The next morning Jim picked up Pam for work early and drove them both into the familiar parking lot at Dunder Mifflin Scranton. It was vital for their plan for Jim to arrive early, and Pam didn’t want to be left out of any of the fun—plus they liked going places together.
Jim had laid some groundwork for the plan after their date the day before, calling Phyllis, Kelly, Kevin, Toby, and Oscar at home. One benefit of being the only coworker interested in making sure they all got together outside of work and not at a bar immediately after working hours for happy hour was that he had everyone’s numbers. Sure, he’d really only been interested in making sure that Pam came over, but he’d gotten everyone’s contact information for cover, and it served him well in this instance. Much like the day he’d paid them all five dollars to call Dwight the wrong name, they were more than happy to play along, especially when he told them that (respectively) he’d take on their hardest client (Phyllis), find her Ryan’s new number in Stamford (Kelly), pay his buyin to the fantasy football league (Kevin), babysit Sasha on Wednesday (Toby) and keep whatever nonsense he was up to out of the annex (Oscar). Pam had spent some of the little time together they’d spent not making out on his and Mark’s couch filling him in on all the details he’d missed while he was away, work-wise, and he felt good and ready for the day—and for the prank.
He checked around and kissed Pam soundly once he was sure no one was watching, not even Hank the security guard (they weren’t shy about their relationship, but it just didn’t feel like anyone else’s business) and then he headed up while she took a short walk to go get them some breakfast at the café down the street (more of a hole in the wall that ought to be a gas station but didn’t have pumps, but it did have donuts, even if they weren’t Dunkin). It was vital that he be alone for this part, or else Dwight would twig that someone else—especially Pam—was in on it.
It was also very important that he got there before Dwight. They had about an hour or maybe two before Michael strolled in at ten or later, but Dwight was an early riser.
He slipped into the office and surveyed the scene. Ryan’s desk was cleaned out—which was good, because it wasn’t Ryan’s desk anymore, but Jim’s desk again. He put down the box he’d been carrying, carefully filled with exactly the stuff he’d always kept at his desk before Casino Night, the very same box he’d cleared out the day he’d left. He then went around to Pam’s desk, where she’d blushingly confided to him that she kept a couple of things that he’d left behind, including an old mug that was distinctively his—ugly and orange. He arranged his equipment precisely, grabbing a few handfuls of papers from the recycling bin behind Pam’s desk (which was emptied on Wednesdays, meaning it was pretty full on a Monday) to create the standard impression that his desk had always given off: that he, Jim Halpert, was dug in for the duration and had never cleaned up in his entire life, but also that it was a vibrant, eclectic working space.
Or at least that’s what Larissa would say. His mom would call it a mess. Pam called it adorably shabby. He called it lived-in. And Dwight had once memorably called it a pigsty.
It was perfect.
He logged into the computer, printed out the couple of forms he actually had to fill out and put them on Toby’s desk to confirm his re-transfer and the various charges that had been modified to his PTO and the Stamford search, and went into the break room to wait.
At exactly 8:45 on the dot, despite the fact that work began at 9, Dwight walked in, made his way to his desk, and began his morning routine. He got halfway through his neck exercises when he abruptly stopped, causing a brief grimace of pain to flit across his face—so Jim could see from the reflection in his computer screen through the blinds. He was a most accomplished lurker, was Jim.
Dwight stood up and circled the desk. He was murmuring something to himself that, as Jim approached him from the break room, became audible as a low-pitched “no, no, no.”
“Hey, Dwight.” Jim slipped past him, coffee in hand and sat down at his computer. “Hand me the Gustafson report, would you? I need to run some numbers by Mr. Gustafson.”
“Jim. When did you get back?” Dwight looked annoyed. “Who authorized you to occupy that desk?”
Jim looked up with his best puzzled mien in place. “What? Dwight, I’ve been working across from you for years. This isn’t the time for one of your little jokes. I need the Gustafson report.”
“Fact: you used to sit across from me, a reality I have long deplored. Fact: on May 12, 2006 you abandoned this office and your post and defected to the enemy in Stamford, Connecticut. Fact: you then proceeded to lure other members of this once-loyal crew to Stamford with your nefarious ways.” Dwight sniffed. “Fact: you have not sat across from me for over a month.”
“Dwight.” Jim sighed and stood up to face his coworker. “I don’t have time for whatever this game of yours is. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean, I wasn’t here yesterday because it was Sunday, but…” he shrugged. “Do you have the Gustafson report or not?”
“What do you even know about the Gustafson report?” He could tell Dwight was beginning to doubt himself, his favorite moment of every prank. “You weren’t here when Ryan and I put it together.”
“I’m sorry, some of us have to go do sales calls.” Jim held out his hand. “Which is precisely why I need the report from you.”
“Jim…”
**
“Oh, hey Jim.” Pam stepped into the office as Dwight was grinding out Jim’s name in the particular tone of voice that told her that Jim was exactly where he was supposed to be in the execution of the prank—right on Dwight’s last nerve.
“Hey, Pam.” He gave her a wave and a wink and she felt warm all over, but pushed it down—there would be plenty of time (seriously, plenty of time) to express those emotions later. Right now it was time for teamwork.
“Did you get those forms filled out?” She slid behind her desk and started putting away her things as if she saw Jim every morning—which, she thought, she had, for over a week now. “Remember, Michael said two weeks ago he wanted them today.”
“I know. I’m just waiting for Dwight to give me the Gustafson report, and I’ll be all set.” Jim turned to Dwight, who was now gawping at her like a fish. “Which is why I was in early. The report, Dwight?”
Dwight had found his voice. “Pamela.” He glared at her. “Jim was not here two weeks ago.”
“Of course he was.” Pam looked at Dwight strangely. “Where else would he be?”
“Do you not recall standing in this very office when Michael told us all that Jim had transferred to the Stamford office?”
Oh, she did recall. She recalled only too well. But he wasn’t in Stamford, he was here, and he was here because of her. “Dwight, are you sure you’re OK? Ryan is the one who’s transferring to Stamford.”
“Only because Jim here came scuttling back with his tail between his legs.” Dwight turned to Jim, who looked unimpressed. “What’s the matter, Jim, afraid to be an ARM?”
“Isn’t that the position Ryan’s taking?” If she hadn’t known he was taking the piss, she would genuinely have thought Jim was bored. “Can we get off your little obsession with dropping the ‘to the’ and get back to the Gustafson report?”
Before Dwight could burst a blood vessel, Phyllis slipped through the door at 8:57, followed quickly by Angela, Oscar, Stanley, Kevin, Toby, and Kelly. Angela shot Jim a sharp glare and sniffed at Pam, which seemed to buoy Dwight’s spirits, but the others greeted Jim as if his presence in the office were as everyday as—well, as it had been before Casino Night. She was pretty sure Jim hadn’t talked to Stanley, but he kept his head down upon entering and barely noticed anything, so that was as normal as anything. Dwight seemed to expect something from Kelly, who no doubt had made some kind of fuss when Ryan’s transfer had been announced—but when she walked back to the annex with just a cheery “good morning Jim! Good morning Pam!” he deflated, sat down at his desk, pulled out the Gustafson report, and handed it to Jim.
