Jim was screwed, and he knew it. He knew it all afternoon while he surreptitiously surfed the net, trying to not look like he was on the Zagat site. He knew it driving home. He knew it in the recliner of his apartment, exhausted by the day, and knowing if it were any other woman, he would have cancelled. He knew it in the shower. He knew it while he leafed through his shirts as if they were the pages of a book. He knew it as his shirts lay in a heap on the floor of his bedroom, each one tried and rejected for reasons ranging from the completely practical (stained and hadn’t been washed since… whenever) to the completely absurd (too striped?! What the hell was going through his head?). He knew it as he made the drive to Pam’s apartment building, desperate to make sense of the map and directions she had written out for him as the day came to a conclusion.
Why, oh why, please God, why didn’t he just ask for the address and run it through Mapquest? There were many things about Pam that he loved. But he found her handwriting unreadable. He knew he was screwed as he circled the block three times, looking in vain for a place to park, getting pissed off more and more with each revolution. It probably didn’t help matters that he was blasting “Master of Puppets” over the car stereo. Metallica puts a man in many moods. Love and romance? Not among them. (“Cannot kill the Bah-tah-ray!” b-duhduhduhduhduhduh DUH! Duh duh duh duh duh DUH!). He knew he was screwed as he climbed the stairs to Pam’s apartment.
Jim was screwed because he had no plan, and a recent article in Men’s Health informed him that ninety-seven percent of women considered winging the date to be unromantic.
It wasn’t like he wanted to have no plan for this, the first of what he hoped was the beginning of many, many dates with Pam. It was that conventional wisdom said that you took a girl someplace nice on a first date. Try to impress her. Wow her. Show her that you've got originality. Style. Class. Wit. And money to burn. But not too much money, partly because you don't want to look like an asshole who's trying to use his wallet to get in her pants. Also, because you don't want to make her feel like she's got to let you in her pants. Anxiety is a date killer. Jim was plenty anxious.
After how many years of working alongside Pam, she knew him. Not that there wasn't some need to impress her, but some of the pressure was off. Wasn’t it? Sure as hell didn’t feel like it.
But this was not a conventional first date. Giving her the full court press and taking her to the nicest restaurant in Scranton might seem out of character.
But Jim knew enough about women to know that he knew almost nothing about women. She might be expecting someplace really nice. That's what you did on a first date.
But Pam wasn't high maintenance. She wouldn't really expect to go someplace with five stars.
But he wanted to show her, right off the bat, that whatever they had was going to be different, better, much better, than what she'd had with Roy.
But he also figured that as long as he didn't leave her at a hockey game, he'd be fine. It wasn't like Roy had set the bar all that high.
But this was a date that both of them had been hoping for for a while. Expectations were what they were.
He stood at her door, about to knock, while also wanting to turn around and go home. Strange that both desires and emotions waged war within him, neither one giving any quarter. Why had he asked her on a date, tonight of all nights? An interview, breaking up with Karen, a drive from New York, much of it during rush hour, and now he was trying to crowbar a date five years in the wanting into a day that had already been jam-packed with life altering events. Way to go Halpert. To think that there were those who thought that Jim lacked initiative and the capacity to take charge of his destiny. Today would prove them wrong.
Still, he stood in front of her door. Not knocking. Not turning away. Strange. What was that you were just saying about initiative, Jim? Maybe he should have applied some of that initiative in coming up with a plan.
How do you put your best foot forward with a woman who has seen you at your worst, when metaphorically speaking she's seen that you have two left feet? Where do you go to impress her when she is beyond first impressions? Jim wanted to debrief: call one of his buddies, get some chow and a beer and talk about the day. But that wouldn’t be fair to Pam, especially since on many occasions, Pam had referred to Jim as her best friend, and Jim honestly felt the same.
Hey… The answer spread out before him like a picnic lunch on a blanket at Lake Scranton (which in itself would make for a pretty cool date, given more time to get things together). It was so obvious. What Jim wanted more than anything was to have quiet dinner with his best friend, to talk about the day that had been, maybe burn off any haze from days past, and hash out the ones that would come, see if Pam was on the same page.
He knocked.
She answered.
Jim caught sight of what she was wearing. The skirt was denim, falling several inches above the knee. Short enough to be alluring, long enough to not give away the store. The perfect length. The shoes were strappy and cute, but the blouse made the outfit complete for him. Red. Ish. Darker than what Jim considered burgundy. Slightly more blue, he thought. "Wow," he said, in a tone usually reserved for Michael's absurdity.
"Thank you," she said as she slung her purse over her shoulder and closed the door behind her, giving it a push to make sure it was locked.
"When did you acquire that?" he asked.
"Um, you were in Stamford, I think."
"But I've never seen you wear it to work."
"Yeeeah, Creed made sure of that," she said, "I like your jacket."
"Oh. Thanks." Jim touched the sleeve of his leather jacket. Though he'd never had the best taste in clothes, Jim knew he looked damn good in it.
"Karen?"
"Yeah."
"She has good taste," Pam remarked. Sometime in the first few weeks after they made it official, Jim asked Karen's help in updating his wardrobe. That was a fun day, but long and expensive. They found the jacket at a thrift store in Westport.
"You think?"
"She chose you."
"Nice, with the roundhouse ego-stroke, Beesly."
"So where're you taking me?"
"Russell's."
"Always wanted to go there. Never could get Roy to take me."
Small miracles abounded tonight, Jim thought. He had never taken Karen there. Surprising, since he had used it on past girlfriends. He may have taken Katy there, but couldn't remember for certain. Jim felt this all well and good. He would not have to share memories of the place with any past relationships. It would belong only to the two of them.
As they walked to Jim's car, he watched the way her skirt swished from side to side. Jim had never noticed much about women's clothing beyond whether the woman in question looked good in it or not. He never noticed the ways it hung from their shoulders and around their hips, moving on their bodies. At least he never noticed with any of the other women he dated, not to this extent. He noticed with Pam. He liked that he noticed. She turned and quelished a smile as she noticed him noticing her.
He started the car and tapped on the gas a couple times. The engine had been somewhat sluggish on acceleration lately. Probably a mild clog in the fuel injection. It wasn't enough to have to take it in. Using a product from the auto-parts store with the word "miracle" in the title would be enough. Another errand for the weekend, which could never arrive quite fast enough. "So when I got back, Andy and Dwight were painting Michael's office," Jim said.
A laugh exploded from Pam. She began to tell him the whole sordid tale of becoming Dwight's double-secret assistant to the regional manager, or whatever it was that he called it. By the time she was finished, Jim had to blink back tears of laughter. "Oh, Wow! Sounds like you had a lot more fun today than I did."
"I do what I can."
"I don't know which one of them is more crazy, Dwight or Andy."
"Andy, definitely."
"You think?" Jim asked.
"Dwight's just loyal to Michael. I think he'd made a great fascist."
"Speaking of that-"
"The Speech!" Pam said, her eyes bright.
"How'd you hear about that?"
"Angela put it on YouTube."
"Oh, you gotta send me the link!"
"You know it. Wait, how'd you know about it? Oh, okay, yeah. It had your feel," she said, answering her own question. “That was a good one.”
Russell's was a quiet, out of the way place, known but not famous. The hostess led them past the oak and mirror bar, the finish on the railing worn through to the bare wood by forearms of years of patrons. Tony, a guy that Jim had known from seventh grade phys-ed was tending bar tonight. They weren't close friends, as most men aren't, and didn't pretend that they were, as men never do, but they often saw each other around town and always had time to throw each other a nod of the head. Tonight was no exception. Tony wiped down the bar while he checked out their waitress's legs. His nod to Jim confidently suggested that was, in fact, hitting that. Jim had to admire Tony's taste. She was pretty in a generic, blonde sort of way, obviously attempting the highly made-up Paris Hilton look and succeeding marvelously. Her legs were long and slender (a little too slender for Jim's personal tastes, but he could see the appeal), languidly leading Jim and Pam through the tables like pinballs navigating an arcade game. As they arrived at a table in the corner she gestured to it, asking if they approved. Pam nodded and took the seat facing the door. Jim helped her push in her chair. "Ooo, busting out the classy moves," she said.
"Figured I should bring the A-game. You brought yours." Meaning her outfit. She smiled again.
Paris returned to take their drink orders. Jim took a glance at the wine list and ordered a twenty-five dollar bottle of red. Pam ordered an iced tea. As Paris made her way back to the kitchen, Jim took a visual sip of Paris’s calves and butt before settling back into the menu. Nice.
"You like that, don't you?"
"Hmm?"
"Our waitress."
"Paris?"
Pam looked over to where Paris had been, as if analyzing her own memory, and nodded. "Okay, I can see that. Guys like that, don't they?"
"What's not to like? But it's too obvious of a look."
Pam looked back down at her menu. She was thinking about something. He could see that, but Jim could read her well enough to know it wasn't bad. Unlike many women Jim had known over the years, Pam didn't say everything that crossed her mind. He knew this already, but it reminded him that he was making the right choice.
"So when did you learn about wine?" she asked.
"It was in the center of the list, so I figured it was probably pretty good. And two years of French in high school..." Pam nodded, understanding.
Paris returned with their drinks.
"I like it," Pam said when she tried a glass of the wine. Jim agreed. It was fruity but not too sweet, although Jim figured that the Paul Giamatti character in that one movie, the one that also had the guy who'd been that wierd plane mechanic on that NBC show "Wings" and was also Sandman in the new Spiderman movie (which Jim still hadn't seen), would have probably turned his nose up at Jim's choice. No matter. Pam liked it. That mattered.
"Are we ready to order?" Paris asked.
Jim ordered the lasagna. Pam ordered the spaghetti carbonara. Paris sauntered off to the kitchen. "So..." Pam began, "Are you gonna tell me what happened in New York?"
Jim leaned in and began talking. Pam asked a lot of questions. What the building looked like, where it was located, trying to pin down the location based on what she remembered about New York from a trip her class took in junior high. Pam had never been to Corporate. There was no reason why she would have. But Jim sensed a longing in her questions. He had always felt that longing within Pam, not a sexual longing, but a striving towards something, the desire to become. He noticed it most strongly on a day when Jan came in to Scranton and, in the course of the day, mentioned an art internship in New York. Was that the same day that Michael dragged the guys down to the warehouse? Yeah, it was. Jim remembered that Pam didn't end up pursuing the internship because Roy said it wouldn't amount to anything. God, even now he wanted to deck that guy!
“So tell me, what was the job?”
“Actually it was Jan’s job.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, funny story there.”
As he began telling the story of Jan’s meltdown, Pam gazed at him, rapt. She was so involved in Jim’s telling that when she put her wine glass down on the table, she left her hand next to the glass.
He saw the moment and seized it. Without prelude or hesitation, Jim reached over and took her hand. She glanced down, surprised at the touch, but not wanting to ruin the moment by calling attention to it. Neither did he, so he kept on holding her fingers in his, never breaking off the telling of the story, simply tracing his thumb back and forth over the knuckles of her middle and ring fingers, occasionally dipping down to stroke the web of flesh in between them.
Paris returned with their entrees. Too soon, in Jim’s opinion. By the look in her eyes, Pam felt the same way, though she was happy that dinner had arrived. Pam ate spaghetti carbonara with child-like enthusiasm, sucking noodles up like a vacuum cleaner, seemingly unaware of things like napkins. Perhaps Pam had been having the same inner conversation that Jim had, the one about putting the best foot forward when the other person knew that both of them were left, and had decided that if Jim were going to cut this one loose he had better reasons than the willingness to eat pasta with reckless abandon, sauce on the cheeks be damned. Or maybe she just liked spaghetti carbonara that much. Jim liked that he both wanted the answer and knew he would have the chance to fin out the answer. In between bites of lasagna, Jim told her the rest of the story of Jan going thermonuclear.
Before he knew it, Paris brought the check. He paid it, and as they walked to the door, he asked, "D'you wanna get some ice cream?"
"I would love to."
It was one of those perfect evenings in late spring when the sun had almost finished its languid descent into the horizon, casting a fiery glow over everything and turning the cumulonimbus clouds to the north every shade of the spectrum. A light breeze pushed south, tossing a strand of Pam's hair in her face. She brushed it away. Rain was coming. So was summer. Jim loved May. Always had. May was the month when you began to really notice the warm weather and increasing daylight. May looked forward to the end of the school year, reminding boys and girls that the hard times were almost over and infinite opportunities for fun were on the way. May was anticipation and possibility, hinting at what was to come. May was foreplay.
"Wow. You're really quiet," Pam said, "What're you thinking about?"
"I... was just thinking this is my favorite time of day at my favorite time of year," he remarked, "And I'm with my favorite person."
Shy delight rose out of the corners of her eyes and descended through her cheeks, coming to rest in her smile. She hadn't expected him to end the thought like that. Truth be told, he hadn't expected to say that either, but the set up had been like an alleyoop pass from a teammate. You had to take a shot so perfect. "I like that I finally get to say stuff like that out loud," he said.
"Me too."
His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. So she took the initiative this time, curling her arm around his elbow, encircling his upper arm and resting her head on him.
They walked several blocks to the nearest Carvel. Over a banana split with two spoons, Jim told her about hitting it off with David, how it all felt like a lock. Then he leaned back and looked off into the ether. "And then..." he said.
"Yeah?"
Jim paused before he went on. "Did you know I'd find your note at that moment?"
"That was when you found it?"
"Yeah," he said, "What made you do it?" He read the furrow of her brow. "How’d you know he was gonna ask for my numbers?”
“I didn’t.”
“You had to. I mean it was perfect timing."
"I wasn't thinking about that, I guess... I just..." Pam paused and sliced off a piece of banana with her spoon. "I knew you'd probably be going over them on the subway, or just before the interview. Maybe the night before, you'd be alone in the hotel room for some reason." She stopped, as if embarrassed by considering the obvious things that men and women do in hotel rooms. "I mean, maybe Karen went down the hall to get ice, or something. I know Karen's your girlfriend. Was. Was?"
"Was. We can talk about that later."
She nodded. "I just thought that you mighta needed that. Like in that moment, whenever it was, to know that someone was pulling for you. That's all." She smiled as if it had been nothing. "Do you think you might get the job?"
"I doubt it. And even if I did, I don't think I'd want it."
"Why not? Jim-"
He cut her off. "Because I'm tired of paper. Right now, I go home, and I don't have to think about paper, or selling paper, or dealing with Dwight or Andy, or anyone else there. I'm not sure whether that would be the case if I took this job. And I don't know who I'd end up becoming if I took it. I mean, David's a great guy, and I think he makes it work, but I don't think he totally happy there either."
"Really?"
"Yeah, it's just a feeling I get."
"Hmm." There was something else on her mind. Part of him wanted to probe that something. But he let it ride for the moment. Maybe later. Maybe not.
"Yeah, and..." Jim paused. He wanted to say this right. "So I'm sittin' there with this yogurt lid in my hand..." He laughed at the thought of it. Pam laughed too. "And I realized, after everything that's happened between us, and I mean everything. Going back to the day I met you. If I took this job, then that would be the end of whatever this is. And what it was would be the most it could ever be. And I didn't like that. If I took that job at corporate and rose all the way to wherever it is, I would always wonder about this." He motioned to the space between them. "And what it could have been. But if this," he said, once again motioning to the space between them, "goes the distance, I don’t think I’ll wonder about the job."
"All that from a stupid yogurt lid," Pam said, wiping away a tear. He stuck the landing. Nice.
Jim was going to reach for her hand again, but instead reached for her spoon. He dished the sludge of chocolate sauce and melting ice cream over the banana, scooping a slice for her, pointing the spoon towards her. Pam opened her mouth to receive it. "Why didn't I wear the waterproof mascara?" she laughed as the downpour of tears began.
That night, they kissed for the second time in their lives. This time, Pam initiated the kiss, grabbing the lapels of Jim's jacket. This kiss lacked the desperation of the first, but it was warmer, filled with more promise. "Can I call you tomorrow?" Jim asked.
"It's Friday. We have work."
"I'd lost track. So I'll see you then."
"Bright and early."
Pam didn't invite him inside. Jim would have declined if she had. This was quite alright. Time was on their side. As Jim walked down to the car, he marveled at the turn of things. One day. In many ways like every other. But he could not have forecast a better ending to this one, could not have planned it. He still didn't have an answer to David's question, but he felt like he wasn't alone in the search for that answer. What a relief, because for the first time in a while, Jim didn't feel like he was spinning his wheels. Tonight that was enough.
Several drops of rain hit Jim on the head as he unlocked the car. He anticipated how the world would smell tomorrow morning, how the rain washed the air, leaving the world clean, fresh, and new. The drops became more frequent. The rain would wash away the garbage of the past. Summer was coming.
Jim loved the month of May.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Jim and Pam go on their first date
dunderball is the author of 1 other stories.
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