Morning

.....

A rooster's crow pierces the silent morning air and wakes me up as it sounds through the open crack in my bedroom window. I shoot bolt upright in my bed. It was a cold night, and there aren't many covers on my bed, but I find that the cold air coming from the window crack keeps me alert, even in sleep. I am already dressed, since it's much more efficient to get dressed before going to sleep rather than wasting valuable time putting on work clothes in the morning. The rooster - Bismarck, my faithful alarm clock, who lives in the barn outside – crows loudly again.

It's another morning on Schrute farms. A morning like any other. I am fully awake, and I look forward to being productive and selling Dunder Mifflin paper products today.

I walk purposefully into the small closet that I've remodeled as a bathroom by adding a sink. As I brush my teeth with baking soda – a necessary product for any successful farm, and not just for cleaning teeth – I think about the dreams I had last night. The dreams of Schrutes have always been very down-to-earth, very practical. I was always creative for a Schrute, and so I sometimes dream about space operas or Japanese animation. Anime, for those in the know. Sometimes, I also dream of myself in scenarios where I defeat my enemies using a simultaneous combination of stealthy finesse and overwhelming force.

Last night, however, my dreams were more down to earth. Literally. Beet farming, mostly, dreaming of the upcoming harvest. Although Angela Martin popped into a particular scene. Something about that little accountant...

“Dwight, I made breakfast!”

A spray of baking soda froth hits the mirror as the voice startles me. It's Mose, and I forgot that he's taken to sleeping in the barn lately. The rooster must have woken him up even more quickly than it did me. I spit, rinse, and turn around to find him in the door frame with a plate of fresh-cooked bacon balanced in his hands. The smell awakens a predatory instinct as my nostrils flare up. If the beets were ready a few days earlier, we could have had bacon and beet juice. A meal for champions.

“What did I tell you about bringing food up here, Mose?” I ask my cousin, wagging a finger. “I'll be down in the kitchen in just a minute.”

Mose nods nervously and retreats downstairs as I finish my morning hygiene routine. I follow him down and take a seat, eating my plate of bacon quickly. It's delicious, but there's no point wasting time in savoring it. I'm looking forward to going to work even more than usual, after all. This may be a morning like any other, but I happen to know that a new employee is joining the team, and today is his first day. A certain Jim Halpert. Salesman. Maybe he'll prove to be a useful ally, if he has enough sense to learn the lore of Dunder Mifflin paper products from the company's leading paper salesman.

Which is me.

“Mose,” I say through a mouthful of crackling bacon, “no more whittling today. I don't have room for all those figures anymore. You need to start harvesting the beets, got it?”

“Okay Dwight,” says Mose as he scratches his beard absently.

“How was your night in the barn, by the way?”

“Scratchy. And I think an raccoon bit me when I was asleep.”

Mose shows me the bite mark on his ankle, and I nod before drinking my cup of orange juice in one gulp. I like to save it until after the bacon.

After I finish breakfast and clean up, I decide to go out and give the property a quick look before I go to work, just to make sure everything is in order. The sun is up, the air is invigorating, and my beets are healthy and robust. Of course I can't see that, since the beet roots themselves are in the ground, but I've developed a sixth sense for estimating their appearance under the dirt. I'm also glad to find no teenagers fornicating in the bushes anywhere or stealing from my hemp enclosure. The farm is well-maintained. No surprise, since I'm the one maintaining it.

Today is an exciting day to be both a farmer and a Dunder Mifflin employee, but office work comes first. When I get back, I can join Mose in the beet fields. There's no way I'm letting him harvest all those beets, after all - not that he could do it all without my help, I tell myself with a chuckle. Even with my back and arm strength, the harvest will take several days. And even if my cousin could pick them all, Dwight Schrute isn't going to miss out on that much fun.

“Are you leaving for your day place now?” asks Mose, watching me as I look over the beet fields. He's holding my briefcase for me, as he always does in the mornings. Mose is very considerate.

“Yes Mose,” I say as I take the briefcase. “Thank you.”

I walk to my Trans Am, parked in the dirt road leading away from farmhouse, and throw my briefcase into the passenger seat before revving it up. As I begin to drive away from my property, Mose follows alongside the car for a few moments, partly as his way of saying goodbye, and partly because he likes to limber up in the fresh morning air. I watch him as he disappears into the rear view mirror, and I find myself anticipating the coming work day. It's time to meet my new coworker.

.....

It's been almost half an hour since I got to work, and I still haven't met this Jim Halpert yet. Michael's office door is closed, but I can see movement behind the blinds, as well as the sound of Jan Levinson Gould and Michael talking together. Our new sales employee is in the room with them – apparently undergoing some kind of training, which started before work hours actually began. I'm a little annoyed that I wasn't informed of this early training meeting, as I can't provide any input now. But I'm sure Michael is doing a great job.

I decide to take a brief break from my work and make a visit to the receptionist's desk. “Hello Pam,” I say as I keep an eye on Michael's office door in case they come out.

Pam looks at me, a little vacantly, and returns my greeting while suppressing a yawn.

“Hey Dwight.”

Pam was also in the office before I arrived – it's rare that any of my coworkers get to the office before me. Seeing her there when I got to work almost made me wonder if Bismarck had failed me and crowed at the wrong time. I assume Michael asked her to come in early as well, although I don't know why she wouldn't be in the meeting.

“Tell me, when are Michael and Jan going to be done speaking to our new employee?”

“I don't know.”

As receptionist, it seems to me that Pam should know this. But I want to be on Pam's good side, at least for the moment, so I restrain myself from shaking my head disapprovingly. “So you've talked to this Jim Halpert?” I ask her.

“A little,” said Pam. “I was in the meeting earlier, but I had to come out to get a phone call.”

“Shouldn't you be going back in?” I ask her.

“They weren't talking about anything that had to do with me. I'm sure they'll ask if they want me to come back in.”

I help myself to some black jellybeans from the container in front of Pam's desk as I lean closer to her, establishing a sense of familiarity. I've already done my research, but Pam might have some insight as a result of meeting Jim in person already.

“How'd he strike you, Pam?”

Pam leans back a little for some reason.

“He seemed friendly. I didn't get the chance to talk to him much.”

I roll my eyes dismissively and take a seat at my desk. Pam is timid, inattentive – if she were a wild animal, she would be torn apart by bigger, stronger animals as soon as she left her forest hiding place. As a human receptionist, I have to admit she's competent enough, but I could have used more intel on this Halpert before coming face to face with him. Not that I'm nervous. Cautious, calculating. But not nervous. I'm completely confident I'll establish dominance through aggressive posture, hand shaking, and eye contact.

My curiosity gets the better of me and I walk to Michael's office. I'm about to open the door and see what's going on, even if it interrupts their meeting, but Michael and the new employee come out instead. Jan Levenson-Gould is following behind them. Michael doesn't see me – I'm a very silent walker – and he almost smacks into me before backing up with a gasp and running into Jim Halpert, who is just behind him.

“For God's sake, Dwight! All the time, why-”

“Sorry Michael,” I say. “I just wanted to greet our new employee.”

“Well here he is,” says Michael as he stands aside and motions to new employee. “Knock yourself out.”

“Hello Jim Halpert. I am Dwight Schrute, Assistant Regional Manager of this branch.”

“Assistant to the Regional Manager,” Michael interrupts.

I shake my head imperceptibly at Jim, in order to subtly let him know it's just a matter of semantics.

“Hello Dwight,” says Jim. “Nice to meet you.”

He reaches out to shake my hand, and I accept. I'm unimpressed by his weak grip, and he breaks off the handshake with no attempt to outlast me. Pathetic.

“By the way, how'd you know my name already?” he asks.

“I know a lot of things about you, Jim.”

“Okay then.”

Michael shoots me a look of disapproval. For what reason, I do not know.

“If you're done creeping out the new guy, Dwight, I'd like to show him around the office and give him a little tour of Dunder Mifflin before-”

“No!” I say, not wanting to give up an early opportunity to mold Jim Halpert's mind and make sure he doesn't hear any lies about me from coworkers. “Please, let me do it!”

“You're not the manager Dwight, I-”

“I'm Assistant Regional Manager, Michael. I'll do an excellent job, I promise.”

Michael looks like he's about to continue arguing, but Jan speaks first.

“Thank you, Dwight, that's a good idea,” she says. “Give Jim a little tour and make sure he feels at home. Jim, if you have any questions, you can talk to Michael later, and you can feel free to call me once I get back to New York. We're happy to have you on the team.”

Michael looks upset at being undercut, and he gives Jan a questioning look. I would feel bad for stealing his opportunity to show Jim around now that their meeting is over, but Dwight Schrute takes his opportunities when he sees them.

Jan notices Michael's hurt expression. “You don't need to be wasting time giving office tours,” she says after looking around the office and lowering her voice. “We still need to discuss the corporate credit card incident, and Randall wants to be in on this discussion over the phone as well.”

“Oh, come on! Why's Randall need to get invol-”

“Look, Michael - after so many incidents, it's impossible for the CFO not to take an interest, okay? Now, I'd like to speak to you in your office, please. Alone.”

“That last time was just a misunderstanding!” Michael tells her. “I didn't see the prices on the menu before I-”

The rest of their conversation is cut off as they both disappear into Michael's office. Jan closes the door behind them. I turn to our new employee, sizing him up; he seems a little nervous. I wasn't nervous on my first day on the job. I barely know what the emotion feels like, actually. Nervous or not, it's time to give Jim the office tour. During the time we spend together, I can put my investigative skills to use and give his personality a deep, deep probing.

“I am the top salesman around here,” I tell him. “Don't think you can ever beat me, but if you stick around, you might learn a few things. Follow me and I will introduce you to everyone.”

We begin to walk.

“So what do you get for being the top paper salesman at Dunder Mifflin?” Jim asks.

“Not just Dunder Mifflin,” I correct him. “All of Scranton.” I haven't actually verified this statistic recently, but I'm almost certain it's true. “And I get the satisfaction of utter perfection, of course.”

“Gotcha. No awards? Money?”

“I don't need more money,” I tell him. “In addition to selling paper, I make a good living selling beets.”

Jim purses his lips and raises an eyebrow at me, which I can tell is his way of expressing how impressive my numerous wealth-generating talents are to him. I don't blame him. I grab a paper from my desk, and before our conversation can go any further, we take a walk over to the accounting department. The only reason I am choosing to introduce Jim to the accountants first is because I had this form to give to Angela anyway.

“Jim, meet Oscar Nunez, Kevin Malone, Tom Peets, and Angela Martin, our office accountants. You'll have several forms that you will need to give them as part of your job. Some on a bi-weekly basis, some on a monthly basis. Turning them in cannot be delayed under any circumstances.”

“Hey guys,” says Jim. He points to the ceramic felines placed on top of the desk partition between Kevin and Angela's desks. “Nice cats.”

“Thank you,” says Angela.

I have to agree with Jim's statement. Although cats are not the most useful of farm animals unless you have a rat infestation, there is something strangely charming about Angela's little ceramic figures.

I must admit that while my visit to the accounting department is purely professional, I do enjoy talking to Angela much more than Kevin and Oscar. And especially more than Tom, as he's always in a sour mood around the office. Sort of like a sadder version of Toby. But Angela is different than the rest of them; she has a respect for authority and power, like myself, and she knows how to keep her emotions – as well as her clothing choices - under strict control. Unlike some other ladies in the office, who will not be named.

Kevin holds up his open glass container of M&M's. “Want some?” he asks Jim.

“Uh, no, but thanks for the offer. So how do you guys like accounting?”

“It's very exciting,” Angela informs him earnestly.

“Oh yes,” adds Oscar. “It's a real roller coaster. If you wanted excitement and social interaction, you really shouldn't have taken a job in sales.”

Oscar smirks at Jim, who chuckles in reply. Tom looks like he's lost in a funk as usual, and Kevin looks as confused as I am. I do not understand what's so funny, and for a moment I suspect they're sharing some kind of inside joke against me, but I decide it's not the case. “Come on, Jim,” I say, deciding he's had enough of an introduction to the accounting department.

I introduce him to Stanley, Phyllis, and Meredith, and fortunately manage to overlook Creed, which Jim does not notice. Creed unnerves me. How a person can be so strange and off-putting without realizing it is a mystery to me.

I also take him back to the Annex, where Kelly is fortunately missing and can't annoy us with her chatter – maybe she's in the women's bathroom. I introduce him to Toby, the H.R. Representative for our branch.

“H.R. Rep?” asks Jim. “Shouldn't you have been in the meeting this morning?”

Toby rubs his eyes a little, looking confused. “Meeting?”

“It was like an orientation meeting, I guess. For the new employee,” Jim adds as he points a thumb at himself.

“Michael didn't tell me anything about a meeting.”

Toby and Jim stand in awkward silence for a few moments before I clear my throat and lead Jim out of the Annex. I'm sure Toby was supposed to be at the meeting, but my guess is that Jan had told Michael to let Toby know he needed to come in early, at which point Michael forgot to pass that along to Toby. It's happened before. Finally, we arrive at the receptionist's desk.

“Hmm,” says Jim as we approach the desk. “You look familiar.”

Pam laughs. “Have we met?”

“Oh, wait, I – you were that girl in Michael's office taking notes, right? Now I remember!”

“Pam Beesly,” she says as she shakes Jim's hand.

This is another exchange I don't understand, as the two of them met each other less than an hour ago in the meeting with Jan and Michael, and yet they're acting like they don't recognize each other. Maybe Jim is even slower than Kevin. I wonder if Dunder Mifflin's standards have been slipping since they hired me.

“Dwight's introducing me to everybody,” says Jim, helping himself to a couple of jellybeans as he leans against Pam's desk. “Did you know he's the top salesman in the office?”

“I did, actually. He's mentioned it before.”

I am pleased that Jim and Pam have both made a note of my sales ability. Maybe he isn't as slow as I thought.

“So how'd the meeting go?” asks Pam.

“It was interesting. There was a very topical movie parody video.”

“Oh boy. Yeah, Michael always has videos.”

“Yikes.”

“Looking forward to the life of a paper salesman?”

“Well, this is just temporary,” Jim says quickly.

“That's not a good attitude for success,” I tell him, interrupting their inane conversation. “You need to put your heart and soul into selling paper while you're here.”

“You know, you're totally right, Dwight. Forget I said anything,” he says to me before turning back to Pam. “As for the meeting, tell me Pam - is it just me, or is Michael kind of...”

His sentence trails off as he looks at me from the corner of his eye.

“What?” I ask him. “Is Michael kind of what?”

“Um - a good boss?”

I don't know why he trailed off, or why he phrased his response as a question, but Jim is correct. Michael is a very good boss.

“Definitely,” says Pam, giving Jim a big smile. “Michael's a great boss. That meeting was nothing, believe me. You'll see a lot more of how good he is in the future. Like, as soon as Jan is gone. In five minutes, probably.”

“Enough chit chat,” I tell Pam. “I need to introduce Jim to the warehouse workers now.”

“Nice to meet you again, Jim Halpert,” Pam says as we leave the office.

“You too, Pam Beesly.”

Jim is obviously trying to exercise some kind of charm on Pam, and I find their interchange disgusting. Not to mention that Jim has no chance, which he'll soon find out. I'm glad to cut their conversation off.

“Dunder Mifflin was founded by Robert Dunder and Robert Mifflin,” I tell Jim as he follows me out of the offices. “There are other companies that share the park with us, like Vance Refrigeration. There is a cripple named Billy Merchant who manages the office park property, which is leased by Beakman properties, incidentally. If you have any complaints, you may direct them to Billy's number, which I will provide to you when we return. Be careful down here,” I say as we arrive at the door leading to a stairway which descends into the warehouse. “The workers below aren't like us. They can be a little rowdy.”

I don't particularly want to introduce Jim to the warehouse workers any more than I wanted to deal with introducing him to Creed, but I must be thorough, and sometimes there are reasons to visit the warehouse. Seeing the warehouse is also an excellent way to Jim to learn just how lucky he is to be a salesperson at Dunder Mifflin instead of working down here.

Unfortunately, a number of the warehouse workers are missing – on break, I assume. Jim will have wait until later to meet Pam's fiancé, the old man, the stocky red haired woman, and the large black man. I know Darryl is a harder worker than some of his subordinates, so I open his office door to see if he's there. Sure enough, he's inside at his desk. I am about to greet him when I catch sight of what he is doing and shrink back in disgust.

“Gah!”

Darryl holds a jello cup in one hand. A spoon filled with a quivering green mass is held in the other, suspended halfway to his mouth. I despise jello. Maybe even more than I despise radishes for being ugly little beet imitators.

“Dwight - please knock on my door when you want something.”

“I need to introduce you to our new salesman,” I tell Darryl, trying to ignore the spoonful of jello he inserts into his mouth. “This is Jim Halpert.”

“Hey,” says Jim as he shakes Darryl's hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ditto. Darryl, warehouse manager. So you got some new competition, huh Dwight?”

“No, I do not. I do not have any kind of competition. The idea is absurd.”

Jim cocks his head sideways at me while looking at the warehouse manager.

“He's the top paper salesman in the company, did you know?”

“You know what,” says Darryl, “I think maybe he mentioned that a couple times.”

I get the distinct impression that some kind of joke is being made, possibly at my expense. The office tour has taken long enough, and Jim has met everyone with any importance, so I decide I will cut it short. Not to mention that I'm growing queasy from the close proximity to jello. It's not that I'm afraid of it – I am afraid of nothing – but there is something disgusting about the translucency and the quivering.

I show Jim a few of the warehouse's important features for a few minutes. None of the other workers have come back from their break, which has already taken longer than Dunder Mifflin regulations permit. It's time to go back to work, so I lead Jim back to the stairs going up to the office.

“Not a fan of jello?” asks Jim. Clearly he noticed my reaction to Darryl's snack.

“Of course not.”

“There's always room for jello.”

“There is no room for jello, ever.”

Jim grunts as we walk back up the stairs, and I begin to wonder if I have unintentionally given away too much by admitting to my hatred for jello. It would be a weakness, if I had weaknesses, but I don't, so it's not really a weakness. More like a strength which Jim could use against me. It's true that Jim seems more promising than Stanley or Phyllis, but I still don't know for sure if he can be trusted. The less he knows about me, the better.

But no matter. Judging by his easygoing nature, floppy hair, and flippant attitude, there's no way he has the cunning of a Schrute. I'm sure I'll be safe.

.....

.....

Afternoon

.....

Although I have some sales calls to make, I can't help but watch from the corner of my eye as Jim and Pam talk to each other at the receptionist's desk. Jim seems to have taken a liking to our secretary. I suppose I can't blame him. Pam's personality is not exactly appealing compared to someone like – just for the sake of example – Angela, but she does have a decent figure, full breasts with what must be an ample supply of milk for future children, and good birthing hips.

I would not normally attempt to eavesdrop on trivial office chatter, but I noticed the two of them glancing at me earlier and smiling. If they are talking about me, then it is my business to know exactly what they said. Unfortunately, I hear Jim mention the word 'lunch', and the two of them leave the office together before I can overhear anything useful. I look at my watch. It is getting close to lunch.

Lunch today is going to be particularly good, as I looked in my briefcase earlier and noticed that Mose filled a baggy with leftover bacon from breakfast and put it in there for me. Sometimes Mose comes off a little slow in the head, but most of the time he's just delightful, whether it's playing ping-pong with me or giving me a bagged lunch for work. I enter the break room and make sure to avoid Creed, who is reading a magazine with Chinese print in the far corner of the room. Unfortunately, this means that my other option is to sit near Kelly, who is eating her lunch closer to the door.

“Hey Dwight,” she says as I reluctantly sit down at an adjacent table. “What's for lunch?”

“Bacon,” I tell her as I remove the strips from their baggy and place them on a paper towel.

“Ew.”

“What are you eating?” I ask her.

“Crackers. I'm trying to watch my weight.”

“Tapeworms,” shouts Creed from the other side of the room.

Kelly and I ignore him. I get a candy bar and soda from the vending machines to add to my bacon lunch and begin to eat, while Kelly starts prattling on about some party she went to the other night. How someone can lead such a socially bizarre lifestyle, I'll never understand. If her parties involved paintball, or at least everyone gathering around to watch a science fiction show, it would make more sense. But as far as I can tell, these parties are mostly about drinking, trying on outfits, and talking about boys with her female friends.

The sound of Kelly's voice fades into a dull, high-pitched stream as I zone her out, thinking about my beet farm instead. She can go on for minutes on end, even if the other person in the conversation isn't responding. I chew a strip of bacon in my mouth, less crunchy than it was in the morning, as I wonder if Mose has started harvesting the beets yet. Hopefully he's being gentle with them.

.....

Lunch is over. Jim and Pam have not yet returned; they're taking their sweet time. I decide to pay Michael a visit and get his impression of Jim. My work can wait for a little while.

“Hello Michael,” I say as enter the office and close the door behind me for confidentiality. Michael has his feet propped up on the desk, and some music is playing on his computer. William Joel, I believe.

“What's the haps, Dwight?”

“Question: what is your impression of Jim Halpert?”

“Cool guy, cool guy,” says Michael. He stops the music with a mouse click before removing his feet from the desk and peaking his hands together below his lips in a thoughtful gesture. “Didn't really seem to have a good sense of humor, though. Most of my jokes went over his head. But I think he's got some potential. He seemed friendly, and he was excited to be working here. And his resume is pretty solid.”

“Not as solid as mine, right? Did he have any martial arts skills?”

Michael eyes me for a moment.

“People don't need to put martial arts skills on their resume, Dwight. What does that even have to do with selling paper?”

“It could have everything to do with it, Michael. You could find yourself needing martial arts training no matter where you are or what you're doing. Imagine we are on our way to meet a new client, and we haven't armed ourselves. When we get to the client's office, it turns out that a rival paper company has decided to resort to hired thugs in order to intimidate us from-”

“Oh for God's sake, Dwight. Enough!”

“You asked me what it had to do with-”

“Are you even a black belt?”

Michael's question cuts my point off. I am very disappointed that he's ignoring what I'm trying to explain and bringing up trivialities instead.

“I am a future black belt, Michael.”

Michael sighs, and the office falls silent for several moments while I stand and wait for him to continue. I've suddenly lost my train of thought, and can't remember why I came into Michael's office in the first place.

“You know, speaking of meeting new clients,” says Michael, “we still have to stop by that new office park over in Pittston and see if we can get any bites. There's just too much work to do,” he says with a sigh as he leans back in his chair. “Not enough employees! Maybe we could use a temp or something to do some of our busywork.”

“I can handle all of it, Michael,” I reassure him.

“That's what she said.”

He laughs at himself, and I join in. Michael has such a great sense of humor.

“A temp,” he says more quietly as he goes over the idea in his head. “That's definitely a good idea. We should get a sexy temp too,” he adds, sniggering. “Anyway, what are you doing this afternoon?”

“I will be making several calls, organizing the contents of my lower desk drawer, and after that I will be returning to my beet farm and beginning the fall harvest with my cousin Mose.”

I smile, beginning to wonder if Michael wants to hang out with me later, but he waves his hand impatiently at me before I can ask him if this is why he's interested in what I'm doing. “I don't care about any of that,” he says. “I meant at work. Get Phyllis to take care of your calls – I want you to take Jim over to that new office park and have him shadow you on a few visits. Maybe you guys can set up a few meetings with potential clients, get our name around, that kind of thing. And Jim can get some experience in the field. What do you think?”

“I think it's an excellent idea.”

My comment elicits a smile of pleasure from Michael, who raises his personalized coffee cup to his lips.

“Well, that's why I'm the boss.”

Michael is giving me the directions to the office park in Pittston when his door opens. I'm about to turn around and tell the intruder that we are in an important meeting, but Angela comes in. I assume Angela must have a good reason for interrupting.

“Angela Martin!” exclaims Michael. “Crunching numbers in accounting! Just the person I wanted to talk to! Oh, how is Sprinkles, by the way?”

Angela looks pleased that Michael asked her something about what I assume is one of her cats. Personally, I don't have time for cats.

“She's doing much better,” says Angela, “thank you for asking. The doctor says the fur will grow back in about a week if I keep giving Sprinkles her rectal pills.”

“So,” Michael says after a brief flash of disgust crosses his eyes, “what can I do ya for?”

“You still need to turn in the quarterly reports, Michael.”

Michael's pleased expression turns into a frown, just for a moment.

“Yeah yeah, I'll do that later. Look, Angela, I'm glad you're here, because I need to talk to the head of the Party Planning Committee – we gotta set up a party for Jim, don't you think? Sort of a welcoming party to the Dunder Mifflin Team.”

“I think it's a bit frivolous,” says Angela as she holds a collection of papers tightly to her chest. For some reason, the sight of her tight grip on the papers sets off a deep rumble in my loins. Not to mention I agree with her complaint about the welcoming party being frivolous.

“Come on, Angela, live a little. You accountants need to get out of your cave once in a while! Especially that weirdo Tom. If he doesn't cheer up and walk around a little more, he's gonna turn into Toby.” Michael laughs at his comment almost before he finishes it. “No, that's mean – nobody could end up like that.”

“Michael, I just wanted to get the quarterly-”

“If you get can the Party Planning Committee together and figure everything out, I'm thinking a party on Friday. I'm talking appeteasers, a few drinks,” says Michael as he mimics downing a shot glass. “And maybe we can get some dancers or something. Exotic dancers.”

“Strippers?”

“No, just exotic dancers. You know, with the foreign dances. Spice things up a little. Maybe Kelly can give you some advice, I don't know. Just look around for that, okay?”

“That sounds inappropriate.”

“Oh, please, don't be ridiculous,” Michael says, failing to stifle a snort and a laugh. He looks at me for support, and I find myself strangely conflicted. I try to nod in his direction while shielding the movement from Angela. It doesn't work, and she looks at me angrily for siding with him.

“Look, this is a morale building exercise, it's work related. Jim needs to feel welcome here, right? He's the new guy, come on! And I'll whip up a speech about teamwork and sales objectives, that kind of thing. It's no problem. Just make sure it all goes on the corporate account, alright?”

“Did you clear this with Toby?” asks Angela.

“Did I clear – what – clear with Toby? Nnngh!”

Michael leans back in his chair for a moment, rubbing his temples.

“Just tell Toby to deal with it, okay? Now, Dwight and I are having an important meeting, if you don't mind.”

Angela stands for a moment longer with a frown before leaving. I watch her go, my gaze lingering a little, but I return my attention quickly to Michael's desk when I notice him looking at me strangely. “Michael,” I say quietly, “what about the quarterly reports?”

“Go do that thing with Jim, Dwight.”

“I thought you said we were having an important meeting.”

“I just made it up to get Angela off my back. Now give me some privacy, please.”

“Yes Michael.”

I hear a mouse click behind me, and the William Joel song begins to play again as I leave Michael's office and return to my desk.

“Phyllis, you need to complete the rest of my calls for me today.”

Phyllis looks back at me and gives me a beaming smile. “I'll definitely do that, Dwight. You can count on me.”

I am surprised – normally Phyllis can be a little disagreeable when I give her orders, but she's surprisingly eager to do my work today. I stare across the desk as I sit down; Jim is sitting across from me. Back from lunch with Pam, apparently, since she's at the receptionist's desk. For some reason Jim doesn't look as happy as he did when he left for lunch with her. Maybe he ate something that's disagreeing with him. If he's new in town, it's possible he chose to go to Pizza by Alfredo without knowing what he was getting into. But then, Pam should have warned him. Whatever. It's none of my concern.

“Jim.”

Jim looks up from his computer.

“What?”

“We need to go on a sales trip together.”

“A sales trip?”

“Yes, what you were hired to do, Jim. We're going to visit the new office park in Pittston and see if we can get any leads on future clients. This is a good opportunity for you to learn from the pros.”

“Pros? Who else is going?”

“Just the two of us. So, me. You'll learn from me, the one sales pro on this trip. Michael wanted you to accompany me, and I'm ready to go, so drop what you're doing and follow me quickly!”

Even as I'm talking to him, I notice that Jim has already crossed the line into my desk space with a stapler and some loose leaves of paper. I move the offending material back to his side of the desk; sometimes actions speak louder than words. Jim stares at me for a moment and then gets up incredibly slowly, like he's moving in slow motion. He's got to be the slowest person I've ever seen.

“We're going on a sales trip, Pam,” he says as he turns to the receptionist's desk. “It's important that we go right now.”

He begins to walk as if he's caught in molasses. I don't know if he's having some kind of energy problem or if this is his idea of a joke, but it's not funny. I brush past him impatiently and walk out the office door. He'll follow me, and if he doesn't, I can do the sales trip myself and tell Michael about his insubordination when I get back. That's Jim's problem, not mine.

“Hank,” I tell our security guard after getting downstairs, “I will be gone for several hours. If anyone arrives here and wants to talk to me, do not let them up into the office – take their information and force them to wait for me until I return.”

“You expectin' somebody, Dwight?”

“No. It's just a precaution.”

Hank asks me if I am expecting someone every single time I tell him to hold all of my potential visitors. I don't know why – it seems like a simple enough command to me. Jim still hasn't caught up with me yet, and I assume he's chatting it up with Pam again, so I exit the building as Hank returns to his newspaper.

A number of cars are parked outside in the office parking lot. Michael's Sebring convertible, Meredith's minivan. I know which vehicle belongs to which of my coworkers, and even which vehicles belong to the warehouse workers and a few Vance Refrigeration employees. I've carefully noted the make and model of every employee's car, whether they work at Dunder Mifflin or not, because it's useful information in case someone here at the office park ends up on the wrong side of the law, and – as volunteer sheriff's duty – I have to hunt them down and apprehend them.

There is one car, however, that I do not recognize. A car which I already saw when I pulled into work this morning. Jim finally decides to follow me down to the parking lot and do his job, and I point to the Corolla as he comes out the front door.

“That's your car, I assume?”

“Yep. How'd you know?”

“It's the one I don't recognize.” I point to my Trans Am with a smirk. “Check out my car.”

“Which one?”

“Right there,” I tell him as I point more insistently. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Wait, which one is cool?”

“Can't you – the Trans Am, duh! I'm pointing at it!”

Feeling a little flustered, I motion impatiently for Jim to follow me to my car.

The Trans Am is my baby, and I've fed her with the sweet milk of my tender love for a number of years now. Just looking at the car brings back fond memories: waxing and buffing it in the warm air of the barn, hay sticking to my bare sweaty skin; driving it in circles on the beet fields after the harvest while Mose runs behind; driving Michael to his urologist appointment last month. It's true that my memories form a large part of my love for this car, but I would have expected Jim to recognize its awesomeness just by looking at it.

A surge of raw power goes through me as I turn the ignition and shift the car into gear. Loud classic rock blares from the radio – my favorite genre, other than nineteenth century German folk music. Jim tries to change the dial on the radio twice, but I slap his hand away each time. My car, my music. We leave the parking lot, and I point out a few Electric City landmarks to Jim as we drive through Scranton. The Steamtown Mall goes by on our right; I don't usually like to shop there, as there are too many disrespectful teenagers loitering, but it is technically a landmark, and I want to make sure Jim looks to me for any information and questions he may have in the future.

“So why didn't you tell me Pam was engaged?” asked Jim.

“Was I supposed to?”

“No. I was just wondering. At lunch she said her fiancé worked in the warehouse, but I don't remember seeing him when we went down there.”

“Yes, that would be Roy Anderson. He was probably on break. Those guys down in the warehouse don't have a salesman's work ethic, Jim. You'll learn that after you work here for a while.”

As we approach Pittston, I wonder if I should take Jim by Schrute Farms on the way back from our little trip - maybe try to instill some beet-related metaphors for good salesmanship since we're already out – but I decide that Michael probably wouldn't want to be waiting after work hours for us to get back and report on our success. The thought of Michael makes me wonder what exactly went on during that meeting in the morning.

“So how was your morning?” I ask him. “Anything interesting happen?”

“Um, no, not really... let's see, I came in early for that meeting with Michael and Jan. Pam showed me my desk and told me to enjoy that moment,” says Jim with a laugh.

“Enjoy that moment? Why?”

“Oh, because I'd be meeting you soon. She thought it was a really momentous occasion, I guess.”

I nod, unsurprised at Jim's explanation. It's good to hear that Pam knew just how much of a life-changing influence I could be for this new employee, which will soon be demonstrated by the lessons I will teach him on our little sales trip. Without me, Jim might have been just another salesman – a thinner, younger Phyllis or Stanley. But with me... well, with me, he could be the best. I mean, besides me. The second best. A loyal number two member of Team Schrute.

“But what about the meeting?” I ask him, wanting to get back to my original line of interest. “Anything interesting happen during the meeting? What did Michael say to you? Did he mention anything about me?”

“Oh boy,” says Jim. “He said so many things about you.”

“What? Really? What about me, good things?”

“I don't know, Dwight. That would violate confidentiality, wouldn't it?”

I curse inwardly, realizing that Jim is correct.

“One thing he did say,” Jim continues, “oh man, you might not like this, but he told the most hilarious-”

“No!” I shout, almost swerving off the road for a moment in my panic. If Michael told Jim something in confidentiality, I can't hear it. It would be a betrayal to Michael, and I will never, ever, do that to him. Almost at the same time I tell myself this, I find myself second-guessing my decision. If Michael didn't know, would I really be betraying him? This could just be between me and Jim...

“No,” I finally say, not wanting to give in to temptation. “You'd better keep the events of the meeting private, Jim. It's the right thing to do.”

“Well, Dwight, if you insist.”

The car falls into an uneasy silence, other than the classic rock, as we keep driving. The Steamtown National Historic Site passed by a few minutes ago, and it won't be much longer before we get to Pittston. I decide to probe Jim on his hobbies and interests, as they can tell you a lot about a person's character.

“Do you play paintball?”

“No.”

“What kind of shows do you watch? Smallville? 24? Battlestar Galactica? You know they're making a remake of that?”

“I don't watch any of those. I only like soap operas.”

I scoff at his pathetic taste in television programming.

“What about martial arts? You know any of those?”

“Lots.”

I don't believe Jim, and yet I am intrigued.

“No you don't,” I state confidently. “What kinds?”

“Oh, I can't tell you. It's classified.”

Again, while definitely lying, I find myself more intrigued than ever before.

“Classified for – what, some kind of job? A government job, Jim?”

“A classified job.”

“What kind of classified job?”

“I can't tell you. The kind of classified job I had is classified. And watch the road, Dwight.”

My attention returns to the road, my fists clenched in frustration on the steering wheel. Clearly Jim was trained well in this classified job, because I can tell he's not going to give anything away. I'll have to do more research on his background – my sources as a volunteer sheriff should come in handy. Not that there will be anything to find, I remind myself. Jim is obviously lying. There is no classified job. I'd never believe him in a million billion years.

Jim and I sit in silence for a few more minutes until finally we arrive at our destination: the new Pittston office park. A number of single-story businesses are arranged in a semi-circle around a large parking lot. Most of the businesses share offices within a few buildings. The windows are dark, and it's difficult to see inside; I can't help but wonder if other paper salesmen have beaten Jim and me here. Maybe they're already inside, peddling their inferior product, and we'll be forced into physical conflict upon meeting them. For a moment I consider bringing in my spud gun from the trunk of my car, but I decide against it. It doesn't always make the best impression during sales calls, I've learned.

“You coming?”

Jim has already gotten out of the car, and he peers in at me from the passenger side.

“No. I need to get ready. Close the door.”

Jim raises an eyebrow at me, and – growing impatient – I wave at him to close the door. He complies after another moment of standing there slack jawed like a fool.

After I am alone in the car, I fish out one of my Motley Crüe CDs and pop it into the car's player. Jim will need a few tips and pointers before we hit the first office to try to gain a client, and I'll need to make sure that he pays close attention to everything I do – but right now, it's Schrute time. An electric guitar riff cuts into the air. As the music speaks to my primal senses, I imagine myself naked except for a loincloth made from a lion I killed, standing over the bloodied corpses of rival paper salesmen.

I have no fear. No doubts. I will get new clients. I will make sales. I will obliterate my enemies with the wrecking ball of my awesomeness! I am Dwight Schrute, and I am unstoppable!

.....

.....
Evening
.....

Despite my reservations about Jim Halpert, I can't help but feel excited as I pull the Trans Am into my usual space in the Dunder-Mifflin parking lot. Our visit to the Pittston office park is over, and we were even more successful than I had anticipated. New contacts, several potential clients, and an actual sale! Most of this was due to my own talent, of course, but Jim showed real potential. He actually helped seal the deal on the sale we made to the chiropractor's clinic. My father always told me that back problems were just misunderstood back opportunities, but apparently chiropractors run a lucrative business if the amount of reams he bought from us was any indicator.

“You showed promise today, Halpert,” I tell him as we get out of my car, feeling unusually complimentary. The warehouse loading dock is open, and it's a little faster to get to the offices through there, so I walk in that direction as Jim follows me. “If you stay close beneath me, you could learn a lot.”

“So you're saying you want to be on top?”

“I am on top, Jim. I'm Assistant Regional Manager.”

“I thought Michael said it was Assistant to the Regional Manager.”

“No, he – that – they're very close. Look, my point is, we could make a great sales team. I have some ideas about future sales calls I'd like to run by you in the future. Different strategies for cornering and subduing our clients into purchasing. We could even use code words – I have a list prepared on my computer already.”

Although there is not much higher to go in the corporate world when you're top Dunder-Mifflin salesman, I still can't help but feel excited as I think about the future. Jim could be a powerful sidekick indeed; with his help, maybe I could even break Michael's sales record. I look up to Michael, but I feel confident that I could outsell him if I put my mind to it. I'm glad that Jim is the new employee. Stanley and Phyllis are disappointing, lackluster salespeople, with no interest in taking my advice or forming alliances with me. With Jim, maybe things could be different in the future.

Before I can continue my thoughts on future sales strategies with Jim, I notice that the warehouse workers are no longer on break. It's getting close to closing time, and it looks like they're wrapping up a last shipment. I motion to Roy, who notices the two of us as we pass through the warehouse.

“You there – Pam's fiancé. Over here.”

“Uh, what's up?”

“Jim, this is Pam's fiancé, Roy.”

“Oh, hey,” says Roy, dropping a box he was holding and shaking Jim's hand. “I heard about you already, actually. New sales guy up in the office, right? And you went to lunch with Pam today?”

Jim nods, a little hesitantly. It's understandable; Roy is larger than he is, and in the lawless jungle of the warehouse, Jim must feel physically intimidated. I do not, however, as I am in prime physical shape.

“Yup,” he says. “She mentioned you.”

“Cool. You're not stealing my girl from me, are you?”

Roy laughs at Jim's blank reaction.

“Don't worry, I'm just kidding man. Hey, you met Darryl yet?”

Jim nods as Darryl walks up to us and says hello, eating another cup of green jello. It's the second one I've seen him eat in a day. Maybe he has some kind of stash in his office. Disgusting.

“Alright Jim, we need to go up and report to Michael.”

“Actually Dwight,” says Jim as he looks at his watch, “it's about time to go. I think I'm just gonna stay here a couple of minutes and head out. You can talk to Michael for me, alright?”

For a moment, I am displeased that Jim would leave a minute early instead of coming up and talking to Michael, and it's surprising that he doesn't want to say goodbye to Pam, as they seem to have bonded quickly. But I realize this gives me the opportunity to have Michael's full attention and make sure Jim doesn't steal too much of the glory for our successful sales call. It's probably best if I explain how things went down, anyway. Jim begins to talk to Darryl, pointing at his jello cup as I leave the warehouse and walk up the stairs to the office.

“Back from the sales trip?” asks Pam as I arrive upstairs.

“Yes, I am. And it went incredibly well, thank you for asking.”

“Where's Jim?”

“Downstairs, with Roy.”

Pam seems to hesitate for a moment at this information. “Really?” she asks. I ignore her pointless question.

“Is Michael in his office?”

“Yes, waiting for you. He's angry that you're late.”

“I'm not late – I'm right on time. We should be closing just about now.”

“He wanted to leave an hour early.”

Pam looks at her own watch, reminded by my mention of closing time, and gets up to leave. I enter Michael's office, where he is playing with what looks like a Mr. Potato Head toy. I never understood why potatoes were chosen for that toy; beets would be a much more exciting and entertaining choice for children. They should be hiring me to design those things.

“Michael.”

Michael jerks back at the sound of my voice, apparently not having heard my entrance. He loses his grip on the toy, and the potato doll upends itself on the table, sending body parts flying.

“God, Dwight. What is it? You're back from the trip? Where's Jim?”

“He left already.”

“Well no wonder,” Michael says. “You took so long it must be dark outside already.”

I look out the window at the sun shining brightly through the blinds, but decide that it's best not to say anything about that. “The sales trip went well,” I tell him. “I got the contact information for several new clients, and one of them already made an order for six reams.”

“Well well,” says Michael. “Very good, Dwight! Did Jim help out?”

“He may have helped a tiny bit.”

“We'll make a salesman of him yet. Fantastic!”

Michael gets up, murmuring a few other unintelligible things to himself as he puts on his jacket and scoots his chair back into his desk. I place the new clients' contact information on his desk, but he isn't paying any attention. The fact that he's in such a hurry to leave reminds me of what I will be doing tonight, and while I've heard offhand remarks from Michael about my taste in vegetables, I decide it's worth a try to bring it up.

“Michael,” I ask him, “would you like to help me harvest some beets tonight?”

“Um, what?” says Michael, his question turning into a laugh almost before it's out.

“Beets. Mose and I will be harvesting many of them tonight. We could use an extra hand. And after we're done, we could play midnight paintball in the woods.”

“I will not be doing that,” Michael tells me as he tries to approach the door. I stand close by him, but I know that eventually he will get past me.

“Why? Got some plans tonight?”

“Yeah, plans. I, uh – I have to call up my stock guy, do some portfolio management.”

“Your stock guy? You've never mentioned him before.”

“My stock guy, Dwight. My investment guy, Michael – Mi – Micas. Micas Crod.”

I silently curse the name of Micas Crod. It would have been nice to spend a little quality time with Michael tonight. “Okay, well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

Michael is out the door before I even finish saying goodbye; he's a busy man, and it's clear that he must have a lot of stocks to manage tonight if he's in such a hurry. I close his office door and look around. Pam is already gone, and the rest of my coworkers look like they've left as well. Angela must have stayed a few minutes late for some reason, as she gets up from her desk over in accounting and walks past me on her way out, greeting me with a brief nod. I return the nod.

Phyllis should have already made my sales calls for me earlier, and it looks like I have no remaining work on my desk, so I decide it's time for me to leave as well. I lock the door behind me, using the copy of the office keys I have in my possession. Instead of taking the back way, I go back down through the warehouse just to make sure that they closed it up as well; everything looks to be in order, and the warehouse workers have also left. I hear the faint sound of giggling through the closed warehouse doors, and a moment later, a car pulls out of the parking lot outside.

Once I get out into the parking lot, my car is the only one remaining. Another day of work is finished, and an evening of beet harvesting awaits. I am about to get into the car when I noticed something laying on the hood. I pick up the object, cautiously. It's a bag. There's a note attached to it.

“Dear Dwight,” I say, reading the note, “just wanted to give you something to celebrate our first sale together. Looking forward to a fruitful relationship. Jim.”

I scoff at the note as I remove it from the bag, throwing it to the ground. The note is pandering, a clear indication of weakness, although I can't help but admit that I am looking forward to a fruitful relationship with Jim as well. But it's not the kind of thing you tell somebody, unless you're some kind of girl. The bag is made of plastic, but I can't see through it. It feels strangely malleable; the top is twisted shut, sealed with a piece of string. I untie the string.

“Gah!”

The bag falls open as loose green jello pours out over my hands. I take a step back, feeling myself convulse briefly. I shake my hands wildly in order to get the jello off, and it falls onto the parking lot's asphalt ground, jiggling wildly in little chunks. I stare at the empty bag in horror, which has floated down to the ground along with the jello and the discarded note.

As I stare at the green mess in the parking lot - as I wipe the remaining bits from my hands - images flash in my mind. Jim, staring at Darryl's jello cups. Jim, asking me if I dislike jello. Jim, telling me he was going to wait in the warehouse for a few minutes before leaving, while I went upstairs alone. I come to a horrifying realization; I was letting myself get too comfortable, hoping Jim might end up an ally. But no. He is not. And I have been duped.

Jim is a wolf in Jim's clothing!

.....

The sun draws low in the sky, and its light flickers through the branches and leaves as I walk through my land. Down the dirt road that approaches my barn, onto smaller paths that wind their way through my property. The smells of the forest tickle my nostrils, along with the fragrance of some kind of dead animal in the nearby forest. I've walked these paths many a time in the past – often to enjoy a little time alone, or sometimes to mentally map out a new weapon I'm designing. But as the afternoon wears on, I'm not thinking about those things. I'm thinking about my day at work. I'm thinking about Jim.

Mose is in the beet fields working on the harvest, and I will join him later, but I told him I wanted to take a walk around the farm and check everything out – make sure everything looks okay, and make sure one's interloping or waiting to steal our beet harvest. All of which I am doing, but I can't get the bitter taste of Jim's jello surprise attack out of my mouth. Was it a declaration of war? Is he my enemy now, or was it just a joke? I can't see how it could possibly be funny, but thanks to years of experience in interacting with others, I have learned that some people have strange and deficient senses of humor.

As I arrive at the field where I grow hemp, all thoughts of Jim disappear from my mind: I have an intruder.

“Hey you!”

The kid looks up from the middle of the field, an armful of hemp tucked under his armpit.

“That's my hemp!”

The kid runs into the nearby forest, and while I try to follow him, I'm caught up by the undergrowth and run out of breath. Normally I'm an incredibly fast runner, but in this case, I must not have given myself enough time to recuperate after that productive day at work. Five minutes later and that kid would have been in serious trouble. I hear him laugh as he disappears through the trees, and I curse myself for forgetting to bring a weapon on my farm patrol. This is not a good start to an evening of harvesting.

I continue on my way, and before long, I reach the family graveyard. This is sometimes a place where I go to meditate – and, of course, it is the place where the Schrute family hosts both their weddings and their funerals. The gravestones stare blankly at me, their silent faces engraved with the names of my ancestors. At least no one is tainting my family graveyard by fornicating in it, which I've caught them doing before. Unfortunately, even as I tell myself this, I noticed signs of sexual activity that must have occurred recently. A butt print is clearly visible on the bare earth in front of one gravestone. It can't be more than a couple of days old.

“Sorry, great-aunt Traudl,” I tell the gravestone. “I've tried to build a fence before, but they just tear it down.”

Looking at the gravestones begins to put me in a contemplative mood, and I start feeling a little morose. Maybe it's just the unexpected turn of events at the end of my work day, or maybe it's the butt print staring up at me from the parched dust of the grave. I wonder if I will one day be buried in this cemetery. Will my grave be somewhere in this tiny lot, soiled by teen lust?

“Dwight,” says Mose, who suddenly appears from the darkening forest like a bearded ghost. “Beth is here to help out.”

“Thank you Mose. I'll be at the fields in a moment.”

I take another moment to look at the graves of my ancestors as Mose walks backwards, disappearing again into the gloomy forest. The sky is moving from an intense orange to a deepening blue as the evening draws on. I decide it's time to attend to be the beets, and walk a dirt path on the way to the field.

After having such a disconcerting episode with the jello when I was about to leave for work, I decided that Mose and I might like a little company when we harvested the beets. So as soon as I returned to the farmhouse I called Beth, my old babysitter, and asked her to come over. I'm glad she's here; I have some fond memories of her nursing me as a child, and she played a large part in teaching me the value of discipline and authority. Beth is a quiet woman, older than myself of course, but she's very strong for a woman. She's like a female ox. She'll pull many beets tonight.

I emerge from the wooded path and reach the beet field adjoining the barn and farmhouse itself. Mose is standing beside a wheelbarrow with a lantern in the middle of the field, and Beth is waiting with her hands clasped at her waist.

“I'm glad you took my invitation,” I tell her.

Beth nods at me, and after a moment, her normally passive expression changes into a strange smile. I notice a glint in her eye as she stares at me.

“So why did you call me and ask me to come over here... should we go inside?”

I look over at the farmhouse, several windows lit up in the deepening night.

“What? The beets aren't inside, they're out here.”

“I don't understand.”

“I called you here to help Mose and I with the beat harvest.”

“Oh,” says Beth, her smile changing into a frown.

“What did you think I called you for?”

“Uh, I'm not sure. Nothing. How long do you think the harvest will take?”

“We'll work well after midnight, after which you will leave and I will rest myself for another day of work tomorrow. There's a new employee and it looks like he'll be trouble. Now let's get to work!”

Mose and Beth begin to pick the beets nearest to the wheelbarrow. I am about to join them, but first, I look out over the beet field and notice that almost nothing has been picked.

“Mose, didn't you start while I was at work?”

“I was chasing a rabbit into the woods and got lost for a little while. Sorry Dwight.”

It's not surprising, but I can't help but sigh as I lean down and get to work. Getting Mose to focus on anything besides whittling and ping-pong is like trying to turn excess beet leaves into gold through alchemy. And believe me, I've tried.

My cousin and former babysitter toil beside me as the lantern lights our way through the field. I don't mind working at night, as I have excellent night vision and a soft touch with my beets. Not only that, but the Schrute family has passed down a long-running belief that beets harvested at night are hardier and more delectable than beets harvested during the day. My internet research hasn't confirmed that, but who am I to question the traditions of my ancestors? I find my bad mood melting away as I pull the beets from the earth, fondling them lovingly in my hands.

Jim took me by surprise today, but he won't get the upper hand again. If he decides to be an ally, or if he truly is an enemy, I will deal with him either way. For now, however, I put Jim out of my mind. I will deal with him tomorrow. Tonight – well, tonight is a special night. A night to enjoy myself. The beet harvest is upon us. Soon we will enjoy borscht, beet juice, beet leaf salad, and earn a good profit from selling our crop to neighbors, local stores, and roadside stands. All of it begins tonight. I can barely restrain my excitement.

Tonight, I will enjoy the beets of my labor.

.....
THE END!
.....