Author's Chapter Notes:
I...I'm hesitant to say much of anything about this chapter. (Like I've told you, I hate overexplanation.) I'd say I'm not sure I got it quite right but last time I did a few of you gave me a good finger-wagging. ;) I'll just say I'm really interested to see your response. That'll tell me if I accomplished what I set out to here.
The first two weekends Jim had traveled to New York to visit, he and Pam had spent most of their time holed up in her room.
Sure, they’d ventured out for meals or a walk around the block, and Pam sometimes had to leave to take care of one of her prone-to-dramatics resident’s many crises. Aside from those necessary outings, though, they’d stayed in the cozy cocoon of her dorm room. Almost all of their time had been spent in bed. Obviously they'd made up for lost time physically, but even the most mundane activities had been conducted in Pam’s tiny twin. They'd rehashed their weeks in detail, even though they’d already done that by phone, laying side by side with their arms lazily draped around each other. They'd watched television - one weekend they'd made it through most of LOST’s first two seasons; the next weekend they'd split their time between The West Wing and Curb Your Enthusiasm. They had curled up with their cartons of Ben & Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream that they’d brought back from the cafeteria there. Even homework couldn’t escape the magnetic pull of the bed - Pam would sit against the headboard plugging away at her latest assignment while Jim had stretched out as best he could, rereading whatever he’d thrown in his bag to kill the time he knew she'd need to devote to school: High Fidelity. The Gun Seller. Sal Paolantonio’s latest on the NFL’s most over- and underrated players. Jim had loved it, adored every second. He'd liked being shut away from the outside world and its disruptions, and he hadn’t wanted to be an inch further from her than necessary, after so many miles had separated them for days that seemed to stretch on forever.
This weekend, however, was different.
Friday evening she’d taken him to an Italian café one of her classmates had recommended that supposedly served amazing risotto (he stuck with the flatbread pizza), then to a small pub where a local band was playing – Pam had heard about them from one of her residents and thought they sounded right up his alley (they weren’t bad, essentially Death Cab for Cutie impersonators). After spending the day wandering around the East Village, they were currently crammed into a tiny, sweltering gallery with a crowd largely dressed in black. The event – that’s what you called it, right? – featured the work a friend of one of Pam’s new friends, some guy that Jim thought graduated from Pratt last year but couldn’t be sure. He looked down into his plastic cup, emptied of cheap champagne, as conversation buzzed around him. Pam stood at his side, leaning against him slightly as she listened to the artist explain how tough it had been to convince the gallery owner to let him have a show.
“It was only after I got those pieces published in Altar two months ago that the guy relented,” he said, shoving his dark hair out of his eyes. “I kept telling him, mixed media illustration, especially when it draws on postmodernism? Totally profitable, but he’s so old school…”
Jim nudged Pam with his shoulder, and once she looked up at him he nodded toward the makeshift bar across the room. She nodded too, then returned her gaze to the artist, still explaining his epic struggle with the gallery owner.
At the bar, Jim fished a Heineken from a huge metal tub full of ice and popped the cap with the edge of the table’s assistance. He watched Pam from across the room – she was nodding along with the others in the small circle, tucking her hair behind her ear. He realized he’d never seen the blouse she was wearing before, and if pressed would never have picked it as one she’d buy. He was fairly certain her shoes were new as well, because he didn’t think she’d owned red and black ones back in Scranton, but even he wasn’t terribly observant when it came to shoes.
“Hey Jim.”
He jerked his head forward, startled at being addressed by name in a room full of people he didn’t know. Alex stood in front of him, snagging a beer of his own and smiling.
“Hey man,” Jim returned amiably.
“Having fun?”
“Oh yeah. Definitely. You?”
“Sure. Much better than watching the Angels,” Alex said, smirking in a way that suggested he’d much rather be doing just that. Jim chuckled. He’d met Alex on his last visit, briefly. He seemed like a nice guy, and Jim was a little surprised that someone so normal was an artist, too. (He hated how stereotypical that sounded, even in his own mind, but he’d already seen his fair share of pierced faces and tragically pale wraiths, so he didn’t feel like it was completely unfair.) He liked Alex, even though he could tell the guy was head-over-heels for Pam.
“So you and Pam worked together, right? Back in Scranton?”
“Yeah,” Jim answered, not bothering to correct Alex. They would still be working together in the future. At least for awhile.
“At a…?” Alex trailed off, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember…”
“Paper company,” Jim finished, raising his eyebrows. “Glamorous stuff.”
“Right, right. I remember that now. I know Pam was the receptionist. What do you do there?”
Pam’s verb was past tense. His was present. “I’m in sales.”
“Oh cool. I did the sales thing for awhile too, after high school. I was…pretty terrible at it.”
“I don’t know that I’m all that great either, honestly.”
“What are you talking about? You’re fantastic.” Pam appeared at his side, smiling up at him with flushed cheeks as she reached for another cup of champagne.
“Are you sure you’re talking about me?”
She gave him a smile, looking almost maternal in her pride. “They didn’t make you Assistant Regional Manager for nothing.”
“Um, agreed. No one was making me a manager of anything,” Alex seconded.
Jim half-smiled, shifting a little in discomfort. “At that company, I don’t know that that title implies much of anything.”
Pam rolled her eyes as she took a healthy swallow of champagne. “Stop that,” she admonished.
“What?”
“Selling yourself short.” Suddenly her smile widened. “Get it? Selling yourself?”
Jim just shook his head with a grin. Pam and champagne were a heady mix; last New Year’s had taught him it went to her head faster than anything.
“Well the place sure sounds…interesting,” Alex said, grinning.
“That is…one of many words you could use,” Jim said. “But it’s a paycheck.”
“Always important.”
“Plus as long as they have a hot receptionist…” Jim added, elbowing Pam, who shrugged.
“You’ll have a ‘hot receptionist’ for as long as you want. Can’t say the same about Dunder Mifflin,” she said.
“Guess I’ll need to start polishing my resume then.”
“So what do you think of the show?” Alex asked Pam, gesturing to one of the pieces on the wall behind him. Jim squinted at it: it depicted a flock of birds, drawn crudely in pencil yet with Photoshopped rabbit heads, and a weird little man in leg shackles and a bowler hat (and nothing else), staring up at them in wonder.
“It’s pretty cool,” Pam replied as she studied at the piece.
“Yeah?”
“Uh huh,” she said, but just for a moment Jim swore he saw a flash of some look from the past wash across her face – that uncertainty he knew so well. Before anyone could say anything else Pam gestured to Alex with her cup. “Have you heard anything about that show back in L.A.?” she asked.
“Oh, I thought I’d told you. My piece was accepted – the black and white one? I think I showed you…”
“That’s great!” Pam exclaimed.
“Congratulations,” Jim added, and Alex nodded a humble thanks at both of them.
“What about you? Did you hear back from the magazine yet?” he asked.
“No, not yet.” Pam answered, shaking her head and taking a sip of her champagne.
“I’m sure you will soon. The stuff you submitted was awesome,” Alex assured her.
“Thanks,” Pam said, tucking her head against her shoulder for a moment. Jim looked down at her. When he’d grabbed his wallet off her desk earlier he’d seen the top of a letter dated last Tuesday peeking out from under her Flash handbook. He hadn’t read it – not really - but couldn’t help skimming the visible first line: Dear Ms. Beesly, Thank you for your recent submission. We here at PRISM always enjoy seeing the work of new artists. However…
She hadn’t mentioned it and he hadn’t asked.
Shortly after they finished their drinks Pam eyed Jim. “Are you ready to go?” she asked.
“Sure thing.”
Alex offered Jim a handshake and told Pam he’d see her Monday. Jim took Pam’s hand as they squeezed out of the crowded studio. Once outside he took a deep breath of clean night air.
“Sorry if that was boring for you,” she said, swinging his hand in hers.
“Not at all.”
She watched the pavement for a minute, then looked up with a gleam in her eye. “It was a little boring for me,” she admitted, biting her lip. He laughed, feeling…was it relieved?
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Plus Jakob – the artist?” She shook her head. “So full of himself.”
“I kinda picked up on that.”
“It’s just…I don’t know. He just kept talking and talking, and using all these crazy labels to describe himself, and explaining his work in these weird ways and…I don’t know. That isn’t me. I can’t be…I just want to draw, you know?” she tried to explain, her words tumbling out in a rush. Jim squeezed her hand.
“I know.” They were quiet again.
“So…do you want to go somewhere else? Stop for another drink or something?”
“It’s up to you. It’s your city.”
Pam laughed. “Oh yeah. I’m the next Carrie Bradshaw.”
“Well those are some fancy shoes you’ve got there.”
“Thanks!” She kicked a foot out further on her next step, wiggling it a little. “I guess we could go to that place on the next block. I can’t remember the name, but Ally said it was cool…”
“Whatever you want.”
Pam tipped her head, mulling it over. “Actually, if it’s okay with you I’d rather just head back to my room, maybe watch another disc of West Wing?” she finally suggested, hesitantly peeking over at him. He nodded once, again feeling strangely relieved.
“Sounds more than okay to me.”
