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The only time she gets sleep nowadays is on the plane. Six hours back and forth, L.A. to New York, New York to L.A., and she manages to nap for at least five and a half. She always wakes up at the same time, when she hears the faint crackle of a microphone click on and someone clearing their throat before they speak.
“Ladies and gentleman, we’re beginning our descent. Please remain seated and keep your seatbelts fastened until we are safely on the ground. We’d like to thank you for flying with us today…”
Pam has done this so many times she starts to think she could get another five minutes in of sleeping while still gathering her things and preparing to disembark. It’s just a part of a routine: yawn, stretch, close the laptop, make sure the purse strap is still looped around her ankle, pop in an Altoid to disguise the nap breath, try not to think about the traffic that awaits just a few thousand feet below.
It’s unusually cloudy for a September day in New York, but the tops of skyscrapers are too tall to stay hidden, and before long the sharp points rupture through the billowy gatherings of white. Then the life of the city appears: cars and people moving below as if in a time-lapse video, speeding through the streets toward a destination that can’t possibly be reached fast enough. She’d soon be one of them, heading towards the corporate office of Dunder Mifflin, meeting with the graphics department to go over new designs for promotional brochures, catalogs; designing paper to help sell paper. There’s irony in there somewhere (or maybe there’s not, stupid Alanis Morissette), but then the plane lands with a bump on the runway and she grips the armrests. She’s always hated this part; the plane landing with such force and such speed that there’s no possible way this is going to end well. Of course it always does and her knuckles return to her normal pale-white instead of fear-white.
There’s another part of her routine that she long ago gave up trying to fight. Right when the city comes into full view, architecture and energy spread out for miles, she fights the urge to call Jim and share the sight with him. He’s down there somewhere and all she wants to do is call and say, “Hey, you see that plane? I’m on it. Wave to me. And isn’t this city fantastic?” Then he’d make some joke about waving to her and how rude for her not waving back and everything would be right.
But it’s a lot easier said than done (“Everything always is” her mother says). And even with all the times she’s been to the corporate office, she’s never once run into him. She assumed Fate was kinder than that, but she can’t hold a grudge. Running into him after all this time would be too painful, too awkward, too much like an Indie movie where the romantic leads don’t get together in the end. And for preventing that, Fate deserves some slack.
The phone rings and she assumes it’s him. The rest of the world can go to hell as far as she’s concerned because they’re having dinner and what else matters right now? She picks up, hoping the feeling of thirteen-year-old giddiness doesn’t show in her voice.
“May I please speak to Pam Beesly?”
Definitely not him. “This is she.”
“Hi Pam, this is Jordan Peters from the Art Institute of Los Angeles. How are you today?”
Oh God. “I’m great, how are you?”
“I’m calling about your portfolio you sent us a few weeks ago.”
Try a few months, I assumed they just weren’t interested.
“We’re very interested in having you come down for an interview. It would just be for a couple days in June…”
June. Good God, that month is cursed. Or is it lucky? I don’t even—
“Pam?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Umm, that should be fine.”
“Excellent. I’ll have HR send you an information packet, materials you’ll need to bring with you, et cetera. We’re very much looking forward to meeting you, Pam…”
She’s pretty sure she’s aware and polite enough to say thank you before hanging up. The couch catches her when she lands, stunned, wondering when and why the world decided upside-down was a much more comfortable angle.
It’s a miracle that she keeps it together long enough to get ready, answer the door when he knocks, laugh at his jokes on the car ride there, and let him pull out her chair.
“I always thought salmon was a really weird color to attribute to fashion,” he says, eyes glancing over the menu.
“What?”
“Salmon. They always talk about salmon-colored ties, shirts and—God, I’m talking about fish on our date, I’m sorry.”
“No it’s fine. It’s—“ That’s when she loses it. She swipes at her cheeks and discovers that mascara is never waterproof when you buy it at Walgreen’s. He takes her hand, which just makes it worse and she doesn’t dare look up.
“I know, it’s been an emotional day. It’s so surreal, I’m not even sure I believe this is happening.”
“No, it’s not that. I mean, yes it’s that but it’s something—“ This is why she always liked art, it never required much articulation.
When she’s brave enough to look up, she finds green eyes spilling out with worry. Just rip off the Band Aid Pam, it won’t hurt as much.
“I have to go to L.A.” Nope, it still hurts like hell.
“Why?” He’s making a big effort to stay calm so as not to upset her more, which she wants to appreciate, but really she doesn’t want to be the only one ready to jump off a cliff.
“The Art Institute. They—they called when I got home and I guess they want to interview me. Or something.”
His mouth can’t decide if it wants to smile or frown, but the great thing about Jim is that he manages to find a compromise of both.
“Well, that’s great, right? These are happy tears?”
“Why? Why now? Why today of all days? I get everything I ever wanted but I can’t have both at the same time.”
Forty-five emotions run across his face and she realizes he didn’t get it before; that if she goes and gets this, then—
“Pam, I won’t lie, I’d like nothing more than to cause a huge scene in the restaurant and beg you not to go. But we both know that you need to do this. Because if you stay here, you’ll just wind up being bitter and resentful, and that doesn’t look good on anyone. Even you,” he says, making it into a whole smile this time. “Let’s just not worry about it tonight, can we do that?”
And so they did.
Two years later she finds herself in a permanent job that was supposed to be only temporary. And the only time she’s seen Jim since is in the company newsletter; picture after picture of him shaking hands with a big client he just nabbed, a promotion he received before he even had time to settle into the previous. His face beams up at her from the glossy paper and sometimes she lets herself run her fingers over it, tracing the upward curve of his mouth and pushing back the unruly pieces of hair that threaten to fall in front of his eyes.
She’s practiced what she’d say to him if she saw him a million times, though she’s pretty sure that if (or when) it actually happened, she’d forget it all. And though it’s probably just easier that she doesn’t run into him, she can’t help but wonder what it would be like. They’ve had their share of awkward and it’s hard to imagine that there would be any left between them. She likes to think that it would be friendly; a smile, a hug, and exchange of pleasantries before one of them gets called to a meeting and with a wave he’s gone again.
But she followed her dreams, just like he wanted her to, and it’s hard to believe that he’d be angry or bitter about that. Her happiness was always what mattered most; it was why he offered to help her pack that night and why he left a note taped to her front door that read “Good luck.”
She smiles a sad smile as she pushes through the corporate doors; the irony (or is it?) of it all being that she was happier talking about salmon with him than ever using the color in her art.
