Jim swept his hand through his hair and allowed his chair to recline back, rocking in it slowly. He blew out a long stream of air that could be turned into a whistle is he rounded his lips a little further and stared darkly at the figure across from him. The sound of tapping fingers had grown to irritate him. Although that was a bit of a broad accusation, seeing as the only tapping fingers he in fact hated, were the fingers of one Mister Dwight K. Schrute. The humming to random Christmas tunes didn’t help either; especially when it was March.
Jim looked back to his list of clients, crossing off Sherry from Smith Barney, another Dunder-Mifflin free business that had no intention of being Dunder-Mifflin full any time soon.
Dwight began to add instrumental sound effects to his all inspiring rendition of Silent Night. Jim picked up his handset and began to dial the next number on his list. Dwight entered into a tear jerking guitar solo. Jim died a little on the inside.
Jim dropped his handset back onto the receiver helplessly. “Hey Dwight,” he said clearing his throat.
Dwight was just reaching the climax of his masterpiece rendition, his head rocking to the beat and his fingers tapping an intense rhythm against his desk.
“Hey Jimmy Page,” Jim deadpanned. “Knock it off!”
Dwight looked at him suspiciously, his song momentarily coming to a halt. “I don’t know who that is,” he said simply; “and I don’t care to find out.”
The wonders of Dwight never ceased to amaze Jim. They never failed to annoy him either. Their desks were adjoined by the “Seam of Death,” as Jim had so lovingly appointed it, and had been since Ed Truck had hired him as a fulltime salesman one year prior. He had grown bored of college, and began working at a temp agency to pay his rent. After a myriad of insanely unique positions, he grew comfortable in the laidback, slow moving world of Dunder-Mifflin paper products. His job consisted mainly of running updates on computers and cleaning out old file cabinets and occasionally running an errand or two for Ed. His charm however, was his only weakness, and before he knew it he was trapped in a job he could care less about. He had a steady paycheck and health insurance. He was set for life.
Of course this was the same week that Dwight Schrute came in for an interview with his own quirkiness and work ethic. He had seemed harmless with his Charlie Chaplin-esque hair and glasses frames that Jim hadn’t seen much since the late 80’s, but he quickly grew to learn when he was bombarded with the heavy scent of beets and dirt as Dwight passed by, was that Dwight was anything but harmless.
It was the little things at first that drove Jim to the breaking point. The first reason on his list were the strange phone conversations he carried on with someone Jim assumed to be some sort of Anime fan club leader, a possible relative, or quite likely a fellow gang member, for all he knew it could have been all three, it was too hard to tell and Jim cared too little to find out. Dwight’s musical interpretation to songs that rarely proceeded beyond the Elvis years and were hardly accurate was another thing that irritated Jim to no end. And finally on Jim’s list that had exceeded 452 points on “Reasons to Hate Dwight Schrute” was his heavy fingered typing and incessant need to hit the backspace key a separate time for every character that he erased.
It was for this simple reason that Jim took it upon himself to make Dwight suffer in various forms of office pranks. It started out small with the occasional Auto Correct that set the name “Dwight Schrute” to “Diapers Shoot,” or moving his desk to odd corners of the office. Sometimes his co-workers would play along with monetary coercion to the point that even the security guard was referring to Dwight as “Dwayne Wayne Bringer of Pain.”
Jim rested his chin in his hand and watched Dwight for a long moment as he drummed the last rifts to Silent Night that would not bring a single choir boy’s mother to tears. Not even Dwight’s. His eyes scanned the room for possible material for the day, and caught sight of several stickers in the shape of a blood drop that read “I gave blood today” on the shoulders of numerous employees. A smile slowly tugged at Jim’s lips. Bingo.
He leaned against his desk and said, “Hey Dwight.”
Dwight looked at Jim coldly then turned his attention back to his computer, typing something vigorously before erasing the entire paragraph one letter at a time.
“Dwight,” Jim continued despite his disinterest. “The blood bank is downstairs today; you want to go donate blood with me?”
He glanced at him incredulously before returning to work. “The Schrute’s don’t give blood,” he said plainly focused on his monitor. “We believe in survival of the fittest and don’t waist our superiority on the weak.”
Jim pursed his lips and began to nod slowly. “Wait a second, what if you ever were in a desperate situation where you needed blood. Wouldn’t you feel bad for taking some?”
“I wouldn’t need to,” Dwight said simply. “I have a perfect immune system.”
“What if you were in a freak accident?” He asked, more intrigued now than he intended to be.
“I’d force my heart to produce blood at a quicker pace.”
Jim narrowed his eyes, “How?”
“Mind control,” Dwight said with his eyes still firmly planted on his computer screen.
“You can’t control your heart through mind control,” he said plainly.
“Yes I can,” he said defensively.
He was genuinely interested, “Prove it.”
Dwight looked at him shocked. Nobody had ever questioned his abilities. Sometimes he neglected to even ask himself about his gifts. He simply accepted them. “I’m not going to waste my powers on you.”
Jim laughed, “Right.”
Quickly during the duration of their “friendship” Jim had learned that Dwight was very much talk and very little action. He told story after story, but rarely did he ever show any proof to their existence, and Jim rather enjoyed that about him because it amused him to no end.
Jim made his way down to the blood drive mid afternoon during his lunch break. Of course it was nice to help out his community, but he had other plans on his mind as he filled out the form and waited tiredly in the lobby.
“Jim Halpert?” The volunteer called out. She had blue eyes; a deep rich shade of blue that he quickly pinned as colored contacts. Her hair was light brown with honey streaks that was tied back in French braided pigtails. It made him smile, reminiscent of the cheerleaders in high school on game day with their pleated skirts and matching knee socks.
“Right here,” Jim waved and hoisted himself from his seat. “And you must be the heroic volunteer that I’m entrusting my fragile life with,” he said extending his hand with a grin.
She was easily impressed, and met his hand with a flirtatious smile. “Anna,” she said simply. She led him around the curtain and he took a seat on the cot. “So you’ve donated before?” She asked shyly. Jim had her pegged at 18 or 19 years old who had been too busy doing volunteer work to get into pre-med at UPenn than to go out with girlfriends to meet “boys.” Obviously though, this plan couldn’t have worked out very well, because unless she was on Spring Break, no way would she be volunteering this far up north.
“You know, a couple times here and there,” he said with a casual shrug. “I’m a firm believer in getting what you give.” Jim bit back his laughter at quoting a New Radical song. Anna however, only seemed to be impressed by his “depth.” Jim sighed before pressing his lips together, “Listen, could you do me a favor?” He asked.
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “What kind of favor?”
“A pair of medical gloves.”
She laughed, “Do you want a whole box? We’ve got like a million of them lying around.”
“No, no, I just need the two. We’re not getting selfish here.”
Anna handed him a pair of gloves before slipping a pair on herself. She obviously hadn’t been volunteering at the blood blank very long, Jim learned as she set her eyes on a barely visible vein that she found suitable to use. Jim flinched before the needle even reached his arm, but as she began to dig around for the tiny little vein promising “almost got it,” he was not wrong to react ahead. He smiled tightly and nodded as he watched her scrunch her face in concentration, comfortable in the knowledge that he would finally get that badass heroin bruise he always wanted.
“There.” Finally she found success and he breathed a sigh of relief. “You’ll be a little dizzy after this so we have some juice and snacks in the lobby for you to replenish yourself.”
He chuckled, “I think I can handle it.”
“That’s what they all say,” she teased as she wrapped his wound. “You get to choose the color.” She held up an assortment of brightly colored medical tape. “I’m thinking pink.”
“Think pink, it is,” he said with a wink.
“Alright then, keep this on for six hour, or else terrible things will happen,” she patted down the end of the tape and glanced at him. “Terrible things.”
It was just past two when Jim took a seat at the snack table and it was obvious that most the volunteers had overlooked booking a baby sitter, and instead carted their children into the building to sit them at the “big kids table.” Jim suddenly felt about three feet too tall as he sipped on a Dixie cup of orange juice and stared at an assortment of eight year olds play with the medical tape by making fake casts and signing each other’s with little pictures.
Jim loosened his tie and threw the rest of his drink back like a shot, even flinching at the citrus rush afterwards. One of the little girls reached for his hand and wrapped it in florescent green tape, drawing a little flower on the tip. He looked at it for a moment in a sort of daze, turning his mouth up with an airy smile before waving his finger towards her.
Life in slow motion. Was it possible to have a midlife crisis at twenty-two? At least now he knew he could clog his arteries to his heart’s content with a lifespan of forty-four. The point was he couldn’t say that he had ever been happy, excluding ignorant happiness any young child feels of course. His life was the epitome of dull with a nine-to-five job that he hated, a pool of friends that included his roommate, his roommate’s girl, a neighbor across the street, and Dwight, and a favorite soda that was Red Fusion, which had just been discontinued. He also considered Dwight a friend, which was another reason to feel morbidly depressed. He’d also never been in love. He’d flirt, he’d date, he’d forget to call the morning after.
Another donor stepped out from behind the curtain and he spied Anna with her clipboard to get the next patient. She paused to glance over at him, offering another shy smile that he mirrored with a tight lip grin and a small wave.
“She likes you,” the little girl informed him.
Jim picked up a Fig Newton and chewed on it with glaring disinterest. “Yep,” he nodded.
Glancing at his watch, he realized that he had almost missed the window of Dwight’s lunch break and hurried back upstairs to implement his plan. His first stop was the kitchen, where he searched through the cabinets for the food coloring Angela had purchased for one of the planning committee events. He would have used ketchup, but the scent would be a dead give away. Luckily, the food coloring was more of the gel consistent type, and as he slipped on the latex gloves and squirted a streak of red across his palm, he was content with his choice. Next, after checking over his shoulder for Dwight, eating his usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the break room, he headed towards his nemesis’ desk, slipping the “bloody gloves” into the top drawer.
Jim slid casually into his seat and glanced back over at the break room where Dwight was still slowly eating his sandwich, staring at it intently with each bite. Perhaps this prank would take a little longer to get off the ground than he had originally expected. Tapping on his mouse a few time, he looked up towards reception where Sophie sat typing out Michael’s messages. She swiped her fingers through her silver hair and caught Jim’s eye, offering him a frustrated face before going back to work. It was the patented “Dunder-Mifflin Glare” as the office employees had come to coin it. It was Thursday; Jim confirmed checking the calendar on his desk, meaning that Sophie would be free at five o’clock this afternoon. Because unlike most of the employees here, she had escaped.
He returned his attention back to his work, but Dwight hadn’t budged, so the fascinating world of paper selling was all he had to turn to. However the sudden excitement of Sophie’s voice as she welcomed a guest into the office grasped his attention instead.
Her hair was a long frizzy mess that was secured back in a clip. She wore a dully colored sweater that was covered by a beige cardigan with the top couple of buttons fastened. Her skirt was floral and brushed against her knees. The bright pink colors however, completely clashed with the grayish pink of her sweater, and Jim chastised him for chastising her for her fashion choices. She wore white sneakers with her socks folded over and it made him smile. Her face was dull and completely washed out by the florescent lighting of the room. She was the epitome of plain, there was absolutely nothing special about her, and yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
Drumming his hands against his desk, Jim pursed his lips before pushing his chair back and casually walking towards reception. Sophie was instructing the new woman on how to run the phone and he quickly deducted that she would be her replacement. He snatched the slips of paper from his mail folder and flipped through them at the desk. Glancing beneath his brows he caught sight of her as she smiled and held the phone to her ear, pressing a few buttons.
“Hi,” Jim said extending his hand.
She looked up at Sophie, “Jim Halpert,” she explained. “He works in sales.”
“Pam,” she said bringing up her hand to meet his.
“New receptionist?” He asked leaning over the desk.
“Looks like it,” she said still grinning.
“I’m giving her the crash course so she’ll be prepared for the tough word of kicking ass and taking names,” Sophie explained.
Jim furrowed his brows, “Had I known that was the job description, you would be fighting me for that desk.”
“It’s all in perspective,” Sophie corrected. “Next step: fax machine.”
“Compared to memorizing the tonnage price on oak tag, consider yourself fascinated,” Jim said with a wink.
“I’ll try to appreciate the honor,” Pam said.
Jim glanced over his shoulder to catch Dwight returning to his desk. “Well I’ve got work to do, nice meeting you,” he said darting back to his seat.
Dwight straightened his keyboard and began typing furiously. Sometimes Jim wondered what exactly he was writing down all the time, but this was not such an occasion. Jim grabbed an old sharpie from his desk drawer and tried to write something quickly before throwing it aside. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he asked, “Dwight, could I borrow one of your sharpies?”
He glared at him, “No.”
Jim frowned. “Please? Mine just died,” he said suppressing a wave of laughter.
Dwight sighed heavily and opened his top drawer to fish a marker out. When he instead found incriminating gloves in its place, he shrieked out of fright. “What is this Jim?” He yelled, briefly catching attention from the rest of the office.
Jim glanced over and grimaced before hushing Dwight. “What did you do?” He asked with wide eyes.
Dwight shook his head frantically, still pointing at the bloody gloves in his drawer. “I didn’t do anything; I don’t even know how these got here!”
“You do realize that that’s what all the other murderers say, right?” Jim said knowingly.
“I think I’d remember if I killed somebody,” Dwight said dumbly.
“Not if you had a rage blackout,” he countered.
“Rage blackout? I don’t have rage blackouts.”
“How would you remember?” Jim said leaning closer, his voice low, “You’d be blacked out.” He sat back in his chair. “Did you know the number one symptom of rage blackouts is a perfect immune system?”
“No it’s not,” he said rolling his eyes before saying, “continue.”
“It’s about brain chemistry,” Jim explained. “The brain is so desperate to find something wrong with the body that it short circuits and has this…” he held his hand to his head and snapped his fingers, “glitch. There’s no telling for how long they’ll last either.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dwight refuted. “Besides, I remember everything that’s happened today. I’ve been sitting at my desk all morning and afternoon.”
Jim narrowed his eyes, “No you haven’t.”
“What are you talking about?” He asked accusingly, “I’ve been sitting right here!”
Jim took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, “No, you weren’t. This morning you got up and walked towards the staircase all suspicious like and came back like twenty minutes later with this weird look on your face.”
Dwight frowned and widened his eyes, “I don’t remember that at all.”
“We’ve got to get rid of the evidence,” Jim said glancing back in his drawer. “The cops will be here any minute with all kinds of warrants.”
“But how?” Dwight asked leaning over his desk.
“Flush them,” Jim suggested. “It will take weeks for them to show up in the sewers.”
“Good idea,” he said carefully snatching the gloves from his drawer before stalking suspiciously across the office.
Jim let out a deep breath before allowing his smile to escape. He checked back over at reception where Sophie was demonstrating how to properly use the shredder and then over to the kitchen where Dwight was inconspicuously stepping out. By the grace of God, Dwight was just slipping back into his seat as Sophie was guiding Pam to Michael’s office, and as Dwight intently watched the mysterious woman cross the room; Jim knew that he had another device to add to his little game.
“Who is that?” He asked suspiciously, his eyes still trained on Michael’s now closed door.
Jim turned his head and then back to Dwight. “I’m don’t know,” he said shrugging his shoulders. “When she was talking to Sophie, it sounded like she was investigating something.” Granted said investigation had more to do with the functions on the voicemail than a murder case. “I think she may be a detective or something. I’m not sure how protocol on a murder investigation goes, but you must have some idea being a deputy and all.”
“I’m only a volunteer,” Dwight admitted reluctantly. “We don’t handle high profile cases like that.”
“Then I’d keep a low profile around her, you don’t want her remembering your face when the suspect list comes out.”
“Good idea,” Dwight said, turning back towards Michael’s office. “I will be neither seen nor heard.”
Michael’s door swung open and Dwight darted underneath his desk. “Dunders and Mifflinites alike,” Michael announced grandly. “May I introduce you to Sophie version two point ‘o’ in the form of Pamela Beesley.” He paused and cocked his head. “Why is Dwight under his desk?” Jim simply shrugged. Michael waved off his confusion and continued his welcome speech. “I will give you a quick tour of the office. I simply ask that you keep your hands and arms inside the carpet at all times,” he turned with a grin. “Genie, Aladdin.”
Pam looked at Jim helplessly who offered a teasing wave.
Dwight waited for the tour bus to roll out of the station before peering his head out from underneath his desk. “She’s not a detective,” he said with an incredulous tone, “she’s just the new receptionist.”
Jim rolled his eyes, “That’s because she’s undercover. How is she going to get any facts if everyone knows who she is?”
“Good point,” Dwight said looking after her. “I’ve got to find a better place to stay,” he said looking around the office.
Jim watched after Dwight as he slipped towards reception, ducking behind the desk before creeping towards the tree in the lobby.
By the time Michael brought Pam to the last stop on their tour, Jim had already managed to close two sales as well as write up a fake newsletter implicating an employee in building 8 of the Scranton Business Park of the murder of a blood drive volunteer in the stairwell.
“And lastly,” Michael began drumming on Jim’s back, “we have bad, bad Leroy Brown, baddest salesman in the whole damn town.”
Jim furrowed his brows, “Wait, let me get this,” he began. “Jim Halpert to football great Jim Brown to song character Leroy Brown?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” he smiled at Pam, “look at this guy go!” Michael looked at Dwight’s desk and glanced under it. “Where’s Dwight?”
Jim threw his hands up curiously.
Michael cleared his throat, looking at Pam and then at Jim with an authoritative tone, “Well I hope he’s aware that he only gets one lunch break a day.” Jim tried not to roll his eyes as Michael bid farewell and disappeared back into his office.
Pam slipped into her chair behind reception for the first time as Dwight jumped out from behind the couch and army crawled back to his desk. Jim followed Dwight with his eyes, pressing his lips together so tightly they were white. He looked up at reception where Pam watched after him with a look of shock and amusement before meeting his gaze with a curious brow. Jim tipped his head in a way to say “busted,” and she only shook her head in amazement. He could get used to this.
Jim strolled over to her desk with his hands in his pocket. “So,” he began. “How’s the first day going?”
“It’s very… cultural,” she landed on.
“Cultural?” Jim repeated scanning across the office.
“Unique?” She offered.
“Better.”
She leaned against her desk conspiratorially, “So is Michael really crazy?”
“More lonely than anything.”
“And Ethan Hunt over there,” she said nodding across the office, “that’s Dwight, right?”
“Sadly, yes,” Jim said leaning his elbows on her desk. “So, for surviving your first day here at Dunder-Mifflin, you deserve a drink.”
She cocked her head and grinned, “Do I?”
“Yeah,” he nodded mirroring her smile. “After work, my treat, but you only get one, after that it’s your own tab you’re running.”
“How very noble of you,” she said wryly.
“Hey now,” he said holding up his hands, “I’m not made of money here. And this is a welcoming gift, not a date.”
Her face fell for a moment before she began to nod, “Well if it’s only a welcoming gift…”
“Completely platonic,” he confirmed.
“Why not.”
“Great, I’ll meet you after work,” he said heading back towards his desk.
“Wait,” she said reaching over reception to catch his arm. “What’s up with Dwight?”
He leaned in closely, “I convinced him that he committed murder in a rage blackout and that you’re investigating it.”
Dwight watched Jim coldly as he sat back at his desk. “You turned me in, didn’t you?”
“No, no,” Jim shook his head. “I was covering for you. I was making sure she was actually working for the cops.”
“Well is she?”
“Worse,” he said sitting back in his chair. “Apparently the guy was some sort of ambassador or something, she’s with the FBI.”
“What was an ambassador doing in the Scranton Business Park?”
“Volunteering for the blood bank,” Jim explained. “Apparently his daughter needed a blood transfusion or something and he was doing what he could to help.”
Dwight looked at Pam who was watching him and taking notes. Jim caught site of this and smirked. He could get used to this indeed.
This was all working out perfectly for Jim, Dwight considered, a bit too perfectly. The facts just weren’t adding up, and the implications on Jim were only growing. There was Dwight’s sudden mental illness, Jim’s attendance at the blood drive the same time of the murder, and his blatant charming of the FBI agent. Perhaps Jim was the true murderer. It was all making sense now, and Dwight now felt compelled to stay in the country to prove his innocence and reveal Jim was the true murderer instead of escaping to New Zealand for his Lord of the Rings trek as he had originally planned.
Jim could feel Dwight’s eyes on him, and as he glanced up at his accusing stare, Jim knew that Dwight not only decided that he couldn’t have committed the murder, but now suspected that Jim had.
Dwight scooted his chair away from his desk carefully, his eyes never leaving his coworker as he inched towards human resources, where Toby generally took complaints, which were generally directed towards Jim, which were generally filed by Dwight. “I have to go make a phone call,” he said tightly.
Sometimes Jim felt bad for the hell he put Toby through. Usually Dwight didn’t go off to complain about him till Friday’s when he had a nice and full laundry list to report, but he couldn’t blame Dwight for jumping the gun this week. Murder was a pretty important crime to contact HR about.
Five o’clock came about eight hours too late, and when Jim finally checked his watch to see that it was five past, he immediately jumped from his desk and headed towards reception.
“You ready?” He asked her.
Pam smiled hauling a pile of papers, “Give me five minutes.”
They went to Kelly’s because it was two blocks from his house and three from her own. He ordered her a daiquiri because she told him she liked fruity drinks and crushing ice in her teeth.
“So what brings you to Scranton?” He asked setting her drink in front of her at the table they secured.
“I’ve actually lived here all my life,” she explained. “Well Old Forge that is.” She took a sip from the pink beverage and grinned. “I just moved in with my fiancé though, he’s been working in the Dunder-Mifflin warehouse for about a year and he suggested I apply for the reception job when he heard about the opening.”
“Wow,” Jim felt like the wind had just been knocked out of him. “That’s a lot of life story right there.” He considered the guys in warehouse and quickly suspected the stocky football stud, Roy to be Pam’s suitor, and although he couldn’t quite see him with anybody as plain and quiet as Pam, he hadn’t enough information to pass any judgment. “So how long have you been together?”
Pam considered this, counting the months, or possibly years on her fingers, “Seven years give or take a month or two.”
“Wow,” he repeated. “Was this an out of the womb courtship or something?”
“High school sweethearts,” she explained. “I was the art geek and he was the football stud,” she laughed, “it was a Freddie Prinze Junior movie waiting to happen.”
“What are you doing out here with me then?” Jim asked. “You should be at home eating TV dinners and watching Wheel of Fortune with the rest of the old married couples out there.”
She laughed again and he fell in love with her. “I’d like to see the day Roy sat down to Pat Sajack while the Eagle’s pre-game was on.” She took another sip letting the straw gurgle in the disappearing puddle. “He works late on Thursdays; it’s their big night of deliveries or something so he usually doesn’t get home till nine.” She leaned in intimately, “I know he’s really playing cards at Daryl’s though because he always smells like beer and cigars.”
“What about you?” She asked resting her head in her hand. “I think I’ve told you my entire life story, which is sad because it only fills a two minute span.”
Jim chuckled, “Mine isn’t much better.”
She narrowed her eyes, “You look like you were a basketball player.”
“You have an eye for it?”
“I was involuntarily dragged to every sporting event our high school had to offer for almost two years, I can spot the type.”
He nodded, “East Stroudsburg North,” he confirmed. “Good old Timber Wolves, number ten.”
She frowned, “I don’t think we ever played you. Not that I’d remember or anything, I hardly paid attention.”
“Me either, would have forgotten it was game day had it not been for the uniforms and cookie boxes.”
“So played basketball but hated sports,” Pam summed up for him. “I feel like I’ve known you forever!”
“Let’s see…” Jim tapped his fingers against the table summing up the proper words. “I rode the wave of mediocrity through high school, so I’m lazy. I was rejected from my top two college choices, so I’m a failure. I dropped out of college after two years, so I’m a quitter. And I settled for a job that doesn’t suit me what-so-ever, so I’m passionless.”
“Sounds like a catch to me,” Pam said dryly. “You sound like a model underachiever.”
“Well I do my best not aspiring nor achieving.”
Jim watched her slurp up the last traces of her daiquiri, “Hey, do you want another one?”
She reached for her purse and began to rifle through it, “Yeah that would be great.”
Jim stopped her shaking his head, “I guess I’ll cover the second one two, but that’s just because tipsy people make me giggle.”
“Well as long as my disgrace is amusing,” she submitted.
He stood at the bar waiting for their order and he couldn’t help but look back over at their table. She sat there shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear to pass the time as she stared off at the television in the corner. She was getting married to the only man she’d ever known, and yet Jim was still standing there waiting for the fall.
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© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali
© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali