“I just,” Pam sighs quietly and Jim hears the sadness, the resignation as she continues, “wish this wasn’t all happening at Christmas.”

Jim wants, no needs, Pam to understand that for Athlead to be successful, he has to get to Philadelphia and manage this meeting with a potential new investor from Bridgeport Capital. The expectations on him are crushing, and he’s committed to seeing this deal through for the critical success of the company’s future.

“I’ll be home by Christmas Eve.” His tone practically pleads with her to recognize that he’s trying so hard to keep everything going.

“Jim, it’s already the 21st. You think you can make this deal happen in three days?”

They’ve been on edge lately, both of them. He knows that. So he shouldn’t take it that she doesn’t believe in his ability to successfully work this meeting. He shouldn’t hear her imply that she’s been left to do everything in preparation of Christmas. But his guilt and fear take over as he snaps, “Pam, I said I’ll be home by Christmas Eve.”

“Jim,” her voice softens, “I just...Cece and Phillip are so...I don’t want you to miss out on these memories.”

“You think I want to miss out on —” Jim inhales sharply as the cab he’s riding in swerves to avoid colliding with an erratic red PT Cruiser. “Pam, I’ve gotta go. I’m at the bus station.”

“Okay,” she says dully.

“Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

He hears it. She’s about to break into frustrated, angry tears, but the cab is rolling to a stop and he’s already pushed it too close. He mumbles something about this last part, telling her he stayed too late at the office Christmas party, and he doesn’t want to miss his bus.

“Yep.” It’s said solely as an acknowledgment that he spoke.

She ends the call, and he is still holding the phone to his ear as he wearily pays the driver and unfolds himself from the backseat.

It’s become a familiar path from drop-off to ticket purchasing to terminal five. Up the steps of the bus, a nod to the driver, window seat in the middle of the bus. He wears his suit jacket to ward off the chill in the air and puts his coat and messenger bag in the seat next to him, thankful, not for the first time, that he has extra toiletries and clothes in Philadelphia so that he can travel light. He says a silent prayer that the bus isn’t full and the seat doesn’t get taken. He’s met his fair share of characters over the months he has been commuting to Philadelphia.

Jim twists his neck and stretches his upper back, the pain still lingering from Dwight’s Belsnickel beating him out of the office. He places his hand on the cold window and then presses it against the back of his neck, relishing the brief relief the coolness brings. He watches the other passengers scurrying to their buses, laden with holiday presents as they plan to travel to loved ones.

Thankfully the snow hasn’t started, and he hopes that it holds off until Christmas, at the earliest. The thought of being snowed into Philadelphia over Christmas sends a wave of nausea over him. His head falls against the pillowed headrest just as his eyes close. Too much gluhwein and Dwight’s unsurprisingly harsh thrashes have left Jim tired and agitated. And the arguing with Pam. He hates arguing with Pam. That, most of all, has him the most restless as he drifts off to a fitful sleep.

Jim awakes with a start, the rushing landscape passing by in such a blur that clearly the driver is trying to make up for lost time. Jim wonders if they hit holiday traffic while he dozed off, an unremembered dream fogging his brain and leaving him with the need to call Pam.

Jim reaches into the seat for his messenger bag to retrieve his phone in the front pocket where he habitually drops it, but he is startled by what he finds. His bag is there. His coat is as well. But there’s a very familiar person occupying the seat now, holding his coat and messenger bag.

What was in that gluhwein?

“Hey, Jim Jingle!” His traveling companion says this with an air of enthusiasm that is familiar and expected, but it’s that he’s here that is out of place and confusing. As typical, he keeps talking, falling into his own comedic black hole. “You’re like the skinny cousin of Kris Kringle. Get it?”

“Michael?” Jim croaks. Oh god. Meredith spiked the wine with vodka. Or I have a concussion from Dwight hitting me. Or —

“Hey, man.”

Michael sounds so genuine when he says this with a kind smile. And he looks so real. But Jim knows this has to be a dream. He looks at Michael’s hands holding his messenger bag. If this were real, Jim would gently reach over and take the bag. He doesn’t though. He just looks around the bus, the quiet that falls over a trip well underway, all other passengers in their own world of earbuds or knitting needles or sleep.

“What are you doing here?”

Michael either ignores him or doesn't hear him as he says, “Why are you going to Philly so close to Christmas? Why aren’t you home with Pam and the kids?”

Jim shifts slightly. He prepares himself to launch into an explanation about Athlead and the exciting work there and the hard work he’s putting in for his family, but instead what comes out of his mouth is a repeated, “What are you doing here, Michael?”

Michael relaxes into the bus seat for a moment. Uncharacteristically silent and appearing thoughtful as he lets his gaze drift across the other passengers in front of them.

“Hey, what’s your all-time favorite Christmas movie?”

“What?” Jim heard him, it’s just that he’s not sure why Michael, who lives across the country in Colorado, is on a bus from Scranton to Philadelphia and asking about Christmas movies, of all things.

“I really like the classics. You know, like, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

Jim nods in agreement, although he isn’t sure most people would consider that a classic. Not like White Christmas or It’s a Wonderful Life. Jim shrugs, for some reason compelled to engage in this holiday cinematic exercise with Michael. “I guess, Elf is pretty good.”

That isn’t entirely true. Jim thinks Elf is fine (as he considers it, he actually prefers Christmas Vacation), but Pam loves it. He always knows the parts she will quote, such as, ‘You sit on a throne of lies!’ before she falls over in a string of giggles that become difficult to contain. She always glances at him to join in the fun and the flash in her eyes, the way the tip of her tongue catches between her front teeth, he gets lost with her even if not for the same reason.

“Ugh!” Michael groans. “That hack? Really?” Michael espouses his disappointment in the absurdity of the movie while Jim’s mind wanders to two weeks before.

It had been a good few days in Philadelphia, and he felt on top of the world when he got home. After dinner and putting the kids to bed, he and Pam opened a bottle of wine and turned off the lights, enjoying only the ambient light coming from the Christmas tree as they wrapped up in a blanket on the couch.  As their kisses became more hot and heavy and clothes started dropping to the floor, Phillip’s cries interrupted them. Pam, tugging her shirt back on, took the steps double time to soothe their son whose chronic ear infections were a growing source of worry for her.

Jim remembers waking up later, having fallen asleep on the couch while she was upstairs, the image of Will Ferrell dressed in yellow tights and running through Manhattan flickering on the screen in front of him. He remembers now what he didn’t completely notice then.

Pam, on the other side of the couch, her feet tucked under her, the blanket they’d been sharing now wrapped around her body. She was holding her wine glass, watching the screen, only a small, uninspired laugh escaping during one of her favorite scenes. Jim remembers thinking she looked lonely and a little sad...and then he’d fallen back asleep.

I need to call Pam. It feels a little desperate now. He’s about to reach for his bag, but he’s interrupted by Michael.

“What’s going on with Athlead?”

“Well,” Jim begins slowly, that familiar mixture of nerves and pride bubbling to the surface as he continues, “it’s going...actually, it’s going pretty great. I mean, I’ve got this potential investor on the line who —”

“No, no, no. Blah. Bluh. No. I didn’t ask you ‘How’s business?’ ” Michael has that disgusted look on his face that Jim recognizes from years of his old boss avoiding discussions about, well, business. “What are you doing here that Athlead is keeping you from home at Christmas?”

It makes no sense, but Jim momentarily thinks Pam put Michael up to this. Pam occasionally talks to Holly through Facebook, and messages are often passed to or from Michael between the two women. That’s ridiculous, of course, to think this is that because Michael lives across the country with a family and a job of his own to be concerned with.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m your Marley,” Michael says it simply, casually which adds further to Jim’s confusion.

Jim racks his brain for applicable pop culture references that Michael is using incorrectly. All Jim can think of is when he took Pam to see Marley & Me on Christmas Day in 2008. He smiles at the memory of them going home, to their home, after the movie, and Pam shyly suggesting they get a puppy. She’d been home from Pratt for just over a month, and all of their conversations migrated to one similar topic: their future together. Jim smiles at the memory of the two of them, back when it was just the two of them, snuggled together under extra blankets, as they talked quietly about the wedding and puppies and, maybe, in the more distant future, their children.

“My Marley?” Jim says slowly, certain Michael’s comment has nothing to do with dogs.

“Like in the movie. The Christmas one!” Michael enthuses. Jim is taken aback, again running through his head how Michael might be Jim’s...dog. Jim looks beyond Michael, trying to make the connection. “The one with the ghosts!”

“You mean the dog?”

Now Michael looks confused at Jim’s response prompting him to quickly pull a small post-it note from his coat pocket. He reads a few lines to himself in an almost-silent mutter. Detecting Jim’s curious glances at the paper, Michael returns the yellow slip of paper to his pocket and says confidently, “No. Ghosts.” Michael takes a deep breath and rubs his hands on the knees of his jeans. “I didn’t think I’d be so nervous.” He gives Jim an embarrassed shrug with a smile to match.

Jim can sense the shift in Michael’s tone, and he again briefly considers if Pam staged some sort of intervention on their marriage. Not that one is necessary. They were just going through a rough patch. All couples go through rough patches. This is normal and will all work itself out. He almost believes that, but his own uncertainty allows irritation to sneak into this tone.

“Nervous about what, Michael?”

Michael releases a long breath and laughs anxiously. “It’s just, wow, you know, I’ve never done this before. And I just didn’t think it’d be so hard.”

“That’s what she said.” Jim deadpans, whether because it is too easy or to ward off Michael becoming distracted by his own overused joke, he doesn’t know. “What’s going on Michael?”

Apparently, the seriousness of Jim’s tone is enough to rally Michael’s focus. “Jim, tonight you’re going to be visited by three ghosts, or spirits, if you will.”

Okay, now I know I’m dreaming. “Okay, then,” Jim says simply, placatingly.

“Jim,” Michael huffs. “Don’t be like that. I’m serious, man.” Michael turns his body toward Jim, still clutching the messenger bag and coat in his lap as if they were his own. “You’re going to be visited by three ghosts.” Michael’s voice has more confidence than it had before. “The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Be.”

“No, Michael, I believe you. I expect them to show up before Santa’s eight reindeer but after the eleven pipers piping.”

Michael shakes his head, conjuring a face of disappointment that momentarily shakes Jim’s dismissal. “Jim, this thing with Athlead, you’re letting it take over who you are. You don’t care about your family at Dunder Mifflin or, ya’ know, your other family either. You just care about meeting sports stars and fancy meetings in Philadelphia. Do you see how Pam is pulling —”

“Pam’s fine,” Jim interrupts, louder than he intended. He glances around at the potential attention he’s drawn by raising his voice. “She gets how this has to be. We’ll be fine. We’re just…” Jim swallows, the worry that he works hard to ignore feeling very real at this moment. “We’re fine.”

Michael sighs wearily. “You know, we’re a lot alike, Jim.”

Jim snorts audibly, not at all concerned with hurting Michael’s feelings at this point. “I don’t know about that.”

“We are,” Michael nods solemnly as he says this. “We both married our soulmates. We both have great kids. We’re both cool guys.” Michael glances at Jim for affirmation but only receives a blank stare from Jim who is still wondering where this conversation is going. “But Jim, the difference is that I know what I have is...enough.”

Jim feels his eyes narrow as he tries to decipher what Michael is implying. His lips purse to ask just that question, but Michael now has a goofy grin on his face as he looks over Jim’s shoulder.

Jim follows Michael’s gaze out the window. So enthralled in his conversation with Michael, he didn’t even notice that the bus has stopped.

The Philadelphia bus station is much bigger than the one in Scranton so it’s typical for Jim to end up at a different depot every time he arrives. There’s something eerily familiar about this one, but he can’t remember coming here in his past travels to Philadelphia. He studies the depot, hoping to get his bearings before he disembarks the bus.

Feeling only somewhat confident in the direction he should go, Jim turns back to see that the bus is emptied of passengers, including Michael. His head feels thick like he’s just woken up. Definitely the gluhwein.

He makes his way off the bus and quickly descends the steps, desperate to get to the lonely bed in his small corporate apartment and call his wife.

As his feet hit the concrete sidewalk, he looks up at the only other person around. He knows he has food poisoning from the hog maw or gluhwein contains some sort of hallucinogenic properties or that he is suffering from extreme exhaustion. Casually leaning against one of the rusting metal poles, blue eyes piercing Jim, is the man he can only assume is his Ghost of Christmas Past. That is, if that sort of thing were real and actually happening.

“Merry fucking Christmas, asshole.”

Jim lets out a long, low breath, and as his breath curls into the cold air he curtly responds, “Hey, Ryan.”