September 23, 2002, 2:11 PM:

“Jim?” I look away from my computer screen to see the petite blonde next to my desk. I smile at Angela, because, honestly, you can’t help but smile.

“What’s up, Angie?” I turn my chair to look at her better.

“I haven’t had time to ask you how yours and Dwight’s road trip went.” She starts to fiddle with her necklace. “Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah. We took lots of pictures. I sent them in to get developed yesterday so they should be done by five.”

“Oh. That’s great, Jim.” Still fiddling with her necklace.

“Um… if you want, we could have dinner tonight and you look at them. I have a souvenir for you, too.” And her smile gets bigger.

“I would love to!” Here comes the hug. “Should I come by around 6:30? I made cookies yesterday so I’ll bring them. You like oatmeal chocolate chip, right?” And another hug and she’s off to the kitchen. Without even getting my answers. Oh well. It’s all good. I mean, 6:30 is fine and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies are good, too.

“I think she has a crush on you.” I look up. What is this? Pamela Jane Beesly is talking to me? I’m in shock.

“Excuse me?” I ask, curiously.

She rolls her eyes and beckons me to her desk. After careful acknowledgement of what I was going to do, I cautiously make my way to reception. Yes, I haven’t wandered over there since… um, Pam’s third week here. I either got my messages from Dwight or Pam would leave them on my desk while I’m away. However, messages mean nothing to me when they’re written in chicken scratch. Yeah, that’s how Pam got back at me. She writes everyone else’s messages in clean, neat printed handwriting while on mine, she practices her left-handed script. Luckily, Dwight is good at analyzing handwriting so he deciphers them for me.

I take an M&M from the candy tray. And of course, she glares at me. “What?”

She sighs. “Those aren’t for you. Those are for customers.”

“Beesly, customers rarely come in here. We usually go to their—“

“What did I tell you about calling me ‘Beesly’?”

“That you absolutely love it when I do.” Smirk.

She shakes her head. “Why do I even bother?” She moves a folder from her desk to a box on the floor. “You know what, Halpert? You can deal with Angela on your own. But, if you hurt her, I swear, I will hunt you down.”

“Yeah right. What are you going to do? Try to strangle me with the arms of your sweater?” She chucks a wad of paper at me. “Ooo… I’m so scared… Please don’t throw garbage at me.”

“Get away from me. I hate you.”

“Well, I hate you, too.” And I leave the lair of Medusa.

September 24, 2002, 7:43 PM:

Yay! Gilmore Girls premiere night. So, I used up one of my sick days today because, seriously, after yesterday, I really didn’t want to see Jim’s face. The guy just infuriates me. He’s so immature and closed-minded and, gah, he’s just so dumb! I don’t know what Angela sees in him. Yes, he’s somewhat good-looking but looks aren’t everything.

I ring the doorbell of Angela’s apartment. It was my turn to bring the food so pizza it is. Thank goodness, when it arrived at our place, Roy didn’t answer the door or else he would have taken at least three slices right there and then. Ring the doorbell again. God, what is taking her so long? Let’s try knocking.

“Coming!” I hear her unlatch the deadbolt. Seconds later, she flings open the door. “Pam!” Why does she look surprised?

“Hey,” I say as I walk in. I rush to put the pizza on the dining room table. I dump my purse on one of the chairs. “Listen, Angela, I couldn’t help but read some spoilers. And it’s going to be so…”

“Hey, Pam.” Um… what is Jim doing here? Oh God. This is awkward. This is very awkward.

Angela walks closer to me. “I thought you were sick today. I figured that you would want to rest to, um, you know, get better.”

“Um, yeah. Well, I decided that I’ve been working straight since March and I just wanted a day off.” I shake my head. “I should have called. I mean, I just assumed that we would still have our premiere party, ya know.”

Jim clears his throat. “You two should totally still have your premiere party. Um, I’ll just see you two tomorrow.”

Angela turns to him. “Oh, okay. Tomorrow, then.” The way they look at each other… I feel a bit queasy.

“Angela, do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

She breaks from looking at Jim. “Oh sure. It’s door at the end of the hallway.”

“Thanks.” As I walk past Jim, I manage to mumble some sort of good-bye. That boy is sly. Just… No. No, no, no. I did not just peek inside Angela’s bedroom. I didn’t. Yes, the door was open but... No. I’m blanking it out of my mind. I don’t need any mental images of Angela and Jim making… okay, Pam, stop. Stop. Get inside the bathroom and breathe. It’s not like they were having sex. They were both fully clothed. I mean, at the most, there was some… Stop, Pam! Geez! This is Angela and Jim, you’re talking about here. Sweet, innocent Angela and stupid, dumb Jim. Seriously, get this whole thing. Out. Of. Your. Head.

September 25, 2002, 9:04 AM:

“So, you and Angela?” Dwight looks at me with a grin. Believe it or not, I’ve kind-of had a thing for Angela, off-and-on, for the last year. She got me in Secret Santa last Christmas and she gave me a scarf. It’s a really good scarf, too. It’s navy and gray. I’ve pretty much wore it ever since. Well, not ever since but when I need to wear a scarf, it’s the first one that I grab. So, when Pam told me that Angela might have a crush on me, I knew that it’s worth giving a shot. And now, here we are. Casual dating for the moment. I mean, when Pam came over yesterday, Angie and I were just lying on her bed talking about our childhood. Nothing, you know, like that… God. Give me some credit.

I look at Dwight and smile. “Yeah. Nothing serious, of course. But, yeah.”

“Hey, Jim.” Meredith. Sweet, dear Meredith. “Here are those surveys that you asked for yesterday.”

“Oh, thanks.” I take the file from her hands. And of course, I can’t help looking at “The Shit.” Yeah, “The Shit.” It’s the nickname that Dwight and I came up for Meredith’s wedding ring set thing. It originally was “The Rock” due to the sheer size of the diamond, but “The Shit” is much funnier and practically describes it better. Meredith is one of those people who work even if they don’t have to. Her husband is loaded but he’s in New York City during the week and both of their kids are in a boarding school in Connecticut, so she gets lonely which is why she’s working here.

“Is there anything else, Jim?” Meredith asks as she smoothes out her probably two thousand dollar skirt. I shake my head. “Well, if there’s anything, just let me know.” She pats me on the shoulder and heads back to her desk. Yeah, would you please pay off my college loans? And my car? And maybe get me someplace better to live? Damn, she can’t hear my inner dialogue request line.

“Forget your current car. You have to ask for a new one.” I glance at Dwight who’s typing away at something. Of course, he knew what I was thinking. That’s what best friends do.

September 26, 2002, 11:36 PM:

Thank God for a 24-hour convenience store. This week is so dumb. First, the whole Jim and Angela awkwardness thing. Then, the whole Michael yelling at me because I inserted the paper wrong in the printer so his letter wasn’t printed evenly. And now, Roy staying the night at his brother’s because they’re going early tomorrow to go to Nashville for the Country Music Festival. Yes, my fiancée is into country music. He’s obsessed. And, of course, I can’t stand it. Anyways, this week has been stupid and I need some kind of alcohol or something. Maybe cigarettes? I haven’t had those since that rebellious phrase in high school. Oh, well. I go to the back to grab some beer. And figures, there is…

“Michael.” He looks at me. Of course, not with a smile or anything. He’s still upset about the letter. Shit. Forget the beer. He’ll just accuse me of being drunk tomorrow. I open the nearest fridge and grab a bottle of… Sobe. Yummy. Carrot Orange favor. Gag me.

“Pam. What are you doing up so late?” He approaches me slowly, still unemotionally. “Tomorrow is the last Friday of the month. You have to be at the office at eight.” Fuck! Stupid end-of-the-month party! I probably have to be at the office even earlier in order to print out the dumb-ass achievement certificates.

“Heh… I just have a really bad headache so I came to buy some aspirin and some Sobe. Always helps with a headache.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the dumbest lie ever.

“You drove with a really bad headache?” He looks at my quizzically. “At midnight? That’s not safe, Pam.” He gently grabs my arm and leads me to the aisle with the aspirin. Then, we head to the counter. Interestingly enough, he pays for the aspirin, my Sobe drink, and a gallon of milk that he was apparently holding. Afterwards, we walk out of the store and he soon explains, “I can’t sleep at night without a glass of warm milk.” I’m trying very hard not to give one of those “WTF” faces that Jim gives during our conference room meetings. I hate the fact that he’s somewhat rubbing onto me.

“Oh, that’s… okay, well, thanks, Michael, for the purchases. I have to…” And he’s grabbing my arm again.

“No, Pam. I will not be held responsible if you get in a car accident. I’m driving you home.” Um, what?

“Michael, I really—“

“No. I’m not backing down on this. Now, come on.” Why do I feel like I’m sixteen again and my dad just found me trying to buy cigarettes?

September 27, 2002, 6:07 AM:

I think the phone is ringing. Actually, I’m pretty sure the phone is ringing. Who the heck is calling me at this hour?

“Hello?” This better be important.

“Um, Jim. Hi. Morning. This is Pam.” Uh... what?

“Hi... Is everything okay?”

“Actually, I need a ride to get my car. I’ve tried calling everyone else and no one is answering.” Yeah, they’re smart.

“Beesly, I’m confused.”

“Halpert, it’s a long story and I really don’t want to get into it right now, so are you willing to call it a truce and drive me to my car or not?” The hint of desperation in her voice tells me that it’s one of those “serious” times that Dwight keeps talking to me about.

“Give me five minutes. Also, where do you live?”