He can’t be entirely certain – he’s pretty fucking drunk – but this may be the worst night of his life.
“Worst. Night. Ever,” he mutters aloud, testing it out. Yup, it fits.
He is also pretty sure he shouldn’t be driving, but he has no other way to get home.
And he has to get home.
He rolls down the windows even though it’s frigid outside. He connects his iPod to his radio and turns the volume up, almost to its highest level. He’s hoping those two things will help sober him just enough to get home safely.
After that it doesn’t matter, because he plans to completely squelch any remaining sobriety.
The wind slashes across his face as he drives the mostly empty streets. It hurts so damn bad, but it helps (sort of) and it suits his mood. The music is too loud. He is hoping it will seep into his brain and push out any thoughts, any memories, anything left of tonight. At least for now. It doesn’t. What makes it worse (can it get worse?) is every song reminds him of her. Every fucking song. How is that even possible?
Oh that’s right – because for the last three years the only music he’s really dug is music somehow connected to her. Songs by artists she’d recommended. Songs he’d played for her that she’d liked. Songs that were playing somewhere while they were doing something. Songs that describe how he feels about her, what he’d love to tell her. Songs he secretly thinks could be their songs, if there ever was a ‘they.’ Shit, he even had songs they both hated, that made them laugh at how awful they were. He has amassed an entire soundtrack devoted solely to her.
He’s sober enough to know that he’s too drunk to figure out how to turn it off and not crash. He’s not sure he wants to, anyway.
(“Somewhere Only We Know” by Keane is currently playing. They both love this song.)
He makes it home, parking the car crookedly in the driveway. He puts the iPod in his pocket. He’s sure he will need it later. He is relieved Mark is gone this weekend. He can’t remember where he went. He doesn’t really care.
He walks through the front door and simply stands in the entrance way, looking around his living room like he doesn’t recognize it. He isn’t sure what to do next.
Ah, now he remembers: drink.
He opens the fridge and ponders his options. He finds a few beers (to be exact: a Boddingtons, three Hacker-Pschorrs, and a half dozen Sam Adams of different varieties). These won’t do; he is drinking for purpose, not pleasure. He opens the freezer, pulls the almost full bottle of Jack Daniels from the back, sets it on the counter. He finds an old Super Big Gulp cup (bucket?) in the back of the cupboard. He pours the whiskey until it fills at least a third of the cup. He shakes the bottle, analyzing what’s left (less than half now). He takes as long of a pull as he can off of it, then places it back in the freezer as his eyes water from the burn making its way down his throat and into his chest.
(He owes Mark a new bottle of Jack.)
He fills the rest of the cup with Coke. He is too much of a pussy (now he knows how drunk he is, he hates that word) to drink straight liquor all night. Just like he is a pussy about so many things.
He takes his drink to the couch. He sits.
Now he can think about what happened tonight.
Tonight was just supposed to be another one of Michael’s stupid excursions. He wasn’t excited, per se – it was a fucking boat trip in the middle of winter! – but he was looking forward to it. After all, he would get to be with her outside of work. That made any pointless Dunder Mifflin outing worth it. Sure, he would be there, but so would his warehouse buddies. They’d start drinking, she’d wander over to him. That was how it always went. He’d invited Katy to make the time while she was off with her fiancé (he had to take a drink after just thinking that word) a little more bearable (and to not look so pathetic? and maybe to make her jealous?) He thought it was telling that Roy and Katy got along so well; to be more precise, in his eyes it illuminated the dissimilarity between the couple even more. His heart had literally skipped a beat when he shared that look with her, that smile across the table as their dates chatted away. They were their own island.
That was when he started thinking that tonight could be the night.
He’d been collecting evidence the last few months, clues that his dream wasn’t completely hopeless. There was the way she had watched him during the basketball game. There was the way she’d left his “tour” to poke around his room. There was the way she made sure she ended up with the gift he’d chosen for her at Christmas. There was their date on the roof – and the way she’d gotten immediately defensive when he referred to it that way (he still did in his mind).
And there was the kiss.
It had only lasted a few seconds, but he can still replay it in his mind with crystal clarity. He can still feel it, feel her. She was drunk. It could have meant nothing. But just before she’d gotten in Angela’s car, she had looked at him that way.
The way he knows he looks at her when he wants so badly to just tell her.
He takes another sip, then pulls his iPod from his pocket (he realizes he hasn’t even taken his coat off yet) and places it in its speakers. Makes sure it’s on random. His music – her music – surrounds him.
(“Kiss the Girl,” from The Little Mermaid. She had spent a weekend with Roy’s three-year-old niece; he had teased her about humming this song the following Monday. She admitted loving that movie. He teased her more.)
Back to the boat.
It had been such a perfect opportunity. Perfect. It was plain as day that on the deck of that boat, in the middle of that lake, on that January night, he was supposed to tell her. God damnit, she had just said, “Sometimes I don’t get Roy.” She hardly ever acknowledged anything along those lines, anything that hinted at discord. And then she looked up at him that way. Again!
And he said nothing.
And she had actually waited. Expectantly.
And he still said nothing.
(Ironically “Rock the Boat,” The Hues Corporation, has just started to play. They’d seen Michael dancing to this, by himself, in his office and laughed for days.)
If he loves her so much (and he does), why couldn’t he just say it?
“I love you,” he says out loud now. “I’m in love with you.”
See? Was that so hard?
When she’d gone back in it took great self control to not just lunge over the side of the boat. He wasn’t – isn’t – suicidal, but he was so angry at himself that it seemed like a good punishment. Instead he’d gone back in and ordered a beer. Michael was trying (failing) again at the boat/business analogy. He wasn’t tremendously sure what else was said. He’d only perked up when he was asked who he’d save.
He couldn’t help but look at her. It was a reflex, an instinct. Even with her fiancé (drink) nearby. And suddenly he realized that elusive window had opened up one more time. He gave a bullshit answer to Michael and practically ran to her, stopping only to give the camera his true answer.
“I’d save the receptionist.” (He only hoped she’d do the same for him.)
He crossed the boat, was at her side. He knew, this time, he could do it.
“Pam—”
She turned to him.
But then Roy started talking. Drunkenly shouting into the microphone. He told her he was finally ready, then he picked a date.
And she was so happy. Why shouldn’t she be?
He felt like he’d been dropped into some noiseless void, and all he could see was her. Embracing her…(he just drinks, fuck the word) Accepting congratulations. Radiant.
(“The Space Between,” Dave Matthews Band. As a rule he hated DMB, but she had played this for him and he’d instantly loved it.)
It was weird. She’d always been engaged, ever since he’d met her (almost – found out on that first/best/worst date, remember?). And he saw Roy almost everyday. There had never been a time she hadn’t been unavailable. And yet, as the years went by, and they stayed so stagnant, it became less and less…ominous? Real? He doesn’t know the word to use. With the simple attachment of a wedding date, though, that changed. Completely.
The true hopelessness was suddenly so overwhelming that he could feel it (even in his drunken haze it’s still so there).
It took him over immediately. And then (oh God) in the midst of all that, Katy pushed him into giving a toast.
And (oh God, oh God it hurt) he had.
He knows Katy didn’t know any better, couldn’t have guessed why there was nothing in the world he wanted to do less. She was his best friend, this was a great moment – to his date it made perfect sense. He shouldn’t blame her, but he did. Then treated her like only a true asshole would (at least he’d been honest), and managed to down three shots and two more beers before they reached shore. Katy had stormed off the boat, hissing that she’d take a cab.
He rubs a hand over his face. For having been so cold all night he is roasting now. Dumbly he realizes that the coat he discovered still on his body ten minutes ago is right where he left it. He struggles out of it (almost falls off the couch). He drinks again. He’s surprised the cup is already half empty, but then it makes him smile, because hasn’t it always been?
He has a steady job, and it serves its purpose, but he hates it. He knows he is too smart for it, has always been too good for it.
He has friends – not many, but enough – and they’re important to him. But he only has one friend who always understands him. Knows how to make him laugh. Comforts him.
He knows he’s attractive enough to not be ugly, and people seem to find him charming (he will never stop labeling himself as a dork), and without tremendous effort he could probably find a great woman to date. But he can’t do that, because he is already so in love with one woman.
And this woman is his reason to stay at a job he hates. And this woman is his one true friend. And this woman is so much greater than any other woman – in his eyes so beautiful, so charming, so everything (she will never stop labeling herself as a dork) – that he can’t ever see how he can live without her.
(“Grace,” by U2, begins. This one he found on his own. When he met her, it became that much better.)
But he needs to learn how, and fast, because she isn’t is. And she probably never will be. He’s already starting to drown.
He takes another sip and spills some down his front. He half-stumbles over to the computer, drink in hand, and gets online. He attempts a Google search. It turns up no results, but when he squints and rereads what he typed he understands. There shouldn’t be any listings of “presonaalds.” Google kindly asked if he meant “personals.” “Yes,” he answers aloud, but he doesn’t know why he’s bothering. He doesn’t even click anything. He leans back in his chair, stares at the mantle. He’s got a framed picture of the two of them there. He just put it up.
It’s from the Christmas party. Michael had asked him to get the pictures printed, and when he’d seen this one he quietly printed an extra copy. He wasn’t aware that Michael had been snapping a photo at the time. He is in his usual stance at her counter, leaning in and laughing as she holds up the cassette tape he’d put in the tea pot. Her face is half surprise, half delight as she looks at him. He can see the edge of the card he wrote her in his back pocket.
His eyes start to tear. He feels a hard knot rising in his throat. He takes a long swallow, hoping it will help but knowing it won’t. He’s important to her; she’s everything to him. It seems like semantics, but he knows the difference between those two views means everything, and he doesn’t know how to bear it.
A new song starts. It takes him a minute to recognize it; he hasn’t heard it in a long time.
("Slacker Ways." Moods for Moderns.)
He sits up straighter, then stands and heads over to the couch. When it finishes he plays it again. And again. It isn’t soft or sappy - it's actually peppy - but it’s oh so appropriate.
If I bought you flowers
Could I stare at you for hours?
'Cause baby, I'm your biggest fan
I've been hooked on you from the start
And you know you hold my heart
Everytime I hold your hand
Drink up to good times
Give me a reason to find tonight
Why this ain't right of you
I've been thinking, I've been drinking
Long enough to know
Not to let my feelings show
I'm passed out most of these days
So sick of my slacker ways -
And I think it's time you knew...
And he remembers why he has this song.
About a week or so after he started at Dunder Mifflin he was driving her to the store on some pointless errand for Michael – she’d ridden in with Roy and he had left for lunch. He already had a bit of a crush on her. This CD was in his player and he moved to take it out, but she asked what it was. He wasn’t sure if she was asking out of interest so he downplayed it, muttering something about it being some indie band from Detroit his roommate liked. She said she really liked it (he was relieved), and when it got to this song she had bobbed her head to the beat. It ended; she asked to hear it again. He gladly complied. Out of habit he began singing along and drumming the steering wheel. Her head was still nodding along. When they caught a glimpse of each other they started to laugh, knowing they looked like complete dorks. When he parked the car, she smiled over at him.
“I’m really glad we work together,” she told him.
He was surprised, and hoped he wasn’t starting to blush. “Well thanks. Why’s that?”
She shrugged, still grinning. “It’s nice to have a friend in the office. You make the day…worth it.”
It was so simple, so sweet, and it was then and there he started truly falling for her.
And now here he is, three years later. Alone with the song. What a hapless bastard. He heaves a sigh, plays it again as if it has an answer. It doesn’t make him feel better, but it gives him something to focus on. To hold on to, because there wasn’t much left. His eyes are getting harder and harder to keep open. Just before he passes out, he remembers Michael’s words (he knows he will regret talking to him when tomorrow comes).
Never, ever give up.
And he knows he won’t. He can’t.
Even if he wants to.
Author's Chapter Notes:
This was my first story at ff.net and so it shall be my first here. Hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Little Comment is the author of 7 other stories.
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