* * *
By May she had trouble remembering her Scranton zip code, and Pam felt like she had slipped into someone else’s life. She never knew weeks could rush by so fast, and the contentment of each full, unwasted day seeped through her until being happy and productive finally ceased to surprise her.
She began to collect friends, women with whom she could talk about shoes and clothes and art and books. Smart women who drank wine and watched bad movies together and taught her to be comfortable in her own skin. She and Tara entertained weekly in their tiny, shared apartment, cooking and laughing together on the nights Pam was off from work.
“It’s so weird,” she confided to Mabel one day when they were looking over purchases in the back room of the gallery. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so busy in my life, but I don’t really feel stressed or anything, you know?” Mabel looked up from where she reclined elegantly behind her glass and metal desk, its clean, modern lines and spare black accents contrasting starkly with the mess of art and color around them. She quirked an eyebrow and turned up a corner of her mouth, returning her attention to the forms in her hand for a brief instant.
“Well, of course Pam. For once you’re enjoying what you do. One can’t help but feel energized when you’re working hard because you want to.”
The phone rang, shrill and unnaturally loud in the echoing room, and Pam reached over to answer it. “Wonders, this is Pam.”
“May I speak to Ms. Mabel?” The voice on the other line was grizzled and deep, with the lightest trace of a Southern drawl. Either Georgia or Texas, she couldn’t decide.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Will you tell her it’s Paul Marset?”
“Of course, hold on just one second.” She covered the mouth piece and turned to Mabel. “Do you want to talk to a Paul Marset?”
Mabel’s eyes lit up instantly and she reached for the phone. She spoke animatedly for a few minutes, finally ending with a “Tell Greta I’ll call her next week,” before saying goodbye.
“Who was that?” Pam asked curiously.
“That was – no, wait. Let me show you.” Mabel laid a few papers to rest on a wire tray next to the fax machine and reached to the drawer on her left. By the time Pam had obediently rolled over a black cushioned chair, the older woman had pulled out a thick, royal blue book with spiky gilt lettering. Pam let out a small “oh” when she caught sight of the cover, a rich, magnificent rendering of what appeared to Greek gods. The attention to detail was stunning, but what struck her the most was the warm, pulsing energy of the scene. The colors seemed to spill over, and the juxtaposition of sharp linework and the piece’s hazy, dreamlike quality made it surreal and achingly beautiful. She reached for the book, and was surprised anew when she flipped through.
“It’s a comic book?” she asked incredulously.
“The correct term is ‘graphic novel’, but I suppose it is essentially that.”
“But this is amazing,” Pam breathed out, turning pages to reveal haunting black-and-white panels interspersed with gorgeous pages done in full color.
“That is the work of the man you just spoke to. He and Dylan Engdahl have been collaborating on a series of graphic novels called The Pantheon. They’re sort of dark, adult treatments of popular mythology.”
“This one’s Greek?” Pam asked, running her finger admiringly across the glossy cover.
“Yes, it was their first. They’ve done an African saga and an Indian one as well, and I believe they have a Japanese-themed edition coming out in a few months. They’ve got a terrific audience in Europe, though they’re still a bit underground here in the States. The writing is fantastic, too, very clever and imaginative.”
“We work with him? How come I haven’t seen any of his stuff before now?”
“Hmm?” Mabel was distracted a moment by an incoming fax. “Oh, Paul’s pieces were some of the first I sold here. His mother went to school with my sister, and I took a very smart chance on him, if I do say so myself. He’s a bit caught up with all of this comic book nonsense at the moment, but he sends me actual paintings every now and then. We haven’t had any since April of last year, right before you started working here.”
“So he’s sending some stuff over?”
“Yes,” she answered happily. “He and his wife are in London now, but his partner will be coming to New York sometime in the next month, and he’s going to swing by and bring us some of Paul’s new work. I’ll need your help redoing the displays.” Mabel had her hands clasped together in anticipation, and Pam couldn’t help but feel excited as well.
“Do you think I could borrow this? His work is just…I can’t even find the words, it’s so pretty. Seeing this just makes me wonder why I bother,” she said a little wistfully.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Ms. Beesly,” Mabel admonished her firmly. “You’re not there yet, but you’ve got plenty of talent. You’ll have your breakthrough one of these days.”
Pam only snorted in disbelief, but she kept a tight hold on the book.
Two weeks later, Tara came home from work to find her roommate utterly engrossed in her reading.
“Pam, please don’t tell me you’re still reading that comic book.” Pam looked up, startled, before her face smoothed into a broad smile.
“Graphic novel, Tara.”
“I think you mean comic book.”
Pam chuckled and set the book down. “No, I mean graphic novel, and it’s the next in the series. I finished the first one a couple days ago and I’m totally hooked. I mean, at first it was the artwork, it’s just so detailed and amazing, but then the writing is so good, too! I mean, I’m not the smartest person in the world, but it’s just really well-written. I’ve never read anything so interesting on so many levels.”
“Huh.” Tara looked down at it appraisingly. “Maybe I’ll borrow it to read during staff meetings. Or to procrastinate when I don’t want to grade homework. Most boring part of teaching, hands down.”
“Eh, it’s better than waitressing. At least -, oh shit!” Pam leapt to her feet and ran for her room. “I’m late for my shift!” Tara only laughed and watched her race out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Pam was in her uniform and pulling into her spot. The Friday night crowd at The Blue Marlin wasn’t particularly rowdy, but she already knew she’d be on her feet all night. She tried not to run through the back entrance, nodding at Lou, the owner and head cook, as she deposited her things and tied her apron around her waist. Lou was pretty laidback, and the rest of the staff was easygoing and friendly as well. The hours fit in well with her classes and her job at the gallery, and the tips were good.
“Heya, Pam.”
“Hey, Maggie,” Pam greeted the cheerful blonde as she rushed by with a tray of empty plates. “Rough crowd tonight?”
“Not too bad,” she replied, considering. “Watch out, though, Holly just seated a grumpy-looking guy at one your tables.” Pam scanned her corner until she noticed a thin, glowering gentleman near the back whose straight black hair had just begun to show a little gray.
“Snazzy dresser,” she commented, and the man indeed looked much too well dressed for the homey little tavern.
“Maybe he’ll tip good.” Maggie shrugged and pushed through the kitchen doors, and Pam took a deep breath and made her way over to her first customer of the night.
“Welcome to The Blue Marlin. My name is Pam and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you something to drink?” Up close, the man looked much younger than she had assumed, though she would still peg him as being a few years older than herself. He had a beautiful, aquiline face and the sharpest cheekbones she had ever seen on a man. And he was wearing a horrible scowl that nearly wilted the smile she had started with.
“Your name is Pam?”
Pam raised an eyebrow, taken aback by both his strong British accent and the disdainful way he pronounced her name. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “Short for Pamela.”
“It’s a lost cause no matter what you do with it, but have you ever considered going by Pamela instead? ‘Pam’ is just so…frumpy.”
Pam stared down at her customer for a full minute, trying to figure out if he was pulling her leg. He looked perfectly seriously. “Uh, yeah,” she said finally, at a complete loss for words.
“Do you have any other names?” he asked, peering up at her owlishly. Pam raised her eyebrows incredulously. “Like a middle name. What’s your middle name?”
“Morgan,” she said flatly, and the man seemed to be lost in thought.
“That’s much better, but it could still use a little work. How about Morrie?”
“I’d really prefer Pam, sir.”
“No,” he shook his head a little belligerently. “I really don’t think you do.”
Pam’s eyes widened, and then quickly decided to play along. She wasn’t going to make any of the girls suffer on her account - this guy was clearly crazy. She threw her hands up. “You know what? Fine. Call me Morrie. Call me Ishmael. Just tell me what you want to drink.”
He straightened up slightly at the sharpness in voice, appraising her with a surprising alertness. “I’m trying to decide,” he replied, almost sulkily, “whether to let myself get absolutely, mind-numbingly smashed or to call it quits.”
“You’re not exactly in the right place for that kind of drinking, sir.”
“Jeremy.” He shuddered a little before continuing. “Please call me Jeremy. ‘Sir’ is for Cambridge wankers and dirty politicians. And my father,” he added thoughtfully.
“Whatever you say, sir,” she cheered inwardly as Jeremy winced. Served him right for saddling her with unwanted nicknames. “I mean, Stan over there,” she jerked a thumb at the big, hunkering bartender, “can get you as drunk as you want as fast as you want to, but you have to ask yourself a couple questions first. One – do you have someone to make sure you get home safely? Restaurant policy tries to minimize chances of you getting killed after you walk out the door.”
“No,” he answered slowly. “I did have someone, but she’s the reason I’m trying to drink myself into oblivion. Not to mention drowning in cheap clichés.”
Pam put a hand on one hip and cocked her head lightly, drawn in despite herself. He was so very still, except for his hands moving, waving, fluttering like paper fans.
“Second question,” she continued. “Is it worth it?”
“What?”
“Is it worth it?” she repeated patiently. “Is it worth the massive hangover you’re going to have tomorrow morning, not to mention the realization that getting drunk didn’t make any of it go away?”
He grimaced, showing teeth that were severely white against his swarthy skin. “She’s worth a fucking lobotomy. But I’ll settle for this.”
There was a flash of pain across his face, a tightening of his jaw that Pam identified with immediately and that pushed words out of her mouth she hadn’t expected. “Can you wait a couple hours?”
Jeremy only tilted his head up, confused.
“I get off my shift at one. There’s this hole in the wall downtown that I like to go to when I want to get very, very drunk. And I’ll make sure you don’t end up facedown in a gutter.”
“You’re not hitting on me,” he stated.
“God, no,” she protested emphatically.
“No need to be so disgusted by the thought. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re being so nice to me.”
“Because I’ve got someone who makes me feel the same way.”
Jeremy sighed and let his shoulders sag down, running his hands through hair that refused to look disheveled. “One o’clock, then, Morrie?”
“Pam.”
He ignored her and continued, “I’ll be here. In the meantime, I’ll take the beef stew and a pint of Guinness.”
Pam sighed and gave up, and then grinned anyway. “Coming right up.”
* * *
Author's Chapter Notes:
Funny how old projects always seem so appealing when you've got other things you should be doing. I realize my update schedule isn't the most reader-friendly, but thanks to all you lovely people out there who are so encouraging of the little bits of madness I scratch out when I can.
Chapter End Notes:
Oh, gentle readers. You deserve much better than my irregular updates. But I hope you enjoy them nonetheless.
