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Author's Chapter Notes:
 

This is an Improv!Fic for sharky. Yay for Detroit! So, this is kind of short, because I'm very slow and had to take a time-out to watch Ioan Gruffudd on Ferguson. I have priorities, okay? Also, I was a little tipsy (which I know some of you enjoy), so please forgive me. I tried. Unbeta'ed. Yikes.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

 

It's Jim's first sales call. Ever. He climbs into the dusty passenger seat of an ‘80's era Trans-Am that smells faintly of manure and something he can't place. Potatoes, maybe?

 

His mentor for the day, a bizarre character named Dwight Schrute, jams his key in the ignition and the car roars to life, coughing up a cloud of black exhaust. When Jim gets his first paycheck, it's going towards a more sensible car. His Dad drives a '69 Mustang and the gas consumption is ridiculous. A Civic might be good. Or a Corolla. Dwight doesn't seem like the kind of person who cares about fuel prices, though.

 

Confirming all Jim's worst fears about his new tutor, Dwight turns to him with a slightly deranged grin and asks: "Are you ready for the lesson of a life time?"

 

Jim stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he's serious. "Um. Sure."

 

Dwight sighs. "No. God. You're supposed to say: Yes!"

 

Clutching his messenger bag against his chest, Jim nods, dread welling up in his stomach. This is going to be a very long day. "Yes."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"No. Absolutely not."

 

As he pulls out of the parking lot, Dwight smiles tightly to himself. "We'll see."

 

*

They drive for nearly fifteen minutes before Jim has to roll down the window to keep from choking on the farm-y smell of the car. Dwight talks non-stop, quoting rules and laws and things that Jim must remember if he ever hopes to survive in the cutthroat paper industry. He makes it sound like piracy on the high seas, quoting from great literature, and sometimes possibly Tolkien. "The great American poet Edgar Allan Poe once wrote... "

 

Jim interrupts, the temptation too great to resist. "Wait, I thought Bob Dylan said Smokey Robinson was America's greatest poet."

 

"No. Bob Dylan said he was the greatest living poet, Jim. Lesson number two: get your facts straight."

 

Right. Lessons. Jim had willfully forgotten lesson number one (something about planting seeds?), relegating it to the back of his mind due to its vaguely disturbing sexual nature. "Got it." Dwight parks the car with a firm yank on the emergency break and Jim peers out the window. "We're making a sales call at Staples?"

 

"Lesson number three, Jim. Know your competition."

 

"I already know them, Dwight. I shop here all the time. They have great prices. And they are not going to buy from us." Jim climbs out of the car and glances up at the huge red and white sign.

 

"Trust me, Jim, I know what I'm doing." Dwight carefully closes his door. "Into the den of tigers..."

 

"Lions." Jim corrects. "So, how exactly is this a sales call?"

 

Dwight mysteriously veers off towards back. "You have so much to learn, young Skywalker."

 

Jim follows reluctantly, wondering if it's too late to take that job serving at Cooper's.

 

 

 

 

 

Elements:

Dwight/Jim

'69 Ford Mustang

Smokey Robinson

Tiger

White and Red



Paper Jam is the author of 24 other stories.
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