Pam went to the window and peeked out between the blinds. No Roy, thank goodness, but there was Michael and there…was Jim. And while he wasn’t her boyfriend, he was definitely bleeding—or as best she could tell from this distance, as he had a hand pressed to his face and Michael was doing the thing Michael always did at the sight of blood, hopping around implying that he was going to faint at any moment if only someone would be so kind as to both care about his “weak stomach” and provide a comfortable place to do so. There being a distinct lack of cushy chairs or sofas in the parking lot, she thought it unlikely that he was actually going to go through with it. In addition, given that Jim seemed to be the one injured and thus only peripherally dealing with Michael’s self-concern, it seemed unlikely that he was reaping the attention she wanted, and indeed as she watched even briefly she saw him transform back into a reasonable facsimile of a helpful person instead of the parody of a fainting matron he’d been a moment ago and bend back down over Jim.
She had a momentary surge of anger towards Angela—how dare she call Jim “your boyfriend!” And no, she had no illusions that Angela had somehow mistaken who was lying out there bleeding. This was too much of a piece with her, well, catty tendencies towards anyone in the office she thought was behaving outside of her bizarre set of acceptable behaviors, such as having a male friend who wasn’t Dwight—but then the anger was replaced by concern. Why was Jim bleeding on the asphalt? Why was Michael of all people the one tending to him? What were the odds Michael wouldn’t make things worse? As the last of these thoughts hit home she found herself slinging her coat on, pointedly ignoring Angela’s eyes, and walking down the stairs.
She was halfway across the parking lot before she realized that she had no idea what to do with a bleeding Jim. But it couldn’t be that hard, could it? She had a mostly-full box of band-aids in her purse, a side effect of buying the cheapest heels she could in order to stretch her salary and thus always ending up with pairs that rubbed her heels, never quite in the same place consistently to build up a callus but just enough to bleed. She also had a little pack of Kleenex for seasonal allergies. She had Vaseline, both for cracked heels (see above) and because she’d once heard a rumor that rubbing it along small tears in hose could keep them from ripping any further. She’d found no truth in that particular rumor, but the Vaseline hadn’t left her purse. And obviously she had ibuprofen, because…well, duh.
Clean with Kleenex. Put Vaseline on the wound. Apply band-aid. Treat pain with ibuprofen. Simple.
Well, simple if it wasn’t a split lip, which of course it was, she noticed as she approached. You couldn’t really put a band-aid over the inside of the mouth…ugh. But still, she recited to herself as she neared the two men: Kleenex, Vaseline, ibuprofen. Helpful. She was being helpful.
“Hey.” Jim spoke softly, and it was slightly slurred by the split lip, but it was still somehow a relief to hear his voice. And when did that happen? She wondered to herself. When did I start reacting to his voice like it can make everything better? That line of thought was abruptly cut off, though, as she got close enough to talk to the two men.
“Pam! Thank God. Roy knocked Jim out!” Michael pushed ahead of Jim, gesticulating wildly as if he could reenact the event for her horrified gaze. “I mean, well, technically I knocked Jim out, but…”
“Michael, I was never,” Jim tried to interrupt but Michael steamrolled on over him.
“But Roy was so mad! I’ve never seen him so angry, and I mean, you know the time that I borrowed the paper shredder and a few reams of paper and it turned out those were special order papers that Darryl and Roy had been trying to load onto the truck for shipment and they totally should have told me but they didn’t and somehow they all ended up shredded and Darryl yelled at me?”
Pam nodded, uncertain where this was going but certain she should probably be grateful to Michael for delaying the inevitable reveal. She felt oddly sick to her stomach. She did remember that time. The paper hadn’t just been a special order, the order they were part of had been misfiled three times—by Michael, naturally—and only finally going out perilously close to the warehouse drop-dead date when the warehouse staff would get performance penalties for letting shipments slide too long. “Yelled” was a misnomer: Pam had heard wild rumors that Roy hadn’t bothered to deny or confirm that he’d picked Michael up by the scruff of the neck. Both Roy and Darryl had almost quit and Michael had had to give the entire warehouse staff a three-day weekend “for teambuilding” that was really just to let them all cool off.
“He was like, ten times madder than that. And he yelled ‘fuck’ at Jim!” Michael seemed really impressed by this, so much so that he repeated it. “‘Fuck,’ Pam! And he said that…” he abruptly ran out of steam and glanced over at Jim for the first time in this whole monologue before straightening and continuing as if he hadn’t stopped at all. “Anyway, he charged Jim! And then I sort of accidentally punched Jim…sorry about that, buddy…and then Darryl and the guys took Roy over there”—he gesticulated generally towards the warehouse doors—“and then Jim and I were talking and then you came over and…and I guess you know that.” He reached over to pat Jim on the shoulder and then stopped, as if thinking better of it for some reason. “I better go see that they’re dealing with that, actually. Excuse me. Pam. Jim.” He started walking off towards the warehouse and then turned, gave an exaggerated stage wink to Jim behind his hand, and continued off, whistling.
Jim turned to Pam. “If you can believe it, that was Michael being subtle.”
She nodded. “I believe it. I’ve known Michael for a while.” She stuck her hands into her coat pockets. “So, uh…how much of what he said was true?”
