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DISCLAIMER - I don’t own anything.
A/N: Thank you MilkandSugar and more_awake for all of your help with this. It is greatly appreciated!
A Day He'll Never Forget
Some events in your life are fleeting. They are there for a second, and then you move on to something else. Like, you'll never remember the exact day you decided to get a small cup of coffee instead of a large one. You'll probably never remember that one time you decided to take the stairs because the elevator took too long. Or, the time you went to the grocery store for chocolate ice cream, but all they had was vanilla.
The day you wake up to the start of something new, you're pretty sure it will rack up there with all the other events you can't seem to remember. As it is, the job is pretty simple - a job selling paper products to people who probably don't even need them. You should be more excited about it. But, you figure this day will blend together with all the others in your life, having not much significance other than to pad your paltry checking account. You truly believe that they created ATM machines just for you, so you wouldn't get that judgmental look from the teller when he or she saw your balance.
Monday, May 06, 2002
You have no idea what to expect. You went to bed feeling confident that your boss would not be one to breathe down your neck to make sale after sale, as had happened with your last job. From the brief interview in which the manager asked you what your favorite color was and if you could type faster than a chinchilla, and then started telling you all of the benefits of a high fiber diet, you're already pretty sure this guy is no average man.
8:15a.m.
You sit in your car in the lot, not contemplating much, waiting for some kind of nervousness to kick start. You look at the empty passenger seat, rolling your shoulders as you realize you forgot the lunch you painstakingly prepared earlier in the morning. You stare at the building, the concrete façade absorbing the rain that falls from the gray, cloudy sky, and you wonder if the weather is a prophecy of what it's going to be like working here. You tell yourself as you step out of your car, hurrying to the door between droplets of water, this is only temporary. You'll be here for a year and then find something else. That mantra worked at your last job, it got you through the day, moved you to be productive and build references while you sold toner cartridges. You're moving so fast toward the door, you almost run into a woman in a pink coat, her curly hair pulled back halfway in a clip, her cheeks the color of her coat, the shock in her eyes at your near collision makes you feel instantly bad about not watching where you were going.
You smile an apologetic smile, hold the door open for her, keep your hands in your pocket and watch as she presses the elevator button. She doesn't turn toward once you step inside, then glances at you sideways when you don't select a different floor. You walk out of the elevator, following her footsteps into the same office door, the one that reads 'Dunder Mifflin,' and she turns to you as she hangs up her coat on the coat rack.
She straightens her shirt, fixes a smile on her face and extends her hand. You still haven't taken off your coat and your messenger bag is still slung across your chest.
"Hi," you offer your hand to her, shaking, noting how she actually shakes your hand like she means it. "I'm Jim, I'm new here."
"Hi, I'm Pam. Nice to meet you," she breaks off the handshake slowly, her fingers immediately moving a piece of hair behind her ear. She smiles, looks away and sits down in the chair behind a desk that you assume is the reception desk, considering the sign on the counter reads, "Receptionist."
You don’t remember seeing her here the day you interviewed.
You try to stop staring at her, admiring how perfectly sweet she looks in a gray skirt, pink button down and gray cardigan sweater. You stand inches away from her seat, waiting for her to finish, your eyes scanning over the decorations she has in a line down the right side of her desk. You wonder why the computer sits on a desk behind her seat, instead of on the reception desk. You take in the sweet sound of her laughter as she hangs up the phone. You realize you're still staring at her, frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, and the sounds of her laughter are directed toward you. You can't stop smiling as some indefinable noise floats out of your throat.
"Don't be so nervous," she says with raised eyebrows. "It's not that scary a place to work."
You nod and almost choke yourself trying to readjust your tie.
9:15a.m.
You've regrouped enough to write your name, after two tries of forgetting what your last name is. You blame the proximity in which she's sitting, her chair next to the one you pulled over, her eyes hardly moving from the forms as you try to fill them out. You don’t seem fazed that she can see your social security number and other personal information in full view.
"Halpert," she comments, her voice rises in question.
"It's Scottish. My dad wears a kilt sometimes."
You appreciate it when she doesn't laugh at that statement, though you're always fully prepared for the laughter, you really enjoy the fact that she's smiling. She's smiling at you, and you suddenly forget what you're doing and just smile back at her.
"What's your last name?"
"Beesly. It's British."
"No cool British accent?"
She smiles and shakes her head. "No. My great grandparents were from there. My grandparents and parents were both born here in Pennsylvania."
"Ever been to London?"
"No. Maybe one day," she shrugs.
For some reason, as you stare at the forms, signing your name, you wonder for a snapshot of a second what it'd be like to sight see around London with her. You don't know why, but there's just something about this girl that makes you feel electrified. You reprimand yourself silently for acting like such a girl and brush off the feeling as the nerves you were searching for earlier in your car.
You hand her the forms and she lets out a laugh as she looks them over.
"What?"
"No, nothing. I'm sorry. It's almost legible."
"Come on. That's the best handwriting this side of the …" You cringe, unable to read what you yourself had written. "Okay, it's terrible, let me re-do it."
"Here's another one," her voice thick with amusement as she hands you a new form before getting out of her seat to shred the unreadable one.
"Thanks, that's really cool of you to shred it."
"Just looking out for you, Jim," she smiles, walks toward the opposite side of the office, through a door and into what you assume is the restroom.
The second time through filling out the forms goes much smoother, once you stop staring at the closed door.
9:45a.m.
You’re half listening to minute twenty of the Human Resources representative, Toby, talk to you about things like sick days and company holidays and commission, and all you can think about is that you hope your desk isn't back here. You want to be up in the front, preferably within close proximity to the sweet receptionist. You consider, for a moment, asking Toby about her, but just like that, the conversation ends, he stands and shakes your hand, welcoming you to the company.
You nod, point awkwardly toward the door and walk away with your hands in your pockets. Your face brightens when you see Pam standing by the sink, stirring around a spoon in her coffee mug.
"Does he always talk like that?" You whisper it, almost afraid you'll get fired for immediately talking about someone when you haven't even seen your desk yet.
"Oh," she nods and laughs and her shoulders jut upwards. "Yeah. He does. I think he hates it here."
"Ah," you nod and shrug, standing next to her. "Coffee?"
"No, actually, it's tea."
"Not a coffee drinker?"
"Sometimes. It depends on the day, or how long I feel like standing here waiting for the water to heat up. Sometimes it's easier to just grab the coffee since it's always sitting there."
"You could just stick the hot water in the microwave," you say with a tilt of your head, feeling your upper lip curl into a half smile.
"Yeah, tried that once. It overflowed in there and I didn't realize it. I burned my hand."
You cringe and she laughs, her eyes falling to her shoes, her hand finding a piece of hair to tuck around the back of her ear again.
"So," you say. "I guess it's time for me to get some actual work done, unless there are more forms."
"Oh, no, I think you're good. Okay, ready?"
"Yes."
"Brace yourself."
"Bracing," you mutter around a laugh.
"Enjoy this moment. Because you'll never be able to go back to a time before you met your desk mate Dwight."
Any reply that your brain comes up with falls short of reaching your mouth. Your legs suddenly feel like they're going to give out from under you. You can't place what's happening to you - it's brand new, never before felt within your cells, but the longer she smiles at you with her eyebrows raised and her hand on the door, all you can really think about is just how much you're truly enjoying the moment.
You have a feeling nothing will ever be the same again once you step through the door she's holding open for you.
You're not sure you're ready for it, but you follow her lead anyway as she shows you to your desk. You thank her, tap the back of the chair and watch her walk away for a sliver of a second before sitting down, nodding to the man to your left. It doesn't faze you, but it probably should, that the only acknowledgement you receive from him is a wide, maniacal grin as he cracks his knuckles.
10:45a.m.
You've learned two things. Do not go into the bathroom after the stocky accountant. And two, your desk mate is by far the craziest person you'll ever meet in your life. You're certain of this, even though you're only in your twenties.
You've also learned that if you place the computer monitor on an angle with the back of the monitor facing the reception desk, you can see Pam completely. You wonder what it would take to get her to move her computer to her reception desk so you see less of the back of her head and more of her pretty face.
You chastise yourself for that last thought, pick up the phone and make another call. You're getting better at your sales pitch.
11:30a.m.
You've been through two meetings in the conference room. Your desk mate sits next to you both times, advising you to take notes as he does. You try to take notes both times, but it's not easy to do so when your manager is treating the meetings like a comedy club, reciting George Carlin skits. You're almost sure it's not appropriate, but when you sneak a look at Pam, you find her laughing behind her hand, your eyes locking in amusement. You don't care how inappropriate it is as long as she keeps doing that.
After the second meeting, you try to find something to do so you can interact with Pam some more, but the only thing that feels appropriately work related is asking her to help you with the copy machine.
You like when she stands next to you, startling you when her hand makes contact with yours as she takes the order forms from your hands and slides them into the document feeder. She doesn't seem to mind that you're not paying attention.
You try your best to say something funny but the only thing you can think to say is, "I don't know what you were talking about. He seems completely normal."
She shakes her head, her expression falling from a smile into stone cold seriousness. "Oh, Jim, you have no idea."
"Come on."
"Okay, fine," she rolls her eyes and smirks. "You don't believe me? Tell him you heard that he is the assistant to the regional manager."
"Okay," you say, cocking your head to the side as she purses her lips into a pucker. You watch her walk away, try to remember why you're standing next to the copy machine and then walk back to your desk.
You turn your head to face reception, expecting to be greeted once again by the back of her head, but she's staring right at you, egging you on with her eyes.
You relent and turn to your desk mate. "So, um, what's your title?"
"Assistant Regional Manager."
"Oh. Not to the?"
"That's just semantics, Jim. You'll learn Michael trusts me with everything. Don't think for a second that you're going to be closer to him than I am."
He continues his tirade, his face growing red as you stare at him, wondering if he actually has the reflexes in his eyes to blink. Once he stops speaking and his finger stops pointing at your head, he focuses back on his work and you walk to Pam's desk, admiring the victorious grin she wears on her face.
"Wow," you say, shaking your head. "Thank you so much. I feel violated." You begin rolling up your shirt sleeves as she muffles a laugh.
"Making yourself comfortable, I see," she intones with a hint of coyness and a curl of her upper lip.
"Oh, should I not?" you question, stopping mid-roll.
"No, it's a good look for you."
"Okay," you reply, standing there, trying to find something else to say. Then it comes to you. "You know, at my last job, the receptionist had a candy jar on her desk."
It's a fib, technically, but you tell yourself it'll give you a reason to continue visiting her desk. She smiles at you and nods, telling you she'll look into it. Michael grabs your arm, interrupting any further conversation.
11:40a.m.
You learned from Michael that, later in the afternoon, you'll be going on your very first sales call with Dwight, and that Michael will be taking a picture of the two of you before you leave. You've obtained ten clients from the person whose job you took over. You're half way through introducing yourself to the lot of them when Pam walks up to your desk with a message.
"It's a new client," she whispers to you, leaning on your desk. "I figured since you're new, and, you know, after what I made you go through, I owed it to you."
"Thank you," you smile appreciatively. "Hey, um, I was wondering. I forgot to grab my lunch before I left the house. Would you maybe want to go get something? Cugino's is right down the street."
"Sure," she nods, pushing herself away from your desk, tucking her hair behind her ear again, and you almost want to ask her why she doesn't just clip it back so she won't have to do that.
"Okay, how's noon?"
"Sounds good," she agrees, turning to walk back to her desk.
You stare at the hand written phone message note, and all you can see is the small smiley face she drew at the bottom next to her name.
You're glad you left your bag of lunch at home.
11:50a.m.
You're in the middle of what's turned into a lengthy conversation with the new client, Mr. Deckert, listening to him give you a blow-by-blow of everything that was wrong with his last paper supplier, everything that was wrong with his ex-wife, and everything that is wrong with this town in which you live. But all you can do is keep your eyes glued to the clock in the bottom right corner of the computer screen.
11:59a.m.
You thank your new client once again, promising that you will put the order through as soon as possible. You look at the time once again. The order will have to go in after your lunch.
When you see her smile, stand up and put her purse on her shoulder, you nod, lock your computer and cringe at the palm print you leave on the desk.
You're nervous, possibly more nervous than you've ever been on a date - more so, even, than the very first date of your life. You pause, stare at the order form you wrote, remind yourself that you've just met her three hours ago. It can't be a date.
She's walking over toward your desk, her head tilted toward the door. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah, I uh, just made that sale," you grin, inwardly groaning at the cracking of your voice.
"Awesome!" She lifts her hand in the air, waving it. You make the connection, high five her back, and you're officially speechless as you follow her through the doorway to the elevator.
12:15p.m.
What should have been a ten minute walk somehow turned into a fifteen minute walk. You kept her pace, left your hands in your pockets and tried to remember not to trip over your feet every time she laughed at a joke you made.
You can't get over how well the two of you are getting along, how easy it is to talk to her, to just be with her. As you step inside the restaurant, holding the door open for her without fanfare, you suddenly want to know everything about her.
Somewhere between her ordering a glass of iced tea and the smile she gives you before she looks at the menu, you wonder if this is that moment that you've heard so much about. The moment that you just know that you've met the person you're meant to spend the rest of your life with.
When she asks you if you want to split an appetizer, you know you'd propose right this instant, haul the two of you off to a justice of the peace and make it official before the work day is over.
The two of you talk about everything and nothing, and her laughter is becoming the best sound you've ever heard. Your mind races to stop the less than pure thoughts that begin to bubble up as you watch her eat. It's everything you can do to stop yourself from letting your mind wander every time she places her fork into her mouth. When she puffs out her cheeks, covering her mouth with a napkin you smile.
She pats her stomach. "I'm so stuffed. I think I'll take the rest of this home, Roy can have it for dinner."
"Cat or dog?"
"Oh, no, um. Roy's my fiancé."
When she says it, it doesn't sink in right away. It takes a few extra seconds for your heart to clear out of the pit of your stomach. She says it innocuously, and it catches you off guard and makes you feel like the biggest idiot in the world.
There's no ring on her finger. Not one of them. You instantly think that if she were engaged to you, she'd have a ring. You'd never propose without a ring.
You don't ask why she's not wearing an engagement ring. It's none of your business you reason as you signal for the check, trying not to let her catch on to the fact that you've just been blind sided by an eighteen wheeled Mack truck. Your only saving grace is that she'd said it before you asked her to go out with you again tonight.
Your appetite suddenly fades as you try to shove down one more bite. You were hungry a few moments ago. Now, your chicken parmesan doesn't taste like anything.
1:25p.m.
You spent the walk back to the office listening to her talk about all the ways she keeps herself busy at work and challenges you to a game of Sudoku. You half heartedly obliged and forced a smile onto your face. Shaking it off should be easier than this. You try to mentally list her faults, but she's still the most beautiful woman you've ever seen and you can't stop matching her smile with your own.
1:45p.m.
You sit at your desk, get the sales order in, make a few more calls and she's by your side again, handing you the Sudoku game grid.
"I made identical copies," she adds happily as she leans on your desk.
"Oh, right. Um, I have a few calls to make, so it might take me a while to get to this."
You try not to notice how her smile falters, how her eyebrows crease at the bridge of her nose or the slow way she nods as she tucks her hair behind her ear for the twentieth time that day - not that you've been counting.
She walks back to her desk. Your mind tells you to stop her and apologize for being a jerk. But the words never actually make it out of your mouth.
You start to think that it's better that her computer makes her sit with her back facing you. She doesn't see that you move your monitor a little more to the left, on less of an angle. And if you rest your head on your right hand, it blocks your peripheral vision to the right.
Out of sight, out of mind, you tell yourself repeatedly.
4:30p.m.
You're in love with her. You quietly string together a series of curse words between your ears as you walk back into the office from your joint sales call with your desk mate. You watched him, mostly, a maniac at work. He got the sale. You didn't pay any attention to the way he spoke to you, clipped, as if you were a child or something. None of it mattered. All you could think about was her. Her laugh. Her smile. Her. All of her.
You pass by her desk. She doesn't look in your direction as you pass her by.
You're screwed. And not in the good way.
5:00p.m.
You've been miserable for a full half hour. You were fine with the cold shoulder you'd been sporting before you went on the sales call. But as the eighteen hundred seconds pass by, the guilt of ignoring your new friend - the woman you were sure you were going to marry and make babies with a mere four hours and fifteen minutes ago - the guilt is festering quicker than itch you once got from poison ivy.
The more you try to go with that analogy, to remember the agony you were in, the itching, the blistering, the memory doesn't keep you from letting out the longest sigh you've ever let out, getting out of your seat and walking to her desk moments before you're ready to call it one of the worst first days of work you've ever experienced.
It's not so much the work. The work you can handle. It's easy. And you'll be able to pay your half of the rent this month without eating Spaghetti-O's for two weeks.
It's that you just can't understand why you aren't able to get her out of your head. Why you can't stop thinking of her in a white dress, her hair cascading down her shoulders, her smile just as bright as the first one she greeted you with, you and your brothers standing at a church altar her hand in yours in front of your family and friends. It nags at you the way the itch of the poison ivy your mother warned you about once had.
You're standing in front of her desk, her back faces you. You look through the messages that are in the slots of the message holder. You work up courage you didn't need earlier today, try to get an apology out of your mouth.
You decide you don't need to apologize. What you need is for her to just talk to you again, like you were before.
For some reason, in the eight and a half hours since you walked into this twilight zone of a day, you find that you can't stand when she doesn't talk to you.
You notice she's drawing, and you kick yourself in the pants - metaphorically - for standing there, without saying a word, looking more like a crazed stalker with each inhale of air you take.
"What are you drawing?" You know it's lame, but it's the first thing that sounds reasonable, and you let it go.
"Oh," she looks at you, expressionless. "Nothing really. Just passing time."
"You should do more of it. That looks pretty amazing."
You have no knowledge of art, but the roses she's drawn on that white sheet of paper look pretty good to you.
"Thanks." She smiles weakly, turns her attention back to her computer and clicks the shut down button as people file out of the office behind you. "Time to get going. It was really nice to meet you."
"Yeah, definitely same here. I'll be back tomorrow."
"Oh good. Dwight didn't scare you out of ever wanting to come back then?"
"No, he's definitely not the scariest one around here."
"Angela."
"Yeah," you nod, glad she's not catching on to what you really meant. "So, do you have a few minutes before you go? I wanted to run some ideas by you."
"Oh?" she looks at you with confusion as she punches some buttons on the phone and steps out from behind her desk.
"Yeah," you look around the office and decide to make a motion with your hand to make her follow you to the elevator. "I can't tell you here though."
"Okay," she agrees, still looking at you with confusion.
The elevator doors close and it's just the two of you, and you're nose is so full of whatever the scent is that she's wearing that you forget for a moment what you were about to tell her.
"So, you had ideas?" Her voice cracks a little as she asks, and she's smiling with her lips pursed, and for a moment you think you messed everything up.
"Yeah. So, has anyone ever … you know, like, messed with Dwight? Hidden his bobble heads or … I don't know, switched the keys on his keyboard?"
She raises and lowers her eyebrows and her cheeks flush and all you want to do is kiss her.
You don't.
Because she's engaged.
"So, I'll take it that you have done it before then?"
"A time or two, yeah," she nods.
"Okay, so tomorrow I'll need you to tell me what you've done already, and then we need to work on some new material. We can work it out over lunch. Get something going by mid-week?"
Her mouth hangs open in a circle and slowly rises into a smile, and then a laugh, and then she's high fiving you again as you walk through the lobby.
You wave goodnight to her, watch her get into a beat up looking pick up truck, and you walk away with your eyes trained on the ground, your hands in your pocket, and the smile on your face unwavering.
She's got you by something. You're not sure what. But you've given this place a year.
Anything can happen.
All you need to do is wait.
.
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for reading! :) I may do a follow up to this from Pam's POV, if you're interested.
Deedldee is the author of 19 other stories.
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This story is part of the series, Memories Are Made of These. The next story in the series is A mother always knows....
