“See ya, man.”
“Bye Den! See you soon!” Pam adds enthusiastically. I have to laugh – she’s at that super-friendly drunk stage that, by some unknown laws of physics, makes her even more adorable. Dennis gives a wave and I shut the front door. Pam claps her hands once. “And then there were two,” she announces.
“Yes indeed.”
“My favorite two.”
I give her a critical look. “You’re in your own favorite two?” I scoff. “Seems kinda arrogant, Beesly.”
She returns the look. “Shut it. I’m only in my own favorite two when I’m with you. That makes two,” she explains, as if it’s obvious. I am pleasantly toasted enough to accept that answer as being logical. Besides, I feel the same way. Quickly switching tracks, she points toward the kitchen. “Should we clean?”
“Nah. We’ll get it tomorrow.” I take her by the shoulders and lead her toward the couch, where we collapse unceremoniously in a heap, with her sprawled out across my lap. “Did you have fun tonight?” I ask as I reach over her to snag my half-finished Killians off the coffee table.
“I had a blast,” she pronounces solemnly, then smiles like a champion, “and I won!”
“I know – you took me out to win.”
She throws her arms up triumphantly and imitates a crowd going wild and I, like the lovesick dork I am, just laugh again. Although she’d met them out at the bar once or twice, tonight was her first chance to really hang out with my buddies, as it was the first poker night I’ve hosted in the two months Pam and I have been together. (And one of only two I myself have attended…I’ve probably been a shitty friend since we’ve started dating, but I have priorities. Okay, I have one priority.) I wasn’t nervous about it, per se, but you never can tell how your girlfriend and your friends will mesh. Plus Pam has become…oh, how should I put it? The stuff of legend? The subject of much of their harassment of me over the years? But come on - even after a few drinks she’s still quicker with a comeback than almost anyone I know, she’s a pop culture scholar, she can even keep her head above water in a sports discussion (I take a little credit for the baseball part of that), and she’s beautiful. To say that I fell more in love with her, watching her not just hold her own in a roomful of smartasses but wrap them around her little finger? It would be an understatement.
We sit in a contented silence for a minute. After gesturing she wants a sip of my beer, which I gladly share, Pam hits me in the arm, hard. “Oh! Oh!”
“What?” I ask, rubbing my bicep.
Not bothering with my agony, she continues. “Know what we need?”
My eyes automatically stray to where my hand rests – specifically, on the couple of inches of bare midriff that her awkward position allows. “What’s that?” I question, hoping for the best.
She fixes her gaze on me as if she’s about to share the most important secret ever. “We need a song,” she whispers, then raises her eyebrows.
It takes my brain a minute to change gears. “Oh. Wait…we do?”
“Of course we do. All couples have songs, except us.”
“I bet not all, but I see where you’re going.”
“So?” She waves her hand vaguely, like she might conjure up some minstrel who’d start playing a song that was meant to be “ours.”
“So…what? You want suggestions?”
Pam makes a face. “No. No one knows your music. I’ll never hear a song you pick on the radio and get excited and think, hey, that’s our song.”
“That means I listen to good music. Have you heard most of the stuff on the radio?”
Now she rolls her eyes. “I’m Jim. I’m indie guy. I’m above those crappy radio songs,” she mocks, then giggles, apparently at her own hilarity.
“Well, I am.”
“Oh I know you are.”
“All right, then, how do you propose we choose a song?”
“Um…” She takes a moment to think this over deeply, then her eyes widen. “I got it! Music channels!” she cries, reaching out for the remote on the arm of the sofa. This whole thing seems kind of juvenile to me, plus I’ve already got loads of songs that make me think of Pam. However, I love seeing her get so excited about something so goofy, especially something that involves us.
And I’m…well, pretty drunk. That doesn’t hurt either.
Pam fumbles with the remote, turning on the television and finding the start of my cable music channels. We’ve done this before, this musical channel surfing, on nights we’ve had a few beers and the program offering is sparse. It usually devolves into us teasing each other about songs we secretly enjoy, or sharing memories from our past. That’s how I learned Pam smoked her first of four cigarettes as a sophomore in high school to Radiohead’s “Karma Police” (“I was trying to be a mysterious, art-y type!”), how she found out my first slow dance was to BoyzIIMen’s “Water Runs Dry” (I’m pretty sure they played every song off that album twice at that eighth grade dance), and we both have bad memories associated with REM’s “Shiny Happy People” (for me, it was playing for the fourth time in a row the first time I threw up from drinking, in a bush at a frat house my freshman year in college; for her, it was on when she got out of work her first day at Dunder-Mifflin, and she’s felt like the song exists only to mock her ever since).
“So what’re the guidelines here?” I ask as she zooms past Sounds of the Season.
“The first song we find that fits…us, is our song.”
“No boy bands,” I immediately rule, giving her a stern look. She smiles.
“Oh come on! The Backstreet Boys have some great songs!”
“I wouldn’t know, but still-”
“Like ‘Quit Playin’ Games!’ And ‘As Long As You Love Me!’”
“No boy bands-”
“Or…wait, I got it!” she interrupts again, and I know what’s coming, because I’ve caught her listening to this song. I clamp my hand over her mouth, but a few muffled lines still seep out, terribly off-key. “Don’t give loneliness a chance! Baby, listen to me when I say…I will love you more than thaaaaaat!”
“Absolutely not,” I state, although deep down I’ll admit it’s not a terrible song, and I can’t deny the fact that it hits a little close to home. In the effort to get her back to the matter at hand, I point at the tv with my bottle. She stops her serenade and begins channel surfing again, pausing at Arena Rock’s offering – Queen’s “We Will Rock You.”
“Pass.”
“Well, I mean, I will, if you’re interested…” I offer.
“Pass again.”
“Ouch.”
She jumps back a few channels and lands on R&B Hits. “No. Definitely not.”
“Oh c’mon, Beesly. Can one get more romantic than Ginuwine’s ‘Pony?’”
“I hope so!”
“Just picture it – at our wedding, we step on the floor to dance our first dance?”
She’s already started laughing but I remain serious.
“Or at our fiftieth anniversary party? Our children and grandchildren around us, just admiring the look in our eyes when the chorus starts?” In a dramatic tone James Lipton would be proud of, I continue. “’If you’re horny, let’s do it. Ride it, my pony.’”
“Stop!” she begs.
My hand's now on my heart. “’My saddle’s waiting. Come and jump on it.’” I wipe an imaginary tear away and sigh. “I think it’s a touching scene.”
“You’re crazy.”
We both quickly dismiss what’s on Rock (Alice in Chain’s “Man in a Box”), the offerings from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s stations (unbelievably, all Michael Jackson songs),
and Musica Latina channel’s “Besame Mucho” (although I remember enough of my two years of high school Spanish to capitalize on that one, and almost succeed in derailing the song hunt). After a solid twenty minutes of more rejected songs Pam sighs, exasperated.
“Where’s our song?” she cries, throwing the remote to the far end of the couch as “Knights in White Satin” finishes up on the Lite Hits station.
“I’m still pulling for ‘Ninja Rap,’” I tell her.
“I hate you.”
“There you go! Isn’t that a song? ‘She Hates Me?’” I muse, grinning at her.
She’s distracted, and when I try to continue extolling the virtues of Vanilla Ice’s ode to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles she shushes me and points at the screen. My eyes widen.
“Um…no.”
Another shush. “Listen!” she hisses.
So I do.
I can’t fight this feeling any longer,
And yet I’m still afraid to let it flow.
What started out as friendship has grown stronger -
I only wish I had the strength to let it show…
Pam quickly sits up and gives me a look, her mouth a tiny ‘o’ of delight and horror combined. The sinking feeling in my gut only intensifies as the song continues.
I tell myself that I can’t hold out forever.
I said there is no reason for my fear,
‘Cause I feel so secure when were together.
You give my life direction,
You make everything so clear…
I swallow, hard. This really can’t be happening, right? I mean, this song? This is the one that fits?
The cheesiest of cheesy, hokiest of hokey?
And even as I wander
I’m keeping you in sight.
You’re a candle in the window
On a cold, dark winter’s night.
And I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might…
Before I could hope to stop them, memories of dark days and long nights alone is Stamford swirl through my mind. How much brighter the world got after our impromptu marathon phone chat. I shake my head as though that will clear it, but all Pam does is nod slowly. And no matter how much I wish she wasn’t right, I know she is.
And I can’t fight this feeling anymore -
I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for
It’s time to bring this ship into the shore,
And throw away the oars, forever…
‘Cause I can’t fight this feeling anymore -
I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for.
And if I have to crawl upon the floor,
Come crashing through your door,
Baby, I can’t fight this feeling anymore…
We both stare at the screen in silence while the song finishes. Once it’s done, I snag the remote and turn off the television. It’s still silent, for a long time. Finally, Pam looks at me.
“Well.”
“Yeah.”
“Guess that’s it.”
“Guess so.”
“Who would’ve thought REO Speedwagon, huh?”
I stand and pull her up with me. “Let’s go to bed. And never speak of this again. To anyone,” I suggest somberly. Pam gives me a wily grin as I wrap my arm around her.
“It does work, like, eerily well - you gotta admit that,” she teases as we head down the hall.
“How does that fit into ‘let’s never speak of this again?’”
“I’m sorry. I can’t fight it.” When I sigh she just giggles again, then goes on tiptoe to give me a kiss. “I love you,” she murmurs.
“I love you too.”
“A lot?”
I grin. “Of course.”
There’s a pause.
“Enough to throw away the oars, forever?”
“Oh that’s it.”
Author's Chapter Notes:
Apologies in advance for the terrible title. Anyway, this is so stupid, and yet I like it, and more importantly have wanted to write it forever. Special thanks and a li'l shout-out to Cousin Mose, because he gave his okay and because he's cool. Also my own Mr. Comment, who found a song better than the one I'd always thought got the win.
Chapter End Notes:
I hope I do Drunk!Pam justice. I've not been in that state much myself, so it's hard to judge.
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Oh wow, it was really hard to type that sentence and not laugh hysterically. ;)
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Oh wow, it was really hard to type that sentence and not laugh hysterically. ;)
