The microwave is useless again. The inner metal screens are clogged with grease and there’s a carpet of bubbled over foodstuffs coating the glass plate. No one’s scoured the thing in over seven months. The light powers on and nothing heats up. Much like the productivity here at the office.
Jim could care less, however. He usually brown bags it in the winter anyway, waking up a whole freezing five minutes earlier to spread and cut bread and heap an apple and chips, along with a never to be opened water bottle, in for good measure. All the same, his eyes can’t leave the microwave door; the adorably irate scribble on a piece of white standard issue Dunder-Mifflin paper, visible from where he’s sitting in the lunch room.
Clean Me!
It’s a ridiculous parallel to that time his Toyota had been caught in the worst thunderstorm in Scranton history, and the mud and grime had splattered to the height if his rear window. Pam graciously smeared out a very clear Wash Me onto the back windshield; something he had thought was innocuously cute and silly at the time.
He didn’t wash the damn thing for two weeks, hoping she would repeat the action on another section of the vehicle. He finally relented when Roy called him out on it in the parking lot one day, asking him if he was waiting for another storm to wash it clean, while Pam stood by giggling idly.
He can’t help but wonder if Pam has him in mind with the disciplinary microwave gesture.
It’s a crush, alright? He wants himself to swallow down the weighty dryness of that statement with a bite of his apple and let live. She’s really the only remotely appealing person he has to look forward to in the morning. Messing with Dwight has its perks, but there’s only so many times he can staple a pack of Post-it notes to Dwight’s tie during his 10 minute afternoon power nap, and watch them accordion down to the floor when he finally stands up. There’s nothing left for Jim in this town and it grates at him every damn minute he wastes away in Scranton. He’s embarrassed to say that his roommate Mark is witness to his same whiny crap every day…
What the hell am I doing here?
Three years at a dead-end job and what do I have to show for it?
Why the hell are you eating my block of Gruyere? That shit isn’t cheap.
The last one he knows Mark deserves just a little.
It’s pretty obvious his hole of a career leaves much to be desired, but Pam…Pam is the reason he comes in everyday. It’s only normal that he develops this inner awkward moment of ‘You’re definitely a more preferable alternative to watching Kevin salvage spilled barbecue sauce with his tongue at the lunch table, so it makes me wonder if there’s something more behind our friendship’. He’s seen it happen with Michael and half the office staff. Except maybe Dwight. Jim likes to think Dwight took longer to grow on everyone.
Oh no, Jim. It’s time to turn to mental radio silence when the Michael comparisons materialize.
With a groan, his eyes break from the microwave to the cracked linoleum of the table. He rustles around his lunch for the sandwich and apple. He knows Beesly will steal his chips once she catches sight of them, so he lets them linger hidden just a little while longer.
She’ll have to work for those Ruffles.
He tries to ignore the blatant innuendo pouring off that thought. He does not succeed.
Attraction is normal, he reminds himself again. Even if she is just a friend. Or crush. Whatever.
“Hey Jim, aren’t you excited?”
A clatter of chairs and voices fills the peaceful void and disrupts his mental ramblings. He’s confused as hell and almost thankful for the distraction, until he realizes Kelley is prevailing the topic of the documentary crew upon them, once again. They’re set to start filming tomorrow and everyone is gossiping over everything from appearance to conspiracy theories over the documentary crew’s real motivations in filming them.
“And oh my God! We’re going to be on TV!” Kelly claps her hands, beating them together like a hummingbird’s wings and the rapid blurriness makes him blink.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Phyllis is so soft-spoken he doesn’t even realize that she sits on his left side. Turning towards her, he gives a small encouraging smile and nods.
“But either way, I’m getting my tips frosted. I hope a walk-in appointment is okay.” Phyllis admits. She smoothes down her unruly strands of hair, self-consciously arranging them as if the camera crew is about to bust through the door at any minute. Kelley feeds into the inanity by releasing another slew of oh-my-gods and banging her palms against the surface of the table. His apple almost rolls off onto the floor. Once again, he’s left with the commiserating eyes of Oscar, who succumbs to the fourth chair of the round table and blandly takes a bite of his macaroni salad.
The chatter continues. Jim notices no one is even approaching the issue with the microwave.
‘Where’s Pam?’ he thinks absently for a moment, as Creed enters the room wielding something that ominously resembles a soldier’s canteen. There’s nothing in it. Creed squirrels in the cabinets for a few seconds, explains he needs oats for the pig trough and walks out just as readily as he came. Everyone knows better than to question any of what just happened.
Jim’s now anxiously shredding his napkin in lieu of downing his lunch. If anything could come close to describing his friendship with Pam, that co-dependence, it would be their ability to find ways to make their daily office existences bearable. Together. He hates admitting it to himself, because it seriously calls into question his manhood, but he knows that he involuntarily positions himself according to her movement. Like he’s goddamn iron filings in a magnetized field.
So without her near…he’s feeling a little lost. And a little furious with himself for being such a pansy.
“He…” he almost starts to ask for Pam’s whereabouts, but then stops just as quickly. The occupants of the table are looking at him expectantly, and he already knows it’s a bad idea to bring up Pam before he even begins to speak. His perfunctory pit stops at her desk on his way to the copier during the day have already raised eyebrows, and he’s certain it will only get even more apparent when the cameras start rolling tomorrow.
It being whatever he feels for his engaged best friend Pam. Or crush. Whatever.
So he veers directions with his unfinished question, asking instead if they think the documentary crew is some kind of ruse set up by Corporate. It’s ridiculous and undoubtedly transparent that it’s not his original question, but it sends the table for a loop anyway. Kelley ceases her enthusiastic prattle, and Phyllis uncomfortably shrugs. Oscar actually has somewhat perked up with that, and he joins the conversation, supplying his own theories.
Jim heartily congratulates himself on that save, and pulls his sandwich out from its plastic confines. The white bread is slightly flattened and moist and the crust is still intact, be he thinks it will have to do. He stares at it a second too long.
“You know what I think,” Oscar hastily interjects while the other two hang on his words, wide eyed. “I think it’s some sort of government funded initiative that goes around the country, documenting private white collar corporation productivity and efficiency at the branch level. I wouldn’t be surprised if Michael single-handedly brings down Dunder-Mifflin.”
The other two launch into a series of Hmm and what-ifs, and Jim wants to slap Oscar on the back for that statement because it’s of the best and funniest things he’s ever heard, but he’s not even aware of his surroundings any more. Everything disappears and there is only his sandwich in his mind, oozing a small trail of jelly down his index finger.
Peanut Butter and Jelly.
Peanut Butter and Jelly.
His eyes grow unfocused and he’s repeating it over and over in his head. There’s an elusive pull to the words, as if there’s something even more significant behind them and he’s still not completely comprehending the enormity of the meaning behind his sandwich.
It’s mundane; everyday; he’s eaten it a hundred times before, but today he’s transfixed and unable to move past it. Even though it’s ridiculous, he feels compelled to solve the mystery behind whatever vibe he’s getting.
Peanut Butter and Jelly.
“Whatever, I have invested too much in makeup to worry about why they’re here…”
Peanut Butter and Jelly.
“Oscar, are you doing anything different for tomorrow?”
Peanut Butter and Jelly.
“Other than coming in? God, no…”
Peanut Butter and Jelly.
‘Pam Beesly and Jim.’
His breath leaves him in a whoosh so quiet at this new discovery, that he’s not even sure he has exhaled.
His stomach churns and there are exploding glass light bulbs behind his eyes, and his leg is jiggling so violently that he’s close to upending the table.
It’s so unassumingly perfect, as if it was laid out all along waiting for someone to stumble upon it in all its glory, and Jim is giddy and wondering and utterly devastated all at once.
‘Pam Beesly and Jim. We go together like peanut butter and jelly. Perfect.’
Sure there are a lot of ways to get around this. His last name is Halpert and no one has ever heard of PB&JH, but then again jelly doesn’t have its last name, whatever it may be, initialed either.
And yeah, it could work just as well with any guy named John or Jerry or Jack, but he’s the only J in the office. And as far as he knows, Pam’s not hiding any envy inducing male-model college friends with the initial J.
He knows he needs to rein it in just a little before he squeals like a ten year old girl. It’s not like he’s basing his fate on the lovechild of Smuckers Grape Jam and a jar of Jif, but still…
The realization acts as a catalyst. It brings out a rush of sensations in him that he can no longer deny, and it’s been too damn long that he’s had to hide from himself.
He wants to scream it from the roof the building and burrow himself six feet underground simultaneously, because it’s true: He’s hopelessly in love with Pam, and there’s not a fucking thing he can do about it without royally screwing up both their lives.
His subconscious is screaming Durr, because it has been so obvious and he has been so incredibly dense in thinking he could pass off what he feels as everyday attraction. And the truth couldn’t be more evident if it ran screaming and jumping from a 20-foot ladder in the warehouse and splattered on the concrete.
He loves Pam. And Toby is giving him fish-eyes.
‘What the hell?’
Toby, sitting at the table to the left of his, asks if Jim’s okay, as he’s been staring at him for the last five minutes. Jim nods his head mechanically, because Toby’s words are stifled and crackling like an old heater and he can only think, I just had a near damn epiphany and it’s only been five minutes. There are no trumpets blaring, no gratuitously tacky song and dance numbers, but he can’t feel as if this is the exact place to have it: With Kevin’s chewing, and Stanley’s newspaper rustling, and, yes, even Toby’s deadened expression.
Toby asks him again if he’s sure he’s okay, and Jim looks away with a ‘yea’ even though he wants to ask Toby if the definition of okay includes the fact that the best moment of his life happens to also be the worst.
But he already knows he’s not okay, and it’s highlighted by the fact that Pam finally decides to make a lunch appearance and pushes through the blinded door. Followed by Roy. He can hear her explaining to Meredith that Roy took her to the nearby Chili’s for lunch as a surprise and Jim feels his ears squeeze shut because his heart is beating so loudly. She’d enjoyed lunch with her fiancé, wearing that soft pink striped blouse and that sexy grey skirt and those adorable Keds, while he’d…
No, no, no. He can’t even bring himself to think, no less, breathe a word of it. So he sits and stares at the tabletop as his cheeks grow red and his throat closes around the remnants of his sandwich.
He then remembers the chips, and eagerly glances up to see if she is ambling towards him, except she’s staring wistfully at the sign on the microwave.
Clean Me! Maybe she is thinking about him, and his heart skips erratically. He knows he’s an absolute jackass and he can’t bring himself to care.
She walks decidedly to the microwave, but then loses her resolve as she timidly takes in the rest of the room. She primly removes the sign, sighs at it and crumples it in both hands. She hedges a rueful look towards Roy because she expects some sort of commiseration in her failure, but he’s too busy to notice because he’s talking baseball stats with Kevin.
Jim doesn’t know much about baseball except for the fact that the day Pam confided in him that she thought baseball was a snore-fest, he couldn’t bring himself to watch a game without growing bored mid-way through.
She gives another sigh at this and she instead settles her eyes on Jim. He’s so hopeful that he’s sure the ridiculously large grin he’s wearing is going to scare her. But it doesn’t. She just smirks, lifts her fist, and rolls her eyes at her futile attempt at playing office enforcer. He just shrugs and smirks back, and they’re together in their own moment, where microwaves and sandwiches bring them that much closer together.
Then it’s ruined. Roy has her in a massive hug because he’s about to leave for downstairs and her face is folded into his chest. She can see she’s smiling at the corners. Just like that his insides deflate and then he’s just outright angry and frustrated and confused, because something had just passed between he and Pam and he didn’t want it to end. Now he’s internally cussing like a sailor and considers chucking his unopened water bottle at Roy’s meathead, all the while roaring: There is no room for Roy; there is no R in PB&J, and even if there was it would sound completely off. Pam Beesly and Roy are wrong.
But he doesn’t and gets over his toddler worthy tantrum when Roy finally releases her and leaves. It’s just them and the quirky office staff and the internal storming coincides with the peaceful revelation that he has the rest of the afternoon to make little moments of his own with her. Starting now.
He reaches for his garbage and moves to get up and he feels her eyes following him, and he knows exactly what she wants. He would smile, except that Dwight has self-appointed himself as the lunch break hour regulator and is demanding that everyone get back to work because their running on company time. He could kill Dwight for destroying his first opportunity today, but then Pam falls in step with him as he moves towards the door. He still has his brown bag in hand.
“Ahem,” she markedly clears her throat and he turns his neck in polite confusion, because it’s just that much fun to mess with her.
“Do you need something?” he seriously inquires, and he wants the answer to be ‘you’. He knows it isn’t.
She gives him a ‘come on now, let’s not be dense’ eye roll, and reaches her hand towards his bag. “I believe you have something for me, Halpert.” she implies thickly, nodding her head at the aluminum bag.
He just can’t say no to her and surrenders the chips with a smile, because even if she’s completely oblivious, he knows he’s actually handing over his heart with that gesture. It’s pathetic, he knows, but he had short notice and he absolutely refuses to validate his actions with words.
She smiles excitedly like the undeniably greedy receptionist she is and lets out an evil snicker when she sees they’re sea salt and vinegar. He bought them especially for her and their lunchtime exchange.
There is a large, stray curl wandering off her cheek, and she tries to brush it back. Except now, his hand suddenly comes up of its own volition and does it for her, while he inwardly tells Roy to ‘Suck it’.
It takes a total of two seconds for him to realize what he’s done, and he’s horrified.
But all that melts away because Pam is nothing but warmth and smiles, and she seems to not have noticed that he placed all of his undying, unrequited love in that one action. He wants to cheer in victory and slam his fist through the dry wall, but of course he doesn’t.
She wanders distractedly to her desk with her stolen contraband in tow, and he’s left staring wordlessly in her wake, immobile just a beat longer than he intends to be. He finally makes his way back to his seat, feeling a bit more weightless and that much more burdened as he collapses in his chair. He knows it’s going to be strange to deal with the conflicting emotions, but Pam chooses that moment to smirk again at him from across her desk, and he realizes that it’s completely worth it. It hurts, and it sucks, and he has the sudden urge to sob like a little child, but he knows it’s completely worth it.
It’s completely worth it for his friend. His crush. Whatever.
It’s the first time that this thought passes through his mind while acknowledging that she could never only be either of those things.
He picks up the phone and hopes the camera crew chooses to defer him to the background while filming tomorrow.
Story Notes:
Rated M for language
officedsince2006 is the author of 2 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 2 members. Members who liked Lunch is for Eating Your Heart Out also liked 140 other stories.
