Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Pam breathed in the morning air. It was fresh, sprightly. Not yet burdened with the smog of the day’s traffic or the myriad smells of daily urban toiling. Hues of grey and purple suffused her surrounds, cloaking the emerald greens of the silent, watchful trees that would otherwise have been displayed in their full brilliance under the glare of the mid-day sun. She was sitting on the park bench opposite her apartment, in the pre-dawn twilight that stood at the cradle between the receding dark of the previous night and the impending light of a new day. She had woken up early today, as with other days, for some time now. She hadn’t really been able to sleep too well recently.
She appreciated these little moments of quiet to herself. These precious capsules of time when she could be alone with her thoughts. People rarely pause anymore during the hectic schedule of everyday life to reflect and contemplate. And it was always so loud at the office where she worked; people talking all the time, the phone ringing incessantly. There was never any one moment when you could truly be with yourself. She liked it when all was tranquil, serene, as if the world was at peace, and contentment was so…everywhere…that you feel it suffusing into your very being. She liked silence.
The chill of the air stung through to her skin, though she had taken care to put on an extra layer of sweater. The weather always seemed to get the better of her, no matter what she tried. She was always on the losing end of things. She chided herself for sinking again into this self-defeatist talk. Shivering, she was grateful, not for the first time, for the physical discomfort that these mornings alone at the park bench had afforded her the past few months. At least she was too distracted to feel sorry for herself.
She wondered how Jim was doing in Stamford. They didn’t speak since he called for Kevin the other day, and that was the first time in a long while that they had spoken. And he didn’t return her message, either. He was probably busy with work. Not everyone fritters away their time on silly moments of reverie like she does. They have important work to do; they get on with their lives.
Jim deserved the promotion that he got. He was always the brightest spark in the company. She knew that the first time she met him, from the twinkle in his eye to the casual slouch he put on his posture, as if he was just a wandering minstrel at a mundane local inn, with not a care in the world, on his way to bigger and more exciting things in life. He has that most infectious laughter that always gets her to laugh as well, and she recalled, rather inconsequentially, at how his Adam’s apple moved in tandem when he did that. She had commented, when Michael introduced them, that it was great to be at Dunder-Mifflin, and all the folks there seemed wonderful. She had heard him laugh for the first time then, and thought he was just being polite. Well, now she knew.
No, that’s not what she meant. All the people at work were nice. She got along with everyone fine, and loved them for what they were and their various idiosyncrasies. But she never really felt she belonged there. There wasn’t really anyone she could talk to, except for Jim, and he’s gone now. But…was she so different from her colleagues? She looked around the office, saw the same faces with the same weary routine of trudging in to work everyday, going through the motions, and waiting for the clock to strike five so they could go home. The body language that betrayed boredom and resignation, eyes that must have been bright once with hope and passion but which were now dimmed by the interminable toil of an endless, spirit-breaking, dead-end job, where you just kept doing the same inane tasks over, and over, and over again. She didn’t need a mirror to know that she bore the same posture, wore the same look in her eyes. She wasn’t really any special. She, too, didn’t have any heart left to give. As if right on cue, the wind picked up and chilled her fragile frame anew; its icy fingers seemingly locking her in an unrelenting, vice-like grip. She pulled her sweater about her in a flimsy attempt at repelling the cold, futile of course, and was surprised at why the sky was still dark. The army of oppressive storm clouds blanketing the sky as she looked up gave her an immediate answer.
As was wont whenever despair took her, she wished she had a piece of paper right now to draw. Drawing had always been a constant solace, a faithful companion…houses, flowers, people…she just loved to draw, whatever the subject. She didn’t look upon drawing as merely a re-creation of reality. A little bit of yourself was always invested in what you drew. A bit of where you came from, a bit of who you are, a bit of your future hopes and dreams, all encompassed in a microcosm of creative flair that directed your mind and your hand as you weaved your magic on the canvas…blending the sum of who you are and what your subject is into a delicate tapestry of your own unique invention.
She loved that moment just before she started on a new drawing…that moment as the pencil stood poised just over the blank sheet of paper, when the air seemed still all around, pervaded by an almost palpable sense of hushed anticipation, as if the world was eagerly awaiting what was to come. A moment of infinite possibilities.
She wasn’t any good, of course, though Jim and Phyllis were kind enough to say that they liked her work on the off-chance that they caught her scribbling some drawings on a piece of scratch paper that was ultimately going to be thrown in the waste-basket. She had minored in art in college, and had wanted to make it her life’s work. To be passionate about what you do! But in the end, she didn’t really have it, which was probably why she was a receptionist at a mid-range paper company, instead of pursuing her dreams and hopes. Those flights of fancy still took her now and then, such as when she impulsively signed up for art school…a folly, on hindsight. But she was under no illusions about her own ability that placed her probably exactly where she deserved to be. The world is an intolerant place for the mediocre and the talentless; hard work can only get you so much pity in the end. She closed her eyes and felt the gentle pelting of the rain on her face as it started to fall.
If only Jim could see her now…fancy new Beesly, feeling sorry for herself in the park. He was the one person who always seemed to have genuine confidence in her. She wished she knew what he saw that she herself couldn’t see. He had professed his love for her that night at the faux-casino warehouse. In a way, she always kind of knew in the back of her mind how he felt about her, but she couldn’t possibly leave Roy then. Jim had cried, when she told him she couldn’t be more that just a friend to him, and it still cut her deeply now to think that she had made him cry. She would trade all her drawings to come, give up art altogether, if it meant she could take back that one moment. He had been so nice to her, always looking out for her, caring for her, making her laugh…if things had only been different, if only she wasn’t engaged to Roy…she remembered looking down at her engagement ring when Jim left her. The band of gold around her finger that she didn’t feel half the time, but which had become so conspicuous, so heavy to the touch, the one time she didn’t want it to be so…Strange how something so beautiful, and which was the very epitome of love, could be so devastatingly the opposite.
She raised her head so she could feel more of the rain; the steady motion of falling droplets was a strangely soothing tide against the tumult of her thoughts, the soft pitter-pattering as those droplets hit the ground was a discordant lullaby that was oddly mesmerizing. She sighed gently. It wasn’t Roy’s fault. If anything, it was her who let him down by breaking off the engagement, eventually. Was it the right thing to do? She didn’t know…or maybe she did, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, like what she had done all her life. The Pam Beesly M.O., a passive observer of her own life, willing to go wherever the current tide of events swept her…willing to marry one who she didn’t love because it was the natural progression from an engagement to tying the nuptial knot.
Well, she had taken control now. She just wished it was easier for her to look Roy in the eye whenever she met him. And Jim, the one who she had loved all this time but didn’t allow herself to see, was gone. So for her initiative, she got only guilt and regret as her reward. She thought wistfully of the kiss she shared with Jim when he walked in on her later that night at the casino. She had been on the phone with her mom, and her mom had asked her whether she loved him…when he walked in, and had kissed her through her tears…a prince charming from those fairytales she used to hear at bedtime when she was little…but there was to be no happily ever after. Not for them.
It was all in the past now. He seemed happy when they talked on the phone the other day, and maybe he had moved on. That would explain why he didn’t reply to her text. She didn’t exactly know where they stood right now, or what she really wanted and expected…she thought idly, and rather foolishly, of getting on the train to Stamford to see him, but he would probably think her silly for doing that. And rightly so. Did she dare challenge fate, and take her happiness into her own hands? Or maybe fate had always wanted to give it to her all this time, and she only needed to let go of the fists that her hands were so tightly clenched in, through years of habitual self-doubt and timidness, for fate to finally place happiness right in her grateful, open palms.
She breathed in the smells of the rain. It had always fascinated her, that edgy, almost tangy smell right before the rain fell, as the parched earth below lay expectant for the quenching that was to come…to be followed by that mingled, almost heady, potpourri of scents when the rain finally arrived and slaked the patient, waiting soil. Maybe that’s what fulfillment smells like. She shrugged…she had gone through life for so long, waiting for the other shoe to drop, always expecting the flip side of good things that happened. Would she know it even if true happiness presented itself to her? And would she be brave enough to take it?
What if…what if she allowed herself this one chance at happiness…and somehow Jim and her could pick up where they had left off…would Jim still love her as before, once he got close to her, when rose-tinted glasses were no longer the order of the day, and he saw through her disguise, and knew her for what she truly was? Just this plain-looking, insecure, hesitant girl who didn’t really have anything going for her except be a receptionist that could answer the phone and type ninety words a minute? No, she couldn’t bear the thought of Jim, of all people, being disappointed in her. There was this one time when he realized she wasn’t going through with this graphic design course the company was sponsoring, and he had asked her whether she really wanted to be a receptionist all her life. She saw the look of utter disappointment…no, disgust…at her in his face when he said that, and a part of her inside had died then…a horrible, sickening feeling. She didn’t want to feel that ever again.
At least if they remained friends, she could always keep that distance between them, keep up her veil of humor and mask of nonchalant rapport that prevented him from knowing too much about her. She felt safe…protected, by that distance. There needed to be distance between people. She could always live with lowered expectations, both of and by herself.
She opened her eyes to the rain, which was falling incessantly now, and saw the world around her distorted through the torrential sheets. A dewatered landscape drained of life, as if the emerging colors of the surrounding flora were soaked up by the unrelenting shower and pelted mercilessly to the ground…a watercolor painting gone bad through the excesses of a mediocre artist. Was any of this real? Or maybe it was her that wasn’t real. She saw her reflection in a nearby growing puddle of water, and thought, rather inconsequentially, of that story she used to like so much when she was a child…of a girl growing flowers in the terrace outside her room. The flowers were so beautiful, the room was so prim, and the girl was so pretty. She wondered what happened to the girl after the story has ended, and hoped that the girl was happy.
Feeling every drop of the unceasing rain, Pam sat back in the park bench, closed her eyes once more, and cried.
