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  Records 
 by Marisol Jackoweskla  

 

A pause. On to the next track. 

John Henry Plays the Old Standards, vinyl album, circa 1972. Picked up at
the secondhand record store for a criminal amount. Kids don't understand
good music; they just want a pounding beat to stick up their ass. So the
record was in good condition, and it was cheap. Not that he was a cheap
individual, not at all. He'd put down quite a good chunk of money for the
shoes he was wearing. But he wasn't going to scoff at a quality album for
$4. Criminal, not to pick it up.

The nice thing about instrumental music was the ability to mess with
pronouns. "She", "he"... the trumpet treated them all as one. The one that
got away. It must be a simplified relationship, playing a song of
unrequited love on the trumpet. 

A pause. On to the next track.

The trumpet wailed, the tone both desperate and hopeful. Man, it knew.
That trumpet (sitting on his coffee table, never gonna be played again),
it knew. It had no love. It was stuck (sitting on his coffee table) as a
lifeless piece of metal for all time.

Sitting on the couch, wallowing in jazz, all alone in the night, he drank
a lonely whisky. And then, because he didn't want the drink to be lonely,
he sent a Vicodin down after it.

A pause. On to the next track. 

The tone changed, from self-depreciating to chiding. He sat up and took
notice. Was the record mocking him? Two songs about unrequited love in a
row was a bit much. He listened a bit, and then sang a few of the words to
himself. 

"He's somebody else's problem / She's welcome to the guy / She'll never
understand him / Half as well as I..." Yes, the record was definitely
mocking him. He hadn't wanted to put a name on his melancholy, but if the
song as going to slap him in the face with it... he'd have no choice,
would he? He'd have to name it. His grip tightened on the empty whisky
glass. Damn -

A pause. On to the next track.

Softer now, more pensive. His flare of anger diminished with the mellowing
of the music. Of course, it might have been the alcohol and Vicodin. He
released his grip on the glass and sat back. He listened.

Music was such an emotional rollercoaster. Patients and hospitals were
easier: diagnose, treat, solve, repeat. No emotions to get in the way...
ideally. Just a drive to get things fixed. Musicians didn't know what they
were missing, really.

A pause. The record was over.

The needle kept going around the turntable, scratching the record's edge. 

House listened to the mindless noise, and let the drugs lull him to sleep.

  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.