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Story Notes:
Just a one-shot, after re-watching Ben Franklin and being inspired by the kitchen scene.

Author's Chapter Notes:
No copyright infringement, etc etc. I do not own these characters, or the trademarked Jose Cuervo. Word.

She had a tendency of drunk dialing that more often than not resulted with her in tears and a cell phone smashed on the ground. When she was alone, in her tiny apartment, a bottle of wine could disappear in the lonely night and she would only have a killer hangover in the morning. If she was drinking alone, her fingers never took on a life of their own and dialed numbers her sober self would have considered erased from her brain.

This is generally why she avoided any public opportunity to drink. In moderation, it was ok. If she knew she had to get up the next morning and shuffle into work, she could contain herself to a beer or a glass of wine and go home and sleep through the night. She was well aware, however, that when she went out with the sole purpose of getting drunk, her night never ended on a positive note and she definitely would be incapable of getting out of bed for work the next morning.

When she asked Ryan to set her up with one of his business school friends, she didn’t honestly believe he would follow through. She had a feeling it was at the urging of Kelly that Steve, a guy in his late-20’s, had called her up the next weekend asking if she would like to go out with him. In a fit of anxiety, she agreed to meet up with him at some bar she’d never heard of in Wilkes-Barre and get a few drinks with him.

The night of her date was nerve-wracking. Kelly kept calling her asking her about her various states of mind, whether she was excited or nervous or what she was planning to wear and could Kelly come over and do her makeup? Every time the phone rang at her desk her heart jumped and her palms became sweaty at the thought of answering another barrage of Kelly’s well-intentioned but misdirected questions. It didn’t help that Jim was out of the office sick and she had no idea what he would think of all this. Karen had given her some words of advice in the kitchen before lunch, telling her to keep it cool and not let on that she was too into the guy if she really was. Pam had thanked her and pulled her cardigan a little closer to her body.

She spent the evening at her apartment getting ready. She put a lot of effort into her hair and makeup, and settled on a pretty dress that had been hiding at the back of her closet with a more updated version of her office cardigan to cover her bare shoulders. She set off for the bar at 7:30, hoping to be there at 8 to meet Steve.

The bar was crowded, as it should be on a Friday night, but it was filled with people Pam wouldn’t associate with a business school classmate of Ryan’s. It was most obviously a biker bar, with a pool table in a back room and televisions showing highlights from NASCAR and various sporting events. The lighting was low and the air was thick with smoke, which Pam noted because she knew she would have to wash her hair tonight and the sleek blowout she attempted wouldn’t last her two days like she hoped.

Steve was sitting at the bar, a blazer hanging on the back of his chair and a Blackberry in one hand, while he cradled a handful of bar peanuts in the other. Pam approached him, introduced herself, and the night began.

He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but he wasn’t bland either. Maybe he just wasn’t her type. She noted his legs were a little short, but his smile was nice and he was genuinely interested in her. She told him she normally didn’t do this sort of thing, but Ryan had mentioned how nice of a guy he was (a lie, but he didn’t have to know) and she was looking to expand her social sphere (that sounded a little more respectful than “I’m desperately looking for someone I can make Jim jealous with,” right?). Either way they made small talk and after precisely two dirty martinis she began introducing herself to the people around them.

Steve began to loosen up and she began to loosen up and eventually she was taking shots of Tequila with a guy nicknamed Bear (she would remember the next morning that she wanted to tell Jim about this biker named Bear, and maybe research to see if he was related to Dwight) and then surrounded by a group of people she began referring to as her best friends. Steve remained a little less inebriated than her, being the gallant and honorable guy that he was. By 2AM, when the bar was closing, she was so far drunk that Steve was holding her shoes in one hand while she swung her purse around in the air and sang herself a song on the short walk to her car. While leaning against her car Steve called a cab and waited with Bear to make sure she got safely buckled in the backseat with the window cracked and a crisp twenty in her hand to cover the fare.

Car rides always seem much more violent and bumpy when you are drunk, she remembered thinking. The cab driver already had her money in his pocket but that didn’t stop her from digging through her purse that was sitting next to the shoes she kicked off somewhere between shots 3 and 4.

Her flimsy cell phone didn’t have an extensive contacts list. It was mostly family and a few coworkers and a few friends from her art classes. It most definitely had no listings under J and the only listing under R was her 55 year old ceramics instructor that was happily married in the state of Massachusetts to her partner of 30 years.

Somehow her fingers clumsily dialed the number that her brain forgot her heart knew and before she realized what that ringing was in her ear he answered the phone and for a moment she thought her cab driver named Jack (Jessie? Hank?) would have a very messy backseat to clean up.

“Hello?”

The voice sounded groggy and raspy, like it had been coughing all day or screaming at a concert.

“I met a Bear tonight, and it reminded me of you.” In her mind the words were articulate and precise, but to him it probably sounded like a child on cough syrup or what she was, just plain drunk.

“Who is this?” The voice sounded a little angry, maybe a little worried, like he knew who it was but too scared to ask forthright.
“It’s me silly, P-A-M.” Why she felt the need to spell her name, she will never know, but at least he could be sure.

“Are you ok? Where are you? You aren’t driving right?” The concern would have been noticeable if her stomach hadn’t been so full of Jose Cuervo and her head hadn’t been trying to wrap around the fact that she just drunk-dialed Jim Halpert.

“Hank is driving me, right Hank? And I’m in a car, on a road, going to my house where you won’t be.” The sudden thought of this broke her voice, but made her giggle. She wanted to cry, but she had never been a depressed drunk.

“Why are you out this late? The bars are closed right?” He was whispering now, maybe because Karen was sleeping next to him or maybe because he was outside and didn’t want to disturb the neighbors. Either way, she never asked.

“I went on a date with a man named Steve who was too short for me and then I made new friends and decided to call my best friend. Guess what?”

There was a short pause, perhaps a sigh, and then a hesitant “What?” from the other end of the phone.

“I only said yes to this date because I miss you.” She broke into fits of laughter after that, snorting and giggling and fighting to compose herself.

The statement wasn’t really that funny, in or out of context, but for some reason he started laughing too, unsure of how he was supposed to respond and unsure of why this 2AM phone call was better than the others he had earlier that week with the woman who was fighting so hard to keep him.

“This is a secret, shhhh,” she murmured messily. “You are my best friend and I love you.”

This wasn’t a declaration of love. He knew that. It wasn’t her putting her heart on her sleeve, the way he had done. It was a simple declaration of friendship. But those words, the ones he was waiting to hear in a different tone, in a different time, at a time when they were both sure of their sobriety, still found a way to work under his skin like a needle.

He stayed on the phone with her until he heard her door lock after she was inside, and followed her to her bedroom, still connected by plastic and wires and airwaves, and hung up only when he was sure she was ready to pass out.

Instead of returning to bed, he pulled a hoodie on over his bare chest, slipped on some shoes and drove to the grocery store.

The next morning she awoke at 1:30 in the afternoon, bleary eyed, barefoot, and saturated in the thick smell of cigarettes and alcohol. After a rejuvenating shower, she noticed her shoes by the door and her purse tossed over behind a potted plant and her keys hanging on her coffee cup tree. Retracing her (drunken) steps she found her cell phone sitting on her bedside table (logically). Two text message alerts on her screen, she flipped open her phone.

“I hope we can do that again, with a little less alcohol and bikers ;) Call me sometime.”

Steve. At least she could remember his name right? That’s always a good sign. And he wasn’t here, in her apartment, and she is pretty sure she came home alone last night, so two points.

“Nice to hear from you Beesly. Open your front door, and let’s keep the drunk dialing to a minimum, otherwise I will have to tell Angela. :)”

The number was familiar, but not saved in her phone. When she opened her front door to find aspirin (which she was out of), tea, and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, she returned to her cell phone and programmed a number under the Js. Maybe this time she wouldn’t have a reason to delete it.


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