Day 1 (Pam’s POV)
I was nervous; chew on the end of your pen, tap your fingers on the counter, pace around the room nervous. I knew there was no rational reason for being nervous because I had been excruciatingly and painstakingly planning this for months, right down to the late minute detail and therefore knew nothing could possibly go wrong. But this was my first year as the head of Public Relations for the Scranton Institute of Art (SIA) and the responsibility of planning the entire annual Scranton Arts Festival, which the SIA had always hosted, rested solely on my shoulders. My job performance was on the line, depending on how smoothly the festival went. But what really had me nervous was the turnout. What would be the point of planning all of this if no one showed up?
The weeklong festival had been a tradition in the community for over thirty years, but recently, the festival had been poorly attended and ill-received due to low funding and mild interest in the community. Last year’s festival, which had been held in the gym of a local high school, had been so unsuccessful that SIA had lost money on it. Our director, Jan Levinson, whose job was in jeopardy due to the failings of the previous festivals, wanted to breathe new life into the event. Especially because she had huge plans of adding another wing onto the museum and the only way she could generate enough revenue for a new wing was through private donors who came to occasions like this. So, it was my duty to make sure the festival ran as cleanly as possible, hopefully gaining enough interest so that private donors would want to contribute towards the new wing.
I chose Scranton Central Park as the location of the festival, not only for its natural beauty, but because it was in the center of town, not easily missed. Everything was ready to go. The tents, which would hold artwork done by local artists, were erect and the art was all in place. The pavilion, which would hold many of the events, had been freshly cleaned, ready for the first round of activities set for this morning. I had been up until well after midnight putting the finishing touches on the decorations, stringing up strands of pink and white lights along the paths, and checking the sound system. I would have been tired if I hadn’t been so giddy.
Before the festival opened that morning, Jan had called the staff to the pavilion so she could give us a pep talk. Angela Martin and Phyllis Lapin, our curators and responsible for what artwork would be included in the festival, were there, along with Oscar Martinez, the head registrar, Kelly Kapoor, our intern this year, and Ryan Howard, head of the gift shop, all of whom helped me extensively while planning the festival. And then there was Michael Scott, Jan’s personal assistant. He wasn’t very good at his job and he knew nearly nothing about art, but he had worked for the museum for ages and I was under the impression that Jan kept him around for personal reasons, even if she didn’t seem to like him that well.
“Here we are again,” Jan began, her voice strained. I could tell the stress was beginning to get to her by her baggy, blood-shot eyes and the excess wrinkles that appeared on her face. Plus, I knew she hated giving these kinds of speeches. She took a drag on her usual morning cigarette before stating again. “It’s the beginning of our annual art festival. I want to thank all of you for all the hard work you have put in these last couple of months. But today is just the first day and we still have a lot of hard work ahead of us to make this festival a success. This festival has to do well,” she emphasized the last point loudly. “So we all have to pull our weight in making this it the most enjoyable and memorable festival that this community has ever seen. Remember, you represent the museum, so please be on your best behavior,” she gave Michael a glare. “Oh and have fun,” the last statement merely an after thought.
The staff dispersed, most of us headed to the front gate of the park where the visitors would be entering in a short time. As I walked through the park, I noticed that everything felt very still, very calm, as if waiting in anticipation for all the people to arrive. A cold breeze, unusual for late August, flew through the park, giving me a chill and a shiver went up my spine. There was something different about today, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. I almost felt as if this festival would bring about a change in my life, but the thought was so fleeting that I hardly recalled it later.
When I arrived to see the park open to the public, there were plenty of people already lined up at the gate, which made me even more excited and nervous than I had been before. I recognized a few of the people as regulars at the museum, but most were fresh, new faces, eager to enter the park. The wrought-iron gates pulled open, allowing the guests to enter.
The 32nd Annual Scranton Arts Festival had begun.
I stood in a grassy patch next to the entrance sidewalk, watching the people file in, enthusiastically exploring the park, a bit of wonder in their eyes. I was feeling quite pleased with the turn out, when there was a tap on my shoulder. I spun around to face a man I had never met before.
He was handsome; not the traditional ruggedly handsome, but in the sweet boy next door way. He was tall and thin, lanky actually, and wore a light brown suit, which was a little too small for him, and tie. His hair was dark and long enough that it flipped out at the ends. His face was lively, his smile gentle and he had the most beautiful honey-green eyes I had ever seen. I was smitten from first glance and I blushed because rarely had a man made me feel that way at first sight.
“Um,” He began, in a low voice. He must have been aware that he had some sort of effect on me because he stuttered over his next few words. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… Do you work here?” He finally asked.
“Yes,” I said as confidently as possible, regaining a little composure.
“Oh, good,” he said searching his pockets until he found a small, folded piece of paper. “I am looking for a Mrs.,” he scrunched his nose at the paper unsure if he had read it right, “Pamela Anderson?”
Mrs. Anderson. It had been six months since I been Mrs. Anderson, but it still stung to hear it said aloud. “It’s Beesly now,” I corrected, hoping that I could permanently erase the existence of Mrs. Roy Anderson from my brain. “I’m Pam Beesly.”
He stared at me blankly for a moment. “Oh, yeah, I’m Jim Halpert, Scranton Times.” He held out his hand for me to shake.
“Ah, a reporter,” I commented as I shook his hand. Handsome men seeking me out was not a usual occurrence in my life, so I knew there had to be some catch. “Jan, our director, said someone might be coming out.”
“Yeah,” he replied, taking out a pen and small pad of paper from his pocket, “I was told to talk with the PR person, who I suspect, is you. So, if you don’t mind a few questions…”
“Sure, Mr. Halpert.”
“Please, call me Jim,” he insisted reacting as badly to Mr. Halpert as I did to Mrs. Anderson.
“Alright, Jim. Go for it,” I said. There was a low rumbling in my stomach, partially from nerves, but also from having nothing but a granola bar for breakfast. “Actually, um, do you mind if we eat while we talk, I’m starving.”
“That’s fine,” he answered, as I began rummaging through my purse for another granola bar. He gazed out at the park, observing its activity. “You know, I’m actually looking forward to being here. This is probably sad, but I’ve lived in Scranton my whole life and not once have I ever been to the art festival.”
I stopped digging around my purse to look up at him in disbelief. “Never?”
“Never.”
A tiny smile crept over my lips. “Well, you better remember this moment, Jim Halpert,” I advised jokingly, “because your life will never be the same afterwards.”
“That good huh?” He laughed.
“That good.” I insisted. Instead of a granola bar, I found a small container of yogurt that I had forgot to put in the staff fridge that morning and pulled it out figuring I should eat it now before it went bad. “Mixed-berry,” I shot him a cheesy grin and held up the yogurt as if I were doing a commercial. “My favorite, just in case anyone reading the paper needs to know that.”
“I’ll be sure to jot that down because favorite yogurt flavor is very important,” he joked back. “Oh, wait, can I see that for a second?” his tone suddenly changing to concern.
“The yogurt?” The request was strange, but I handed it over.
“Yeah, we’ve been getting reports of local grocery stores having to recall dairy products because they’ve been contaminated with some unhealthy chemicals,” he explained as he examined the yogurt container. “Anything that has a date older than…” he pointed to the date on my container. “Yeah, you’re not going to want to eat that,” he suggested.
“Thanks,” I replied, grateful that this complete stranger was looking out for my health. From that moment forward, I knew I was going to like Jim Halpert, though later, when he asked about it, he admitted that he had hoped it was because of a less inane incident. I pitched the yogurt in a nearby trashcan.
“Tell you what, since I made you throw out your breakfast, show me where some food is, and I’ll get you something to replace it, then we can eat and talk.” He grinned and I took him up on his offer.
Author's Chapter Notes:
All the titles of the chapters are going to be song titles. I think at the end, I'll post the entire play list. Title of this chapter is from the Three Dog Night hit.
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.
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.
