Chapter 6: Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect

Jim awakes to the sound of raindrops hitting the hotel window next to the bed and the sound of 49th Street traffic sixteen stories below. Turning his head from the window and pulling the pillow over his ears didn’t help, and soon he was poking Karen in the hip with his index finger. If he has to be awake this early, then so does she.

“Nnnnn,” she mumbles, swatting his hand away. “Sleeping. No.”

He sits up, swinging his feet onto the floor, and rubs a hand across his forehead. Coffee would be a wonderful thing right now. The room is warm, stuffy, and he reaches over and props the window open. A gust of fresh air wafts in, but so does the city noise, and suddenly Karen’s hitting him with the pillow, repeatedly.

“What are you doing?”

“I love you,” he says, smacking her on the lips. She makes a face at his morning breath. For some reason, this feels like a whole new day, he thinks, a wide, helpless grin spreading across his face. It feels like a weight has been lifted, a huge, unnamable weight. “Maybe you want to do some shopping today? Hit up Macy’s, buy them out?”

Suddenly she is more awake, throwing her hair into a loose ponytail and reaching for her glasses on the nightstand. She only wears them in the evenings when she’s reading or watching TV or in the early mornings before a shower; the rest of the time, she wears contacts. He thinks the glasses are pretty cute, in a dorky way. “Yeah, I think I could be talked into that,” she says, turning away as she changes into a polo shirt.

“I’m just going to go for a walk first,” he says, picking his ratty sneakers out of his suitcase. They really were going to have to get back to Scranton soon; he was running out of clean clothes. Maybe he’d buy some new stuff today. It felt like a good day for new clothes. “I’ll stop and get some coffee for us on the way back.”

“I’d die for a Krispy Kreme,” Karen says, crossing the room to the dresser and applying some kind of lotion under her eyes.

“I can do that,” he says, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders. He can feel her flinch a bit, but he leaves his hands where they are. “Want me to buy one for you?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know I can’t eat that kind of thing. I haven’t had a donut in… like, I don’t know, eight years. If you could get me egg whites on a whole wheat bagel, that would be great. Go, Halpert, go.”

“Well, I’m getting myself a donut. You stay here and make yourself presentable,” he says with a wave and a smile. She presses her lips together, tight, in response.

After he leaves she brushes her teeth, spits, looks in the mirror for a long moment. What the hell happened up here? she wonders. He was never so attentive, affectionate, and had never said the “L” word, not once. Now he was all over her like a lost puppy, and she didn’t like it. It was almost as if he’d done something massively wrong and was trying to make up for it.

You’re being an idiot, Fillipelli, she tells herself. All you ever wanted was for Jim to forget about Pam and actually pay attention to YOU, to be a good boyfriend, the kind Mom always says you deserve. Now he’s doing it, so why aren’t you happy?

She still couldn’t look away from the mirror, even though her reflection wasn’t telling her anything.

* * *

“Pam!”

She’s walking uphill, faster and faster, streams of warm breath puffing out of her nose and mouth, her scarf untangling, her gloves dangling from the sleeves of her jacket.

“Pam, wait up! Hold on a minute!”

Just keep walking, she tells herself, spotting the Brooklyn Public Library up ahead. If I can just get there, I can lose him somewhere in the shelves. If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere.

“Leave me alone,” she calls back with all the strength she can muster. “I…” But then she falters, confused, thinking again of the tattoo on her back.

“Pam, I’m sorry I got angry,” he says. “I guess I was just… surprised about the… you know, the tattoo. But look… I love you, okay? You’re wonderful and amazing and… last night was just… amazing…”

Don’t you know any other adjectives?

“Thanks,” she replies, and suddenly, for some strange reason, her tongue curls up, as if trying to form an R. Hmm, that’s strange, she thinks, then blinks at him. “Look, Jim, I just… I’m pretty confused right now, and even if we were together before, I… I just need to take things a little more slowly, okay?”

“Okay,” he says hesitantly, his eyes probing her face, as if to ask, So no more sex?

“I need some time alone.”

His face looks angry, then shifts. “I understand,” he says simply. “Look, Pam, if you need anything, just call me. I, uh, left my number back at your apartment. On the fridge.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Call me later, okay? I’ll take you to dinner.” Her face must be showing something, because he draws back a bit. “Or maybe we could hang out tomorrow, see a Broadway show or something.”

“Maybe. Seeya, Jim.”

He walks back down the hill, his hands in his coat pockets, and she can’t help but wonder why the hell this feels so wrong. His attention, his desire to be around her every second doesn’t feel like true love – it feels cloying, suffocating, too much.

But then why is his name scratched into her back?

“I need some coffee,” she says aloud, then realizes that she’s standing in front of a Starbucks. “I also need to stop talking to myself.”

Over an overpriced venti soy latte, she sits by the window and watches as the rain moves in from the west and starts to fall. Shit, no umbrella.

What an unbelievable day or two it’s been, she thinks, taking off the lid of the coffee and blowing on it. A drop or two runs down her hand, but she doesn’t notice. Around her, tired businessmen and women wait in line, shake off their umbrellas and wellies, and watch the pretty artsy girl in the corner, looking like she’s somewhere else entirely.

It’s always been you, Pam. Always.

Where did that voice come from? she thinks, jumping in her seat as if she’d been shocked. She closes her eyes, trying to block out the memory that’s threatening to surface at any second.

No, I don’t want to remember that… it hurts too much, she has time to think, and then it’s there, it’s there for no reason at all. She’s replaying last night with Jim in her head, and all of a sudden there’s someone else on top of her in the memory, someone who’s got to line himself up differently because if their faces are in the same place, his feet and toes are nearly six inches below hers. He’s significantly taller than her, slimmer, and he moves in all the right places, but he doesn’t seem arrogant about it. There’s something about him that seems nervous, unsure of himself, as though they’ve never been together this way before. His lips are on her neck, their clothes lying in a pile next to the bed. Her hands are on his warm hips, guiding him deliriously close, but over their heads it’s not an Asian lamp but instead a rough white ceiling with faded glow-in-the-dark constellation stickers that don’t work anymore.

Oh, but something works, and it’s working better than it did the other night. The hair falling over his face and onto her bare shoulder is lighter and longer than Jim’s, and he’s gentler, the bed’s not knocking into the wall… but now it is, and they both giggle. From downstairs she can hear the sounds of a party – music, laughter, occasionally something breaking.

“They’re going to hear us,” she manages, her entire body trembling with laughter. “They’re going to think it’s an earthquake.”

“Who are you kidding, Beesley? This is a 9.0.” The voice is different; kinder, easier, honest. And so’s hers.

“Shhh. If you stop what you were just doing, you’re in serious trouble, Halpert.”

“Duly noted.”

She can’t see his face, but suddenly she feels the smile slip off his face, feels the tension in the room grow. He props himself up on the palms of his hands and touches his forehead to hers. “Pam, I’m happy… believe me, I’m happy about this, but… you’re not going to go back, are you? Back to him? Because… I think that might kill me.”

“Don’t talk, Jim,” she whispers, smashing her hips up against his, pulling him into her, and he stops talking.

She can’t bring the coffee to her lips for fear her shaking hand will spill coffee all down the front of her. Where did that come from? I don’t remember that happening, where it happened, when it did. She strains to think back, to picture the face that matched the body, the quiet voice, the laugh she somehow knew so well.

This much was clear: it wasn’t the same guy she’d slept with last night.

Pam bolts upright out of her chair and slips back into the rain, her coffee left, forgotten, steam still emanating from the cardboard cup.

* * *

He’s been gone two hours and she’s ridiculously pissed off. She showered, dried her hair, carefully applied makeup, dressed, cleaned the hotel room, watched The Today Show and Regis and then she starts pacing. Her cell phone rings – it’s her friend Cheryl – but she doesn’t answer it. She’s too angry to talk to anyone right now.

When Jim breezes through the door looking like nothing should be wrong, she wants to kick him square in the nuts. He’s holding one coffee and a notebook under his arm and a weird smile on his face.

“Where’d you get the coffee, Mexico City?” she hisses, throwing one of his work shoes at him. He ducks, then crosses the room and hands her the coffee.

“I know, that took longer than I thought. Here, take the coffee. Karen… I was just walking through Central Park… and I looked up at the skyscrapers and I just felt like … what’s the word?”

“Uh, ‘an idiot?’”

“No,” he says, not even pausing to joke with her, or even be offended, which displeases her even more. “Here, look at this. I guess I was inspired. I think paper really isn’t my calling after all.”

He hands her the notepad, which has some kind of messy sketch on it.

“I didn’t know you liked drawing,” she says, and suddenly her voice sounds as though it’s coming from a million miles away. Do I even know this man at all?

The drawing – which Karen hated to admit, was actually pretty good – was comprised of a lovely two-story, Georgian-style house with detailed bricks, surrounded by elm trees and shrubbery. And directly above the front door was a beautiful, semi-circle terrace filled with potted plaints and two comfortable-looking chairs.

“I was thinking, maybe when we get back to Scranton I could enroll in some architecture classes,” he says, but she can’t stop staring at his drawing. “I mean, they don’t exactly have the best program, but maybe if I took a coupla courses there and did well then I could transfer somewhere else, maybe here. You always say how much you miss the city.”

“You have more?” she asks, turning the page.

“Yeah, check ‘em out,” he replies, proud.

The next one is of a tall, narrow apartment building with an awning and two twirled-looking evergreen trees standing watch on either side of the grand entrance. Very different from his first drawing, yet this was interesting… the penthouse also featured a tiny terrace. In this picture, Jim had added two chairs as well as a miniscule ice container and champagne bottle.

“Seems like you’re into terraces,” Karen mutters, and suddenly she doesn’t know what else to say. Really, there is nothing left to say. After last night, she had really started to believe that Jim had forgotten about Pam, and was ready to move on. But she’d seen the tapes, she knew what the drawings meant, and now she wasn’t so sure. Not so sure at all.

* * *

She goes shopping by herself, saying she needs some time to think. Thinking about the distant look in her eyes, Jim flops back on the bed, flips on some mindless show on the Discovery Channel, and folds his arms behind his head. She’s going to break up with me, he thinks, and the fact that he isn’t more concerned bothers him. Why doesn’t he care more?

He orders room service – cheeseburger with fries – and listens to his stomach growling. He hops in the shower, hoping the warm water and sweet-smelling shampoo will wash away his growing sense of uneasiness.

As he’s toweling off his hair, his cell phone rings. He sighs, impatient for his food to arrive, and checks his pants pocket to see who’s calling. Oh, this should be good.

“Hello, Dwight.”

“Why, if it isn’t Jim Halpert.”

“Why do you sound surprised that it’s me? You did call me, didn’t you?”

A moment of silence ensues. “Shut up, Jim, I’m trying to be nice.”

Jim can hear a stern female voice muttering something in the background. “Angela says hi.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hello, Angela.”

“We were wondering if you were able to find Pam.”

What the hell? Why does everyone keep asking me about this Pam?

“Pam who?”

He hears Dwight sigh, a scuffling sound, and then Angela’s high, scratchy voice. “Oh, Jim… good for you. Dwight and I were hoping for the day when you’d finally put that curly-haired minx behind you.”

“Um.”

“It’s Dwight again. We’ll have to commence this conversation upon your return to Scranton. Michael also says hello, and that he misses you, and also that you have no sick time left after this vacation.”

“Thanks, Dwight.”

Click.

“Seriously…” Jim has time to shake his head before there’s a knock on his door – it’s his food. He pays and tips the busboy and then arranges the tray precariously on his lap when his phone rings again. “If it’s Michael, I swear…”

It’s a weird area code, a phone number he doesn’t know. He hesitates for a moment, letting it ring two, three times. Then, finally, his arm shoots out and his hand grabs the phone as if his limbs are no longer attached to his body.

“Hello?”

“H-hi.” The voice is soft, low, hesitant. “Do you know who this is?”

“Um…”

“We, uh, kind of met the other day at my art show. You gave me your phone number? I know, I feel so stupid calling you, but I had to.”

I don’t remember going to any art show, and why would I give my number out when I have Karen? Then again, this voice sounds so damn familiar to him.

“I think we should get together,” the voice says. “I have a lot of questions for you."

“I, uh…” I can’t, I have a girlfriend, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, I don’t even know your name, all of these things want to come out of his mouth, they should come out of his mouth, but none of them do. “Okay.”

“Will you meet me for a drink tonight? Tavern on the Green in Central Park?”

He laughs. “I thought for a minute you were going to ask me to meet you at the top of the Empire State Building or something. How Cary Grant of you.”

He’s shocked when her giggle on the other end of the line makes him blush a bit, makes him happy he can make her laugh. The conversation feels easier than it should have. She has a nice laugh, he thinks, suddenly a bit nervous about their meeting. And I like making her laugh. Even though she’s a stranger.

Isn’t she?