It was dark, and the place had never seemed so quiet. Pam sat alone on a bench, thoughtfully considering the largest of her paintings. It was a little bright, she mused....certainly not the sort of edgy creation her classmates (and probably Gil) preferred. She closed one eye and tried to imagine a unicorn floating across the vivid sunset, and then laughed. She felt strangely satisfied, giddy, even. Despite the fact that her experimental "fine art" had not gone over well among the cognoscenti, but, somehow, that didn't seem that important to her. Her small realistic sketches and watercolors had been quite popular. Several had sold, and the teacher's comment that she would make a "fine illustrator or commercial artist" had actually felt really good, despite the way a few of her classmates snickered through their pierced lips.
The strangest part of all of it was the fact that much of her perspective and peace came from the excellent advice and counsel of Michael Scott.
"What kind of success do you really want, Pam?" He'd asked in that strange, soft voice that Pam had hardly ever heard.
"What do you mean? I want to do well, I want to be a good artist. I don't want to be just a receptionist my whole life, Michael. I want to do something more special than that."
He had nodded slowly. "Well, Pam, being a receptionist doesn't make you not special, for one thing. I know that it probably seems pretty dull sometimes, but I also know that a lot of people depend on you, and that you really are an important part of the Dunder Mifflin family."
Yippee.
"As far as your art is concerned, I guess I just look at some of the other stuff here, and I wonder where it's going. I mean, maybe that's what people like to see in New York art galleries and stuff....but, honestly, that sketch you did of the flowers on the breakroom counter is really nice.....it's like the kind of thing you'd see in a really nice book, or on a card, or that you'd really like to have in your house. Maybe that isn't "cool" enough for them," he gestured to one of the other students,who was standing next to a formidable sculpture made of rusted chainsaws and baby bottles, "but I also think you'd look terrible with a green mohawk."
For $50, Michael bought the pen-and-ink of the flowers in the breakroom and Pam added her undying gratitude free of charge.
And now, at the end of the show, the end of the day....and nothing had gone quite as she had planned. Michael Scott's unexpected wisdom was only the tip of the iceberg. She had (finally!) broken things off with the only man she had ever even dated, her work had gotten lukewarm reviews from the art world ("and I don't really care!" she marvelled.) ....and her best friend (justafriendjustafriend, she chanted to herself...) hadn't even showed up. Pam sighed. Jim was the biggest question out there in her life. What did any of this mean? He had been so cold to her since Phyllis' wedding...and she suspected she knew why. If she was correct, well, she wasn't confused. She was angry.
Suddenly, The gallery door banged against a cinderblock wall, sending a gust of cold February air rushing into the gallery. Pam turned and smiled in spite of herself.
"Jim!" she ran to the door. "You're here!"
Author's Chapter Notes:
Speculation and very light spoilers for "Business School."
