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CHAPTER 2: The Disaster


 

Questions.


Jim Halpert, staring at the welcome screen on his computer, had so many questions. Question one: Why did he want to sing, sing, sing, sing, like in that Travis song? Because he'd just met a girl called Maria, that was why. Except, of course, that girl's name was Pam.


Naturally, he also had questions about work, none of which Michael Scott would answer.


It's all in the orientation video,” said the regional manager, patting Jim's shoulder.


A man wearing a 70's tan suit ambled up to his desk, carrying a gargantuan white folder. “Good morning, Jim. Toby Flenderson from HR. You might want to look at these orientation materials.”


No!” said Michael, swishing his arms like a karateka. “Absolutely not. Do you want him to die of boredom? Go home, Toby.”


Yet after enduring twenty minutes of Michael Scott's Scranton Witch Project video, concentrating on the riveting topic of food labels in the refrigerator, Jim decided that dying of boredom was better than dying of secondhand embarrassment.


When he returned to his desk, he found a bespectacled woman with grey Elizabeth Taylor curls fishing through his drawer.


Ah,” she said, standing up with an embarrassed smile. She dumped a coffee-stained manual onto his desk. “I'm Phyllis. Thought you might want to read this. It's quicker than Toby's file, and less crazy than Michael's movie.”


The manual was called The Simple Dunder Mifflin Employee Guide. Jim read a page. Then another. After page three, his eyelids drooped; by page five, he gave up. Dwight leaned over to protest, but was cut short when his telephone rang.


Good. Jim seized the opportunity to speak with Pam.


For some reason, the receptionist smiled at her monitor before meeting his eyes. Later, he would blame that reaction for why his unspoken request got stuck in his throat.


You need help?” asked Pam, trying not to laugh.


Sort of. Can I have a jelly bean?”


Sure! It's a communal bowl.” After another silence, Pam said, “Have you settled in after that crazy video? Got used to Dwight?”


Jim smiled, glanced back at Dwight, then leaned over Pam's desk. “He is the most irritating man I have ever met. How is that possible? Wait, don't tell me: I'm in The Matrix.”


The Matrix? You're such a dork.” Then Pam blushed and cleared her throat. “Anything you need, I'm right here.”


So now he had an excuse for making frequent trips to Pam's desk. After the usual queries, he invented new ones. For example, he needed a new list of extension codes, even though he had a crinkled but readable copy inside his desk. Then, with the greatest of apologies, he asked for a new stapler, not mentioning that his existing stapler only needed staples. He supposedly needed help with his accounts list after that, even though he could have asked Dwight.


Naturally, Dwight took offence at this. “What? You asked Pamela? She's a receptionist, Jim. Why didn't you read the employee guide and orientation materials like you're supposed to? They contain all the information you need in simple, precise language. I finished my copies before I even began working here. Asked Corporate to fax them. Called initiative.”


Jim ignored this, especially since he had a new request: He desperately needed a comfier chair. Even though Dwight had argued that he need only tighten a screw and then he could spin until his brain flew out of his skull, Jim decided that only Pam Beesly could solve this problem.


As predicted, Pam rushed off to the conference room and returned with a brand new chair, smiling mischievously.


It's Michael's favourite,” she said, then winked.


After exhausting even these enquiries, he still had another problem: Dwight Schrute.


When they had finally met, Dwight had stuck out a hand and said, “Dwight Kurt Schrute here: Assistant Regional Manager of the Scranton Branch, top salesman year on year, owner of Schrute Farms, volunteer at the Lackawanna County Sheriff's department, resident expert in self-defence, all-time Laser Tag champion. And you are?”


Since then, Jim had suffered a cascade of unsolicited advice from Dwight, as dictated by the employee guide and the alleged glory of being a Schrute family descendant.


By early afternoon, he was ready to knock Dwight unconscious, a thought he shared with Pam on yet another desk visit.


Kill me now,” he murmured, then swallowed three jelly beans.


I warned you,” Pam whispered. “And there's no point asking the fairy for your life back, because she's flown back to her homeland, Misfortuneson. Off the south coast of Iceland.”


Jim laughed. “Damn it. I may have to take matters into my own hands. Violence is legal in The Matrix, right?”


Pam didn't even let him finish before laughing, and he felt as though he were walking on air. What a charming laugh she had! Next time he visited her desk, he would bring another joke.


In fact, it wasn't even five minutes later before he returned. Oblivious to the stares of Phyllis and a petite blonde woman, both of whom had just finished speaking to Pam, he interrupted again.


Just to be clear,” he said quietly, “the available weapons I have are limited to a box file or a telephone set. Choose one.”


Pam had taken a sip of tea and now snorted with laughter. Jim smiled again, but this vanished when Michael appeared.


Now, a boss was supposed to work. If not, a boss made sure his employees were working. Jim could only presume that Michael Scott did work, but precisely what work he did remained a mystery. Twice, Jim had peered through the blinds into Michael's office but was none the wiser. He had even asked Dwight, who insisted that Michael was “deep in affairs too complex for a newbie to understand.”


Yet this was the second time today that Michael had interrupted an employee to beg for jokes.


Look at Pammy and Jimbo, having a giggle!” said Michael. “Come on, spill the beans. Where's the funny?”


Jim realised that he would have to end any conversation whilst his boss prowled the office. At this point, however, he was too new and too nice to keep his mouth shut. Nor could he miss another opportunity to make Pam laugh, so he ruffled his hair and said, “What's the name of the penguin's favourite aunt?”


Michael shrugged.


Aunt Arctica.”


That is so lame,” said Pam, giggling.


It's brilliant!” said Michael. He promptly rushed off and repeated the joke to everyone else. Nobody laughed. Muttering, the regional manager slunk back to his office in defeat.


Jim turned back to Pam. “He always do that?”


Don't ask stupid questions.”


He laughed again; she did too. Her laughter remained in his head for the rest of the work day, drowning out the sound of Dwight's inane edicts. It mingled with the cautious friendliness of slow-talking Kevin, cynical Stanley, and forgetful Creed. When the jovial accountant Oscar laughed at one of his jokes, he dreamt about Pam's laughter instead.


Later, he met Meredith, or rather, interrupted her in the kitchen as she ripped the security tape from a bottle of vodka. Even that could not dampen his mood. Nor could Angela, the petite blonde, who had a stiff handshake and even stiffer manners.


He needed more time with Pam. Not here, swamped by Michael's craziness and endless paper. Somewhere quiet, somewhere far from Dunder Mifflin. A wine bar, perhaps, with 50's movie soundtracks playing in the background and pretzel bowls.


The clock struck four-fifty. He yawned and glanced at Pam, who had just passed Michael a wad of message slips.


You just still have these messages from yesterday,” she said, fiddling with her pen.


Chill out, Pamster. You're spinning in a wheel over pieces of paper.”


As Michael walked back to his office, cackling, Jim got the impression that Pam would stab her boss in the neck like an Agatha Christie villain. Well, he, Jim Halpert, could soon replace those homicidal tendencies with a smile when he offered her chardonnay or pinot blanc.


His plan sounded wonderful, so wonderful, in fact, that he zapped the windows on his computer and shoved his folders aside. Never mind the four important forms that Angela had demanded for tomorrow afternoon by way of a greeting.


It was four fifty-eight. Good. A casual approach worked best: He would fetch his coat, then linger around the rack until Pam left her desk. After that, he would act as though he were headed to a bar already, then make his offer.


Four fifty-nine. Jim strolled towards the coat rack, his heart pounding. Then his mind went blank. After desperately trying to conjure up the very words he had invented just minutes before, he covered his delay by fiddling with odds and ends inside his pockets.


Now it was five o'clock. Too soon! If only he had more minutes to waste. Why, after years of asking women out for drinks, had his brain turned to scrambled egg?


Better just go for it.


Then the office door burst open.


A man built like a football player swaggered in. He wore an irritated expression and favoured his left leg. Perhaps that caused his irritation, or perhaps he watched too many gangster movies. Dressed in a grey shirt and jeans, the man carried a brown paper bag, its bottom soaked in grease. He must have worked in delivery, judging by the clothes; Michael had mentioned that Scranton Business Park included a warehouse.


Hey, baby!” the man said to Pam.


Jim opened his mouth. No sound came out. Removing his hands from his pockets, he sidled back to his desk. Then he watched the man lean over Pam's desk as he had been doing all day. By the time he saw Pam smile and lean close, so close, all the breath in his body had vanished.


Come on, baby, five minutes,” said the man, smiling impatiently. “This stuff's gonna freeze otherwise. And what's with the crazy long sleeves?”


I borrowed it from Mom,” said Pam, standing up. “It's cold.”


Not so cold you can't show off that rock.”


Jim blinked.


All he could do was watch Pam smile and pull back the sleeve on her left hand. Something sparkled on her finger, and his heart dropped right into his stomach.


It was a ring.


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