The elevator brought the office life of building four, 1725 Slough Ave. down to Tate everyday.  Vance Refrigeration wasn’t dysfunctional and didn’t interest him in the least.  Although the two pothead delivery guys were annoying and had to be watched sometimes.  They tended to order pizza and then forget about it.  Stupid stoners.  But Dunder-Mifflin was a looney bin.  How that many crazies could be found in one place was beyond Tate.  He never knew what mood the employees from the third floor would be in when they stepped off that elevator.  The hyperactive boss might be quiet, or angry, or, it was possible, completely normal; the prissy blond always marched out, and he could usually hear the Indian girl before the doors opened to spit her out...the elevator probably couldn’t stand her voice either. 

The complex wasn’t exactly the location of military secrets, no matter what that nut job Dwight thought, so Tate had an easy go of it.  Except for Dwight’s frequent interrogations about his co-workers’ comings and goings.  He usually bs'ed about that for a little while until Dwight went away.  It was never far enough away though.

As each Dunder-Mifflinite trudged into the building, Tate took note of how they acted as they passed him.  He was intrigued by the way they entered the elevator doors, only to disappear from view for hours.  He’d never been one for daydreaming and all that, but now that he was semi-retired, he had all the time in the world.  He wondered what happened in that madhouse of an office that could make the sweet-faced receptionist of the morning exit the lobby doors a meek and downtrodden woman.

The week of the complex’s casino night, the quiet guy from the crazy office on the third floor had asked Tate if he would mind staying late the night of the event, just in case.  The mention of fire eaters in a paper warehouse struck him as odd, and he told Toby he would be able to stick around for a while so there would be someone outside the impending inferno who could call the fire department...again.

That Friday had been pretty boring, as far as days in building 4 went, with the exception of seeing nerdy Dwight walking around in a tuxedo that Tate’s swing band-leading grandfather would have worn.  Come eight o’clock, cars returned to the parking lot, and Tate was in his chair after his break, turning on the portable TV he happily brought to keep himself entertained.

Around 10:45 the squeak of the front doors opening startled Tate and he jumped up from his seat.  The curly haired receptionist walked slowly to the elevator.  Her shoulders were slumped and eyes downcast.  The confused and mournful look on her face told Tate not to ask what was wrong; she was obviously working something out in her head and hadn’t even acknowledged his presence.  The doors finally opened and she stepped in, moving to the side and leaning against the rails as the lift went up.

Settling back into his chair and turning his attention to the end of the local nightly news, Tate’s attention was again broken by the front door’s noisy hinges, and now that tall kid Jim was sulking into the lobby.  His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders pushed down by what Tate thought might be heavy losses at the craps table.  The salesman looked over to the guard’s desk.

“Slow night?”

“Thankfully.  That pretty receptionist of yours just went upstairs though.  Sad face on that one tonight.”

Jim’s eyes fell down to the grey tile. “Yeah.”  He inhaled deeply then gave a long sigh.  “Well, I’m gonna run up there and get some folders I forgot; see ya Tate.”

Instead of taking the elevator, the slouchy salesman opened the door to the stairs and marched slowly up and out of Tate’s sight.

It had reached 11:15 not long after Jim went upstairs. Toby came in to tell Tate thanks and that he didn’t need to stick around any longer; everyone was leaving and there had been no major mishaps.  As the guard scooped up his belongings, he realized that neither Pam nor Jim had left the building yet.  Curious but not worried, he left the lobby and looked forward to sleeping in late Saturday morning.

Now, Jim coming back?  That was kind of hard for Tate to explain.  Sure, the kid came in with nicer suits on and must have gotten a promotion, and there had been a merger he’d heard.  He guessed those things happen.  But really, why come back to Scranton?  And he didn’t much like the people who had come from that other office.  That one brunette rubbed him the wrong way.  Not at first, but there was something about her and Jim...

The only reason he could find to dislike Carrie? Carla?...Karen; the only thing about Karen was that there was hardly a time when Jim exited the elevator with her and was smiling.  It seemed like the lift was a tiny, moving torture chamber that Jim was willingly subjecting himself to.  Tate knew that they were dating; arriving at the same time, leaving at the same time, Karen with a possessive hand on his arm or back.  Why they were dating was the part that he was having trouble with.  As of late, they came in to work together more regularly, but Jim had bags under his eyes that had bags under them, and he had taken to getting increasingly larger cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee before coming in.  All was not right in that relationship.

The day that the receptionist came off of the same elevator as the unhappy couple gave Tate a moment of pause; that was something he had never seen in all the time that Kath...Karen had been there.  In fact, Pam being in there with Jim was unusual too.  Well, it didn’t used to be, but it was since he’d been back.  Interesting.

Jim ran through the lobby to the elevator, smashing the “up” button repeatedly in his impatience.  Not caring to wait, he practically lunged at the door to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time with his broad stride.  In all his years of knowing that boy Halpert, Tate had never seen him move so fast.  Wait, didn’t he have a big interview in the city today?  Wonder how that went.

****

When the elevator doors slide open, Tate can feel the pure joy her smile is radiating.  As the receptionist slips past, she cheerfully calls out “goodnight Tate!” stepping lightly through the glass doors into the parking lot.  She sure has been perkier lately.

Following behind on the next car is Jim, who also has the most beatific grin plastered across his face.  Tate has an inkling that something really remarkable went on in his favorite office today...he’s just not quite sure what it was.  Maybe he’ll ask the camera guys.

Jim and Pam come into the lobby together, hands animatedly punctuating their conversation.  The young manager enthusiastically steps up to Tate’s desk and slaps his palms on the counter. 

“Tate!  How are you this on fine morning?!”

Taken aback by Jim’s formal wording and alertness at 8 am, Tate slowly uttered: “I’m doin’ alright Jim; you’re obviously doing well.”

Looking down at his companion Jim implores her to tell Tate why, a thrill in his voice.

“Well, Tate, I don’t know if you noticed, but my left hand is a little sparklier today,” she beams, raising said hand to give the guard a view of her new engagement ring, while she smacks Jim with other for snorting at “sparklier”.

A grin spread across Tate’s face.  “Miss Pam Beesly, that is wonderful.  Congratulations kids.”

“You’re the first Dunder-Miffliner to hear, so consider yourself special,” the giddy receptionist laughed.

Grabbing his fiancée’s hand and pulling her to the elevator, Jim spoke over his shoulder.

“We’ve got to go plan how we’re going to tell everyone; don’t spill the beans, Tate!”

“Oh, sure, I’ll let all of your co-workers know they’re in for a real treat when they get up to the office today.”

As the couple walked into the car, Jim retorted, “Isn’t every day a treat in our office?”