For a long time, I wrote silly little House MD
fanfictions, mostly post-episode but also a number of House/Wilson
fics. It's been over a year since I wrote one. But this idea banged
around in my head and finally wrote it down. Whether you like it or
not? HEY MOTHERFUCKERS, I DON'T PLAY THE PIANO! Ahem. What I meant to
say, was, I spent a lot of time on Youtube piano tutorials. I don't
think you're motherfuckers at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was like a dozen bars they’d walked into over the past three
months. Small, grungy, neon lights
advertising Bud Light, ancient framed ads for Schlitz and Schaeffer. Old photos pinned to the wall behind the bar.
Boring. The patrons were boring. The smell was boring. But off to one side was a banged-up upright piano.
“Here we go, Wilson. Get
us a couple of beers.”
To make their journey more interesting, since House couldn’t
teach Wilson medicine, House decided to teach Wilson piano. This despite the fact that Wilson had less
rhythm that a panic-stricken teen at his first dance. Teaching Wilson twelve-bar blues had taken fifty
bars over two states.
Often, after the lessons, House played the piano and took
requests, for tips. He flat-out refused to
play “Let It Go.” The song was bad
enough. Listening to it being mangled by some drunken bar babe was more than
House could take. Sometimes there would
be other musicians, and he could jam.
Not often enough. So he took on
the colossal task of teaching his tempo-challenged friend to play the
piano.
Wilson slid onto the piano bench next to his friend. “So,
what’s on the curriculum tonight? You
going to make me play ‘Kitchen Man’ again?”
“No.” House gave a
slight, condescending node. “Tonight,
we’re going to learn three simple blues chords for the left hand. Simple for anyone but you.”
Wilson started to rise from the piano bench. “I don’t have to take this, House. There’s got to be a woman in here without
herpes.”
“Sit down and put your left hand on the piano. E to B-B to D to E. Play that twice.”
Wilson did as he was told, frowning. “Where do my fingers
go?” In exasperation, House showed him,
thumb to little finger. “We’ve been over
this, Wilson.”
“I’m trying, House.”
A long, thin man wearing a trucker’s cap and a bad case of
rosacea walked up to the other side of the piano. “Mister, you two better be leaving.”
“You better stop drinking before your nose gets any
veiny-er. We’re not together, you
retarded tinhorn. I’m giving this guy
piano lessons.”
“Best not do it here.”
Wilson whispered, “House, we should--“
House’s eyes did not leave the other man’s face. “Don’t force
me to play Mozart.”
“We sleep in separate rooms!” Wilson burst out. “Really!
We’re as straight as any of you!”
“Straighter, from what I can see,” House added. “You wouldn’t hit a cripple, would you?” He lifted his cane, with just the tiniest
hint of menace.
“No, I--“
“Then fuck off. I’ve got
to teach a musk ox how to tickle the ivories.”
Flummoxed, the man went back to the bar. He said a few words to the bartender, who
gave House a look that was supposed to be intimidating. Didn’t work.
“Musk ox?”
“Okay, chimpanzee. Where were we? Try again.
E-B-B-D-E, E-B-B-D-E, A-E-E-G-A, A-E-E-G-A. Again.
Again. Now, B-F sharp-A-A-B, back to A-B-G-A. Again.
Jesus, Wilson, put a little soul into it.”
“You’ve already made it clear I have no soul.”
“Again.”
Wilson frowned as he picked out the notes on the yellowed keys. “This sounds familiar.”
“Keep playing.” As
Wilson played the bass line over and over, House’s right hand went to the keys
and played the same rhythm with flourishes.
Wilson stopped.
“I know this song!” He
chuckled. “It’s by Ray Charles!” He looked at House. “You’re going to tell me it was first done by
Blind Schlomo Rutabaga, aren’t you?” Wilson rested his hand on the keys. “My parents took Danny and me to summer camp,
we’d always stop in this old-fashioned luncheonette with ice cream sodas and
tiny little hamburgers. It had a
jukebox. We’d beg Dad to play this
song. We had no idea what it was about, especially the moaning part at the
end. Danny thought it was funny.” His smile turned introspective. “Danny thought it was funny. What’s it called?”
“What’d I Say. One of
the great songs of our lifetime, even if you little putzes couldn’t appreciate
it. Okay, play the chords, I’ll come in
with the right hand, B-D-E chord. You
keep playing the same bass line through the song, thank God. For the intro, you play a few times, then I
come in and demonstrate how lousy you are.”
After a few tries,
Wilson had it down. House played the
upper part with his right hand. Several
bar patrons had stopped talking and listened to the two men play.
“Faster,” House demanded.
Wilson did as best he could.
Blissful, House went along, his hands deftly flying through the
right-hand part, his left hand beating rhythm on the top of the piano. He started singing.
“Hey
mama, don’t you treat me wrong, come love your daddy all night long
All
right now, hey hey, all right--
See
the girl with the diamond ring, she knows how to shake that thing
All
right, now now, all right, all right--“
Wilson grinned like an idiot, so proud of keeping up. The other people in the bar were now all
listening. Two even clapped along. The bartender leaned on the bar, the
intimidating look gone.
“Tell
your ma, tell your pa, I’m gonna send you back to Arkansas
Hey
hey, you don’t do right, you don’t right, yeah
Well,
tell me what'd I say, yeah
Tell
me what'd I say right now
Tell
me what'd I say yeah
“I’m not bad,” Wilson said proudly.
“Not good enough to use two hands yet,” House replied.
“Keep ‘er goin’!” yelled the skinny man who had been ready to
beat them up a short time before. The
crowd called out similar things. House
nodded to Wilson. Laughing, he struck up the bass line.
And
I wanna know
Baby
I wanna know right now
And-a
I wanna know
And
I wanna know right now yeah
And-a
I wanna know
Said
I wanna know yeah
“Now for the part your parents thought was so funny,” House
said. “Hey,” he sang. “Now you repeat it. Hey--“
“Hey”
“Ho”
“Ho”
Wilson resolutely sang the repeat with no innuendo whatsoever.
“Hey-“
“Hey-“
“Ho-“
“Ho”
Yeah,
baby, what’d I say, baby what’d I say, baby what’d I say,
baby
what’d I say right now!”
House turned to their new audience. “Call and response time, people!” He turned back to Wilson. “You too.”
“Baby one more time--“
House swiveled around to the audience and nodded.
“One more time!”
“You too, Wilson.”
“One more time!”
“Just one more time!”
“Just one more time!” House made a distinctly sexual groan - “Huh,”
Even though the other bar patrons echoed him, Wilson stopped
playing. “I can’t do this, House.”
“It’s what all the cool kids are doing.”
Wilson lowered his voice.
“I don’t moan in public.”
“You moaned plenty when you were doing that pediatric nurse in
the laundry closet. Don’t worry, it
isn’t insta-gay.”
“But--okay.”
“Huh”
“Huh
“Hunh”
“Hunh”
House stopped playing.
He and Wilson stared at each other for what seemed a very long time. Then Wilson seemed to realize where they
were, dropped his head, resuming the bass line.
He looked up, and his eyes locked with House’s. House moaned with what could only be called a
lot of feeling.
“Hu-nh...”
“Hu-nh..”
“Oooh”
“Oooh”
“Anh”“Anh”“Hyuh”“Hyuh”“Oh”“Oh”“Hyuh”“Hyuh”
“Yeah!
Baby, it’s all right, baby it’s all right, baby it’s all right”
Wilson, cheeks fiery red, sang along with House, who grinned
from ear to ear.
“Make me feel all right,
make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me feel all right, make me
feel all right, make me feel all right...”
House was wrong.
It was
insta-gay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's the song, in case you've never heard it, or you just want to feel good:
