Fic: The Cure for Boredom
Title: The Cure for Boredom
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2777
Summary: "The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity." Dorothy Parker; "And there's the foundation of our entire friendship. If you hadn't been bored one weekend, it wouldn't even exist." James Wilson
Notes: Written for deelaundry, who told me to write: "AU where House is a woman (has always been female), and bails Wilson out of jail in New Orleans so they meet for the first time." It's not all that AU, but baby steps! Completed just in time to sneak into karaokegal’s Fourth Annual "Come As You’re Not" fanfic costume party for last call. Drop by and leave something in the goody bags of the authors!
Why it's a costume: First time writing second person POV. And something is not quite canon about House.
Curiosity killed the cat.
It was your mother's favourite saying, flexible enough to be used as both a warning and an admonition, and you certainly gave her enough cause to engrave it on your tombstone. Boredom is worse than death, though, and as your second favorite woman said, the only cure for boredom is curiosity. You've done more than a few foolhardy things in your life out of boredom and curiosity, and a lot of them haven't worked out, but you'd rather fail spectacularly than do nothing at all.
You're here because of one of those failures -- or at least what the pencil heads in administration consider a failure. Your diagnosis was ultimately correct, but it wasn’t your patient and you violated about a dozen hospital procedures in the process, so your department head suggested you disappear for a few days, go to a conference, use up some of the professional development budget, before the peer review committee got involved. He didn't care where you went and neither did you. Your affair with the new attending in Radiology just went nuclear, and leaving town is the best way to avoid the fallout.
New Orleans seemed like the best choice -- a couple of mildly interesting seminars and a light schedule, with the promise of late nights on Bourbon Street -- but mildly interesting turned out to be unbelievably boring, and even you can only sustain enthusiasm for solitary drinking for so long without going insane. And no matter what your mother thinks, you're not quite reckless enough to venture into the seedier bars -- which are the only ones worth going to -- on your own. Not unless you want an asshole with an over-developed sense of entitlement and an under-developed intellect to think that one drink is his ticket to paradise. You almost wish you were still talking to Crandall. The last you heard, he was in New Orleans, but that was a few years back, and you don't care enough to find out if he's still around.
You've suffered through too many of these things to know that the chances of finding an interesting drinking companion are slim to none, but on the first full day of the conference, you see a guy walk into the lecture hall carrying an express envelope in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He's good looking in a conventional sort of way -- long and lean and perfectly pressed -- but he looks too young to drink, much less attend a medical convention. You like the lines of his face and the way his bangs fall across his forehead, but you're not looking for a boy toy, much less jailbait. You can find that on streets of New Orleans.
He leaves the briefcase on a chair two rows in front of you and walks away, still holding the envelope. When he comes back, he's got a cup of coffee in his right hand and a Danish dangling from his mouth. The envelope is still clenched in his left hand. He shifts it to his right hand once he's settled into his seat, but only because he's left-handed and apparently intends to take notes.
He doesn't. The speaker has about as much charisma as a brick, and you've written better papers on the subject matter yourself, so you lose interest after the opening remarks. The guy with the envelope isn't listening either, but it's not because he's heard it all before. He's lost in some world of his own, and from the expression on his face, it's more post-apocalyptic than utopian.
He's staring at the envelope now, turning it around and around in his hands, but he doesn't open it. He may not want to know what's inside, but you do -- somewhere another cat is breathing its last -- so when the lecture is over, you wait in the aisle, pretending to study the printed schedule, until he walks by. You glance quickly at his name badge -- James Wilson, Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center -- and then down at the envelope. You can tell from extensive past experience that it's legal documents. Baby's first malpractice suit, you think, but then you see the name of the firm: Diamond, Fairbain Divorce Attorneys.
It looks like you're not the only one at the convention avoiding personal problems back home. For just an instant you catch his eye, and it's like looking into a dark, fathomless well of sorrow, but then he brushes past you and is swallowed into the crowd. You wish you'd said something to make him stop, and then wonder what is wrong with you. There's undoubtedly an excellent reason why Doogie Wilson got his ass kicked to the curb; you're guessing it has something to do with a wandering eye, and you don't mean the slight case of strabismus you noticed.
Still, you find yourself watching for him throughout the day, scanning the lecture halls and meeting rooms, strangely restless until he appears. You're not responsible for him, you don't even know him; it's just curiosity. He's an anomaly, a distraction. It has nothing to do with the reflection of your own loneliness you saw in that brief cross-eyed, cross-aisled glance. That would be irrational, and while you're a lot of things that can't be repeated in polite company, irrational is not one of them. He's simply the closest thing to interesting that you've come across so far.
What's decidedly not interesting are the two conference organizers you're forced to have dinner with as the price of registering after the deadline. You should be honored. Latour is the top nephrologist in Louisiana, one of your subspecialties, and Epstein is the chair of cardiology at Tulane. They're both arrogant pricks, however; more interested in staring at your cleavage than listening to your opinions, so you cut the evening short by claiming menstrual cramps. A wince is all it takes. Even doctors don't want to question that too closely, and you're spared mind-numbing after-dinner conversation. Instead of heading back to your room, you duck into the hotel bar. It's dark and gaudy, a contradiction you find wonderfully, peculiarly New Orleans. The oversized chandelier that hangs ostentatiously from the ceiling is permanently dimmed, but the long mahogany bar itself is lit by marquee bulbs.
A Billy Joel song is playing in the background, which is not typical New Orleans, but the maudlin drunk leaning against the jukebox doesn't appear to care that he has no sense of occasion. But it's not as if you're here for the music. You're not even here for the bottle of aged bourbon the bartender keeps out of sight of the tourists. You're here because when someone needs to drown their sorrows, the first, second and last stop is usually the first bar they pass.
James Wilson, Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, is sitting at a corner table by himself, staring into the bottom of a tumbler as if it contains the secrets of the universe written in a language he can't quite comprehend. The envelope is still unopened, propped against a bottle of bourbon. That does displays an admirable sense of occasion and taste, but he hasn't made much of a dent in it. You consider helping him out with that, but you don't want to spend the evening listening to a litany of marriage woes. Your experience is that most people stop being interesting once they open their mouth, and you're not quite ready to have your last hope for bearable company shattered.
The guy at the jukebox plugs in more money and the same song starts again. It's not bad, but you're not really a fan of Billy Joel during the happy Christie Brinkley days, and hearing it once a decade is more than enough.
You're not the only one who thinks so. Wilson lifts his head and glares in the direction of the jukebox. "I thought I asked you to stop playing that damn song!" he shouts, rising from his chair. His hand clenches around the tumbler, and for a moment you think he's going to throw it in the pop fan's face, which would be epic. You're about to egg him on when his hand drops, his shoulders slump, and he picks up the unopened envelope. Billy Joel chirps on about being in love and you wish he hadn't just left the tender moment alone, but the whole damn song.
The scene has shifted from entertaining to uncomfortable, and you retreat to a table across the room, away from the swirling undercurrents of emotion. You've never been a good swimmer. The song ends, and the idiot at the jukebox puts it on again. Somewhere Louis Armstrong is rolling in his grave. You wish you could join him. Maybe you can flash your breasts for a different song instead of beads. Or you could buy him a drink, slip in some chloral hydrate, and unplug the jukebox when he passes out.
Before you can come up with a plan that doesn't involve public indecency or assault, you hear a strangled cry. Wilson has risen again, and this time the bottle is in his hand. It's his left, so you know he means business. You're halfway out of your chair, when he hurls the bottle with a wild over-arm throw, shattering an ornate antique mirror next to the jukebox. It's beyond epic, and you realize you've underestimated his entertainment value.
The bar falls silent, the sudden stillness broken only by a cheery harmonica lick that makes your head hurt. Then somebody lets out a rebel yell and two guys throw shot glasses at the jukebox. You know where that's going even before the first punch is thrown, but Wilson just stands there, mouth agape, bemused by the destruction he's unleashed. "Hey, take it easy," he says as two guys grapple and stumble into him. He tries to pull them apart, but is sucker punched for his trouble. That doesn't deter him, though, and he wades back in just as the police arrive.
In other parts of the city, the bouncers would just throw them out on the street to sort it out, but the cops are quick to respond to a call from a convention hotel. When it comes to disturbances in high tourist areas, the policy is to arrest first and sort it out later.
You hear him apologize and promise to pay for the mirror as the police lead him away, and you shake your head. Somebody needs to drum a little street sense into him. You wonder who he'll call to bail him out. Not the wife who set the whole thing in motion with her Fedexed divorce papers. And you haven't seen him talking to anybody at the conference. He's as isolated as you are, though you doubt it's by choice.
The only thing to do is bail him out yourself. You still need someone to drink with on Saturday night.
It takes you awhile to arrange the bail and find a lawyer to get the charges dismissed, but you manage to get him released in time to make the last set at the Leaf. He's rumpled and bleary-eyed when the duty sergeant leads him out of the cell, but he runs his fingers through his hair and pats down his clothes and straightens his tie. It doesn't make much of a difference, but he still looks neater than you do at your best.
You can almost hear your mother approving from a thousand miles away. "Your friend is impeccable," she said the first -- and last -- time you brought a male friend home to meet her. "You, my dear, are peccable." You wanted to tell her that wasn't actually a word, but accuracy rarely plays into her pronouncements, especially where your shortcomings are concerned.
But you learned the hard way that she does not approve of vandalism and destruction of property -- even the cops knew the assault charge was bogus -- so the pretty boy wouldn't last long in her good books. That makes you like him even more. In fact, you can't wait to tell your mother about the nice young doctor you bailed out of jail, even though you know she'll assume you were somehow responsible for putting him there.
"Are you letting me go?" he asks, blinking under the harsh fluorescent light. "Don't I need to make bail?" He seems impossibly young, standing there looking uncertain and a little scared, like a teenager about to take his driver's exam. You know it's an illusion. The source you contacted at Columbia told you he was a resident tracking towards an oncology subspecialty, which means he's at least 25 or 26, old enough that you don't feel dirty just looking at him.
"I took care of it," you say, and hand him the forms to sign. "The charges are being dropped." It's a bit of an exaggeration, but even a hanging judge wouldn't be able to resist that sudden hopeful smile or the beaten puppy look that preceded it. "Let's go before they change their minds."
You're out on the street and hailing a cab before he emerges from the police station with his belongings. Somehow he's managed to hang on to that damn envelope. "Why did you do that?" he asks.
"Because I felt like it," you say, as if there could be any other explanation. "I'm Gill House, by the way."
"I know," he replies. "You're famous and infamous. That's quite the achievement." He smirks, and you think maybe he's not quite as innocent as he looks. "I'm James Wilson, but you already knew that."
"Did you get that from the bail bond I filled out? You're smart enough to be a doctor or something."
"No, I got it from the way you stared at my nametag after the nephrology lecture."
That's the second time he's surprised you -- the third, if you count the broken mirror -- and you know now that you made the right decision by bailing him out. "I wanted to know which hospital was breaking child labor laws by hiring you."
He holds the cab door open for you. "You know those Ivy League schools. They're a law unto themselves. Where are you going?"
"We're going uptown to Carrollton," you tell him, but he hangs back.
"I should get back to the hotel. Get some sleep before the morning plenary." He doesn't walk away, though, and you know he has potential.
"Nobody goes to the morning plenary, unless the conference is in one of those boring mid-western cities with an early closing time." You don't go then either, but last call has never had any meaning for you. "You've had a rough night. As your doctor, I prescribe real New Orleans music and a bottle of bourbon for drinking, not throwing."
He winces and shakes his head ruefully, but then climbs into the backseat. "I'm going to regret this," he says, not sounding regretful at all, and you suspect you're not the only one who has issues with boredom and curiosity.
"The Maple Leaf Bar," you tell the cabbie. "Anyone good on tonight?"
"They're all good at the Leaf," he replies, dismissing you as just another dumb tourist. You played at the Leaf once, back when you were younger than Wilson looks. You weren't good, but it felt fantastic. You stayed all night, jamming with the headliners until dawn, and then you and Crandall took the St. Charles streetcar down to Cafe du Monde, where you spent your share of the tips on beignets and coffee until it was time to catch the bus back north.
You might have married Crandall if he hadn't hooked up with the crazy blonde bimbo, and then both your lives would have been ruined, not just his. You were long gone by the time that mistaken marriage fell apart, picking up the pieces in Ann Arbor after you screwed Weber for his lab results, and he screwed you out of the Doyle internship.
Maybe this is a second chance for you to be there, if not for Crandall, then for another idiot who loved not wisely but too well.
Wilson folds the envelope carefully and slips it into the inside pocket of his rumpled suit jacket. "I'll write you a check for the bail when we get back to the hotel," he says, as if that was ever in doubt. You'll take this trip as the first payment of interest.
You've done more than a few foolhardy things in your life out of boredom and curiosity, but some of them do work out.
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2777
Summary: "The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity." Dorothy Parker; "And there's the foundation of our entire friendship. If you hadn't been bored one weekend, it wouldn't even exist." James Wilson
Notes: Written for deelaundry, who told me to write: "AU where House is a woman (has always been female), and bails Wilson out of jail in New Orleans so they meet for the first time." It's not all that AU, but baby steps! Completed just in time to sneak into karaokegal’s Fourth Annual "Come As You’re Not" fanfic costume party for last call. Drop by and leave something in the goody bags of the authors!
Why it's a costume: First time writing second person POV. And something is not quite canon about House.
Curiosity killed the cat.
It was your mother's favourite saying, flexible enough to be used as both a warning and an admonition, and you certainly gave her enough cause to engrave it on your tombstone. Boredom is worse than death, though, and as your second favorite woman said, the only cure for boredom is curiosity. You've done more than a few foolhardy things in your life out of boredom and curiosity, and a lot of them haven't worked out, but you'd rather fail spectacularly than do nothing at all.
You're here because of one of those failures -- or at least what the pencil heads in administration consider a failure. Your diagnosis was ultimately correct, but it wasn’t your patient and you violated about a dozen hospital procedures in the process, so your department head suggested you disappear for a few days, go to a conference, use up some of the professional development budget, before the peer review committee got involved. He didn't care where you went and neither did you. Your affair with the new attending in Radiology just went nuclear, and leaving town is the best way to avoid the fallout.
New Orleans seemed like the best choice -- a couple of mildly interesting seminars and a light schedule, with the promise of late nights on Bourbon Street -- but mildly interesting turned out to be unbelievably boring, and even you can only sustain enthusiasm for solitary drinking for so long without going insane. And no matter what your mother thinks, you're not quite reckless enough to venture into the seedier bars -- which are the only ones worth going to -- on your own. Not unless you want an asshole with an over-developed sense of entitlement and an under-developed intellect to think that one drink is his ticket to paradise. You almost wish you were still talking to Crandall. The last you heard, he was in New Orleans, but that was a few years back, and you don't care enough to find out if he's still around.
You've suffered through too many of these things to know that the chances of finding an interesting drinking companion are slim to none, but on the first full day of the conference, you see a guy walk into the lecture hall carrying an express envelope in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He's good looking in a conventional sort of way -- long and lean and perfectly pressed -- but he looks too young to drink, much less attend a medical convention. You like the lines of his face and the way his bangs fall across his forehead, but you're not looking for a boy toy, much less jailbait. You can find that on streets of New Orleans.
He leaves the briefcase on a chair two rows in front of you and walks away, still holding the envelope. When he comes back, he's got a cup of coffee in his right hand and a Danish dangling from his mouth. The envelope is still clenched in his left hand. He shifts it to his right hand once he's settled into his seat, but only because he's left-handed and apparently intends to take notes.
He doesn't. The speaker has about as much charisma as a brick, and you've written better papers on the subject matter yourself, so you lose interest after the opening remarks. The guy with the envelope isn't listening either, but it's not because he's heard it all before. He's lost in some world of his own, and from the expression on his face, it's more post-apocalyptic than utopian.
He's staring at the envelope now, turning it around and around in his hands, but he doesn't open it. He may not want to know what's inside, but you do -- somewhere another cat is breathing its last -- so when the lecture is over, you wait in the aisle, pretending to study the printed schedule, until he walks by. You glance quickly at his name badge -- James Wilson, Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center -- and then down at the envelope. You can tell from extensive past experience that it's legal documents. Baby's first malpractice suit, you think, but then you see the name of the firm: Diamond, Fairbain Divorce Attorneys.
It looks like you're not the only one at the convention avoiding personal problems back home. For just an instant you catch his eye, and it's like looking into a dark, fathomless well of sorrow, but then he brushes past you and is swallowed into the crowd. You wish you'd said something to make him stop, and then wonder what is wrong with you. There's undoubtedly an excellent reason why Doogie Wilson got his ass kicked to the curb; you're guessing it has something to do with a wandering eye, and you don't mean the slight case of strabismus you noticed.
Still, you find yourself watching for him throughout the day, scanning the lecture halls and meeting rooms, strangely restless until he appears. You're not responsible for him, you don't even know him; it's just curiosity. He's an anomaly, a distraction. It has nothing to do with the reflection of your own loneliness you saw in that brief cross-eyed, cross-aisled glance. That would be irrational, and while you're a lot of things that can't be repeated in polite company, irrational is not one of them. He's simply the closest thing to interesting that you've come across so far.
What's decidedly not interesting are the two conference organizers you're forced to have dinner with as the price of registering after the deadline. You should be honored. Latour is the top nephrologist in Louisiana, one of your subspecialties, and Epstein is the chair of cardiology at Tulane. They're both arrogant pricks, however; more interested in staring at your cleavage than listening to your opinions, so you cut the evening short by claiming menstrual cramps. A wince is all it takes. Even doctors don't want to question that too closely, and you're spared mind-numbing after-dinner conversation. Instead of heading back to your room, you duck into the hotel bar. It's dark and gaudy, a contradiction you find wonderfully, peculiarly New Orleans. The oversized chandelier that hangs ostentatiously from the ceiling is permanently dimmed, but the long mahogany bar itself is lit by marquee bulbs.
A Billy Joel song is playing in the background, which is not typical New Orleans, but the maudlin drunk leaning against the jukebox doesn't appear to care that he has no sense of occasion. But it's not as if you're here for the music. You're not even here for the bottle of aged bourbon the bartender keeps out of sight of the tourists. You're here because when someone needs to drown their sorrows, the first, second and last stop is usually the first bar they pass.
James Wilson, Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, is sitting at a corner table by himself, staring into the bottom of a tumbler as if it contains the secrets of the universe written in a language he can't quite comprehend. The envelope is still unopened, propped against a bottle of bourbon. That does displays an admirable sense of occasion and taste, but he hasn't made much of a dent in it. You consider helping him out with that, but you don't want to spend the evening listening to a litany of marriage woes. Your experience is that most people stop being interesting once they open their mouth, and you're not quite ready to have your last hope for bearable company shattered.
The guy at the jukebox plugs in more money and the same song starts again. It's not bad, but you're not really a fan of Billy Joel during the happy Christie Brinkley days, and hearing it once a decade is more than enough.
You're not the only one who thinks so. Wilson lifts his head and glares in the direction of the jukebox. "I thought I asked you to stop playing that damn song!" he shouts, rising from his chair. His hand clenches around the tumbler, and for a moment you think he's going to throw it in the pop fan's face, which would be epic. You're about to egg him on when his hand drops, his shoulders slump, and he picks up the unopened envelope. Billy Joel chirps on about being in love and you wish he hadn't just left the tender moment alone, but the whole damn song.
The scene has shifted from entertaining to uncomfortable, and you retreat to a table across the room, away from the swirling undercurrents of emotion. You've never been a good swimmer. The song ends, and the idiot at the jukebox puts it on again. Somewhere Louis Armstrong is rolling in his grave. You wish you could join him. Maybe you can flash your breasts for a different song instead of beads. Or you could buy him a drink, slip in some chloral hydrate, and unplug the jukebox when he passes out.
Before you can come up with a plan that doesn't involve public indecency or assault, you hear a strangled cry. Wilson has risen again, and this time the bottle is in his hand. It's his left, so you know he means business. You're halfway out of your chair, when he hurls the bottle with a wild over-arm throw, shattering an ornate antique mirror next to the jukebox. It's beyond epic, and you realize you've underestimated his entertainment value.
The bar falls silent, the sudden stillness broken only by a cheery harmonica lick that makes your head hurt. Then somebody lets out a rebel yell and two guys throw shot glasses at the jukebox. You know where that's going even before the first punch is thrown, but Wilson just stands there, mouth agape, bemused by the destruction he's unleashed. "Hey, take it easy," he says as two guys grapple and stumble into him. He tries to pull them apart, but is sucker punched for his trouble. That doesn't deter him, though, and he wades back in just as the police arrive.
In other parts of the city, the bouncers would just throw them out on the street to sort it out, but the cops are quick to respond to a call from a convention hotel. When it comes to disturbances in high tourist areas, the policy is to arrest first and sort it out later.
You hear him apologize and promise to pay for the mirror as the police lead him away, and you shake your head. Somebody needs to drum a little street sense into him. You wonder who he'll call to bail him out. Not the wife who set the whole thing in motion with her Fedexed divorce papers. And you haven't seen him talking to anybody at the conference. He's as isolated as you are, though you doubt it's by choice.
The only thing to do is bail him out yourself. You still need someone to drink with on Saturday night.
It takes you awhile to arrange the bail and find a lawyer to get the charges dismissed, but you manage to get him released in time to make the last set at the Leaf. He's rumpled and bleary-eyed when the duty sergeant leads him out of the cell, but he runs his fingers through his hair and pats down his clothes and straightens his tie. It doesn't make much of a difference, but he still looks neater than you do at your best.
You can almost hear your mother approving from a thousand miles away. "Your friend is impeccable," she said the first -- and last -- time you brought a male friend home to meet her. "You, my dear, are peccable." You wanted to tell her that wasn't actually a word, but accuracy rarely plays into her pronouncements, especially where your shortcomings are concerned.
But you learned the hard way that she does not approve of vandalism and destruction of property -- even the cops knew the assault charge was bogus -- so the pretty boy wouldn't last long in her good books. That makes you like him even more. In fact, you can't wait to tell your mother about the nice young doctor you bailed out of jail, even though you know she'll assume you were somehow responsible for putting him there.
"Are you letting me go?" he asks, blinking under the harsh fluorescent light. "Don't I need to make bail?" He seems impossibly young, standing there looking uncertain and a little scared, like a teenager about to take his driver's exam. You know it's an illusion. The source you contacted at Columbia told you he was a resident tracking towards an oncology subspecialty, which means he's at least 25 or 26, old enough that you don't feel dirty just looking at him.
"I took care of it," you say, and hand him the forms to sign. "The charges are being dropped." It's a bit of an exaggeration, but even a hanging judge wouldn't be able to resist that sudden hopeful smile or the beaten puppy look that preceded it. "Let's go before they change their minds."
You're out on the street and hailing a cab before he emerges from the police station with his belongings. Somehow he's managed to hang on to that damn envelope. "Why did you do that?" he asks.
"Because I felt like it," you say, as if there could be any other explanation. "I'm Gill House, by the way."
"I know," he replies. "You're famous and infamous. That's quite the achievement." He smirks, and you think maybe he's not quite as innocent as he looks. "I'm James Wilson, but you already knew that."
"Did you get that from the bail bond I filled out? You're smart enough to be a doctor or something."
"No, I got it from the way you stared at my nametag after the nephrology lecture."
That's the second time he's surprised you -- the third, if you count the broken mirror -- and you know now that you made the right decision by bailing him out. "I wanted to know which hospital was breaking child labor laws by hiring you."
He holds the cab door open for you. "You know those Ivy League schools. They're a law unto themselves. Where are you going?"
"We're going uptown to Carrollton," you tell him, but he hangs back.
"I should get back to the hotel. Get some sleep before the morning plenary." He doesn't walk away, though, and you know he has potential.
"Nobody goes to the morning plenary, unless the conference is in one of those boring mid-western cities with an early closing time." You don't go then either, but last call has never had any meaning for you. "You've had a rough night. As your doctor, I prescribe real New Orleans music and a bottle of bourbon for drinking, not throwing."
He winces and shakes his head ruefully, but then climbs into the backseat. "I'm going to regret this," he says, not sounding regretful at all, and you suspect you're not the only one who has issues with boredom and curiosity.
"The Maple Leaf Bar," you tell the cabbie. "Anyone good on tonight?"
"They're all good at the Leaf," he replies, dismissing you as just another dumb tourist. You played at the Leaf once, back when you were younger than Wilson looks. You weren't good, but it felt fantastic. You stayed all night, jamming with the headliners until dawn, and then you and Crandall took the St. Charles streetcar down to Cafe du Monde, where you spent your share of the tips on beignets and coffee until it was time to catch the bus back north.
You might have married Crandall if he hadn't hooked up with the crazy blonde bimbo, and then both your lives would have been ruined, not just his. You were long gone by the time that mistaken marriage fell apart, picking up the pieces in Ann Arbor after you screwed Weber for his lab results, and he screwed you out of the Doyle internship.
Maybe this is a second chance for you to be there, if not for Crandall, then for another idiot who loved not wisely but too well.
Wilson folds the envelope carefully and slips it into the inside pocket of his rumpled suit jacket. "I'll write you a check for the bail when we get back to the hotel," he says, as if that was ever in doubt. You'll take this trip as the first payment of interest.
You've done more than a few foolhardy things in your life out of boredom and curiosity, but some of them do work out.