Map of the World  

Summer Picnic 2005

Maps have always intimidated you. In grade school, you’d stand in front of the map of the world on the classroom wall and study it in decreasing circles…the Western Hemisphere, North America, Pennsylvania. You’d have to imagine Scranton, your street, your house, because at this scale, they’d be microscopic. You’d be vaguer still.

Roy always claims you have no sense of direction. He never lets you navigate. Even when you tell him you know the way somewhere, he still digs the road map out of the glove compartment and figures it out himself. You bite your tongue, when the route he chooses is longer, trickier, less scenic than yours. It’s not worth arguing.

Roy refuses to go to this year’s Dunder Mifflin picnic, announcing there’s no way he’s giving up his Saturday, when he could spend it jet-skiing with his brother. You’re a little annoyed, but Jim says Roy’s attitude isn’t totally unreasonable and asks if you’d like to drive there with him instead. Suddenly the picnic seems like someplace you actually want to go. You don’t dwell on why.

The festivities are held at a state park with which neither of you are familiar. Dwight’s obsessively detailed directions, complete with strange, drawn-to-scale diagrams in lieu of an actual map, seem absurdly convoluted.

‘I think Dwight’s directions were designed to confuse hostages about where he’s transporting them,’ Jim remarks, ‘just in case the blindfolds don’t do the trick.’

He reaches across to the car door pocket by your seat. You’re wearing shorts and for a split second, the soft underside of his forearm grazes your bare thigh. A shiver passes instantly through you, raising goose bumps on a swelteringly hot July afternoon. You feel yourself blush, but you’re not sure why, because really, this is just silly. It’s only Jim, after all. He doesn’t appear to notice, but your hands are oddly shaky as you unfold the map on your lap. Huddled over it, your faces so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, your fingers trace the possible roads you could take. They brush against one another a few times. Perhaps it’s not completely inadvertent.

You watch Jim’s large hands curl around the steering wheel, relaxed but confident. When you tell him where to turn, when to exit, how far to go, he grins broadly and nods.

‘Yes, m’am, Miss Beesly,’ he responds snappily, content to let you call the shots.

You have that giddy tingly sensation in your chest, as if you’re embarking on an adventure. Like everything is lush with possibility and you have all the time in the world. It’s been a long, long time since summer felt this way. You’re aware that this is the wrong person, the wrong situation to feel it again. Still, you do. You do. 

The sun pours in through the open windows. Your hair blows back off your face and Jim’s is wild in the wind. You listen to him singing goofily along with the cassette tape he slips into his ancient rickety player. The sound of his laugh is so easy. Indescribably warm warm warm. You feel freer than you have since you can’t remember when.

You almost wish you’d followed Dwight’s directions after all, so the drive would take longer. You even briefly consider getting the two of you lost. Not knowing where you’re going usually frightens you, but watching the road shimmer in the midday sun, you can imagine it now. Getting lost.

You try not to think about later.

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When you pull up in front of your building that evening, you sit in the car for a moment, very still. The way he’s looking at you, you think that if you kissed him right now, he’d kiss you back. And then maybe you’d kiss him again. And again. But, that’s not the way it is. So instead, you quickly squeeze his hand and simply say thanks. He smiles at you as you climb out, but it’s a smile like a frown.

You go inside, exhausted, sunburned, hair an unruly mass of knots. This afternoon, that ride, already seems like something you dreamt. Maybe a scene you once saw in a movie.

‘Hey, Pammy, could I get another beer, please?’ Roy calls from the sofa, where he’s parked in front of the ballgame.

You pop the cap off the bottle for him and know exactly where you are. Scranton, your street, your house. Just a microscopic dot on a map on someone’s wall.