube, crossword book, a children’s tennis ball.
The only sound is dialogue from the speakers.
You’ve fixed his heart, but you’ve broken mine!
Wilson narrows his eyes.
“Is that—are you watching Prescription Passion at work?”
The man turns his head.
“Ah, a fellow Passionhead ?” he asks.
Wilson frowns. “No, I mean—”
“Always good to find someone who enjoys real medicine.”
The man smirks. He turns the tv off with his cane and stands.
“Well, I—” Wilson starts, but—
“What?” he asks. “Ex-wife was a fan?”
Wilson blinks. “How did you—”
“Watched a lot of it on deployment, then?” the man adds.
Wilson looks down at his clothes, wondering if he got dressed in his fatigues today. Button-down, slacks, dress shoes.
“Doesn’t matter,” says the man, holding out his hand. “Dr. Greg House.”
Wilson returns his handshake cautiously, still sizing him up.
“Doctor… James Wilson.”
“So, Wilson,” says House, dropping Wilson’s honorific immediately. “Open house. Friday at noon.” House hands him a business card. “Two beds, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
He pauses, forgetting something.
“I’m not big on cooking. Or cleaning.” he adds. “I play guitar. Piano. Harmonica, sometimes. You’ll get used to it.”
House’s pager buzzes. He breezes past Wilson and out the door.
Doesn’t bother to look back.
“See you there!” calls House.
Wilson stands alone in the office, staring at the card.
221B Baker Street
He’s probably talking himself into another bad decision. On the other hand, he wants to see how this shakes out.
He grins.
See you there, House.
When House stops by the condo, it’s 12:36.
Wilson has spent the past twenty minutes letting the conversation devolve from security deposits to what the leasing agent ate for dinner last night.
House pops his head through the door, grinning at Wilson. Wilson holds up his wrist and points at his watch.
“Sorry,” says House. “Takes a while for Hooters to microwave a meal.”
The agent looks at him in bewilderment.
“Dr. House,” he says, extending a hand. “We’ll take it.”
Wilson stares at him, incredulous. “You haven’t even toured the place yet!”
“You have,” he says.
“Yeah—”
“If you had any complaints, you would’ve said so. So,” says House, returning to the agent. “Drop three hundred dollars off a month in exchange for fixing the mold problem. Deal?”
The agent’s eyes widen.
“Dr. House!” Wilson hisses.
“Please. Dr. House is my— no, that’s just my name. Father was a deadbeat,” he says. He returns his attention to the agent. “Do we have a deal, Ms. —?”
He waits for either of them to tell him her name.
“Lansing,” she replies curtly.
She brushes off her skirt and straightens.
“Deal,” she says, returning his handshake.
Wilson stares at him in disbelief, horrified and impressed. He doesn’t find himself saying no to any of this.
Wilson’s days in a Combat Support Hospital are over.
His new job at Princeton-Plainsboro has been secured by glowing references and a stellar interview. The newest oncologist to join the team. Much larger salary than the Army could afford.
Four years served for his medical degree. A clean exchange, and a calculated one. He wouldn’t serve a second longer than necessary.
Was it all worth it? The working conditions, the deployments, the trauma?
Wilson looks around at his new office, his name in silver letters on the door. There’s space for a small sitting area. Room to breathe. Air-conditioning.
Yes, he thinks. For this?
Absolutely.
Nearly every move he’s made in his life involved a total stranger. College. Med school. Basic training. Deployments. House is the most interesting roommate yet.
Wilson buys the essentials in his first week: mattress, dresser, linens and lamps. The rest of the condo is furnished by House.
House takes him out to celebrate the new job. Wilson doesn’t pretend like this is for him. It’s another opportunity for throwing Wilson under a microscope again as House’s favorite specimen.
Still, a free beer’s a free beer.
This bar’s a hole in the wall, clearly a local favorite. It leans heavily on its Irish influences. It’s an explosion of Irish flags, Guinness adverts, and celtic knots. But it’s somewhat clean and its clientele clearly a higher caliber than wherever he’d ended up a few days ago.
He’s not immune to the propaganda and orders two Guinnesses at the bar, taking them back to the booth where House sits.
“So,” says Wilson. “How’d you know about the mold?”
House smirks.
“That? Lucky guess.” He takes a sip of beer, his eyes glimmering. “Care to ask about something more interesting?”
Wilson looks unamused.
House gives in.
“That condo’s been on the market for months. Already underpriced. Good neighborhood. Something’s turning renters off.” He shrugs. “Mold was a shot in the dark.”
Wilson’s beer sits untouched. He fires off another question, curiosity still unsated.
“And my ex-wife? How could you have known?”
“You’re in the middle of a divorce right now,” House says. He’s looking at Wilson’s left hand. His thumb’s playing with the ghost of a wedding ring.
Wilson quickly grabs the glass and downs half the pint.
“Come on,” House says, as if the answer is obvious. “Military man, comes back from deployment.”
“I’m military because...?” he asks, not denying it. He just needs to know how he’s been profiled.
“Haircut,” says House, pointing. “Clean shave. Posture. Injured your right shoulder, too, it seems.”
Wilson nods, unconvinced. “You’re guessing.”
“It’s not guessing when you’re right.”
Wilson lets out a sharp exhale and drinks deeply.
“You’re, what, 34? Let’s guess again, tell me that I’m wrong.”
House’s eyes narrow. Wilson’s below the microscope again.
“You had med school paid by the army. You do your deployments, serve your four years.”
Wilson’s mouth tightens into a line.
“The patriotism ends once the debt’s paid back,” says House. Wilson’s steely expression only confirms this.
“Now you’re looking for real money, you’ve got rent and alimony to pay. PPTH pays big bucks for ex-military and you’re cashing in.”
The delight in House’s eyes grows by the second.
Wilson shifts in his seat.
“Take a good deal when you can get it, right? Clever,” House says, leaning in.
Wilson watches him down the rest of his beer, a smile forming.
“You know,” says Wilson. “People usually just tell me, ‘Thank you for your service.’”
House grins. The man does have a spine after all.
House clinks their empty glasses together.
“Thanks for your service,” House says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Wilson gives his first real laugh of the night.