Pam hates trains.

She hates the screech of hot metal and the smell of burning fuel. She hates the clackety-clackety of the tracks and the whining buzz of the electronic whistle. She hates sitting in her car waiting for a train to pass and feeling like she’s moving even when she’s standing still.  It makes her nauseous so she usually closes her eyes and waits for the impatient horn of the guy stuck behind her to let her know that the train has passed and that she should get a move on. If she stops to think about it, it’s kind of like a metaphor for her life.

She hates what trains stand for. She knows too well that the legend of the never-ending freedom of the open rails is just a myth. People like her don’t go on adventures…they stay put. It seems cruel to long for a way out when she knows there are only dead ends.

And she can’t understand why all those damn country-western songs about lonesome whistles and whippoorwills and leaving are so popular. Roy’s dad listened to stuff like that…Hank Williams, Merle Haggard, Bill Monroe and Hank Snow.  He’d get this far away look in his eyes as he listened to his scratchy vinyl records and she wondered sometimes where it was that the train in his imagination was taking him. During one family cookout, she had gotten in a conversation with him about music…just to be polite.

“You know, Pam,” he had opined, “the whistle of a train is both the happiest sound and the saddest sound there is. It sounds so lonesome, you know? But it’s a good kind of lonesome.”

After the summer she’s had, she knows that there is no such thing as a good kind of lonesome.

She’s reminded of that as she’s hurtled through the Pennsylvania countryside. She hates that she’s stuck on this commuter train now, sandwiched between the window and the slightly sweaty businessman who is stuffed into the seat next to her. He clears his throat every forty-seven seconds (she’s been timing him) and punches numbers furiously into some sort of Excel spreadsheet.  Rather than spy on his work and give him the impression that she’s interested in what he’s doing (the mantra of “Please don’t let him talk to me…Please don’t let him talk to me” has been running through her head since he sat down) she presses her forehead against the window and tries to will the passing scenery to run in reverse…to take her further away from Philadelphia instead of increasingly and terrifyingly closer.

Two seats ahead of her and on the other side of the train, Michael and Dwight are fidgeting in their seats. They had been arguing about a neck-pillow, and now they are having some sort of battle of wills over the arm-rest.  She doesn’t understand what her purpose here is. She doesn’t know why she’s being required to attend the Northeast Paper Products Convention. All she knows is that at the last minute, Jan called Michael and requested that she come along to take notes on a very important meeting scheduled sometime tomorrow.

She had begged and pleaded with Michael to let her skip it. She had seen the memos about who was representing each branch at the convention and the thought of running into the Stamford delegation…well, just the junior member of that delegation…made her physically sick. When her pleading with Michael didn’t work, she had tried to tell him that she’d drive herself to Philadelphia and show up just in time for the meeting. She didn’t want to stay courtesy of Dunder-Mifflin in a nice hotel with a pool and gym facilities. She didn’t want a per diem for food that she could spend on shopping instead. She didn’t want to get out of Scranton, because…well…she didn’t want to see Jim.

“C’mon, Pam. I’m not taking no for an answer. Jan needs you. I need you,” Michael had informed her yesterday. “And besides, your long-lost compadre, Mr. Jim Halpert will be in attendance with his boss from Stamford.”

“Yeah, Michael. I know.”

The mention of Jim’s name had sent a crazy rush of feelings through her. She hadn’t talked to him since May…not since that night. After she had watched him walk out of the door, she sat in the blue glow of the darkened office, her head in her hands and tried to process what had just happened.  Her “I can’t” and her nodded assent to his question about the wedding had been knee-jerk reactions. There had been no thought behind them, just her primitive safety mechanism kicking in. Her old brain wanted to protect her from the unknown…from change.

But when she had time to slow her breathing and to think, things started to become clear. The memories of the look in his eyes, the solitary tear that had rolled down his cheek and his large hands on her waist all helped her focus…helped her realize what she had denied for so long. They helped her push down the fear that had instinctively reared its ugly head the second he deviated from their usual script. She could see the possibilities ahead when before she had only seen danger beckoning. When she grabbed her bag and walked out of the office, her stomach flipped in anticipation of the talk she’d have with Jim…and how they could figure this all out together.  She thought about calling him and asking him to come back, but she decided that sleeping on things would help. Her head was swirling with the ramifications of the big decision she was pretty sure she was about to make.

They never had that talk though. He had left.  Immediately.

When no calls came and when no email showed up in her inbox, she knew she had lost her chance. The hopes and possibilities that had supplanted her fears and insecurity turned into hurt and then into anger. Even now, thinking about it burns her insides. Had he ever even been her friend? How could he have told her all of that and then just walked away? How dare he shake up her world like a bottle of Coke and then run away to avoid the messy spray that was sure to follow? How dare he? 

And now? Just when she was starting to put her life back together and coming to terms with the empty space he had hollowed out of her when he left…she was being forced to see him again. What was she expected to do? Make small talk? Give him a hug? Maybe in a few months she’d be able to handle this, but this seems too soon…the feelings are still raw. She’s afraid that her first inclination will be to punch him…hard.  She wants him to hurt like she hurt. Maybe she’ll be the first person arrested at a paper supply convention.

She feels the train start to slow and gathers up her things. The guy next to her closes his laptop and shrugs back into his suit-coat. She looks over and sees that Michael and Dwight have both fallen asleep…a trickle of drool making its way out of the corner of her boss’ mouth. She sighs and steels her shoulders.  As the train pulls into the platform, she can see clusters of people. Most of them are businessmen and women, waiting to catch the train to something penciled in their day-planners. There are a few groups of people obviously waiting for someone. For the young man with a bouquet of grocery store flowers, the woman with a baby in a stroller and the elderly gentleman resting his hands on an empty wheelchair, trains don’t have a negative connotation. This Amtrak is bringing back parts of themselves…it’s making them whole.

As the train slides to a stop, the whistle blows and reaffirms what she already knows: that there’s no good kind of lonesome.

She stands to the side of the reception counter guarding the Scranton branch’s suitcases when she sees him step off of the elevator. He seems taller somehow and his hair looks longer and shaggier. His crisp white shirt is open at the throat revealing a patch of dark hair…reminding her of what she had missed out on…what he had ripped from her grasp when he left last May.

The anger rises, bile filling her throat. How can what he told her have meant anything if he’s able to be here now, functioning...laughing with the group of people who must be from Stamford? If he really had loved her…enough to destroy her world, then why wasn’t he a hollow shell? The unfairness of it all colors her cheeks a deep red.

And then she feels angry because she’s so angry. This isn’t like her. She’s not quickly provoked and tends to bury her rage until it’s only a few faint embers flickering somewhere behind her spleen. And this is Jim…her best friend and she wants nothing more than to stick something sharp in his eye. He’s turned her into something she’s not and for that she is…well, she’s pissed.

In what seems like slow-motion, the Stamford branch approaches the Scrantonites. Jim hangs to the back of the pack, behind the handsome man who must be Josh. Pam stays on the periphery, secretly praying that Dwight’s camouflage duffle bag will hide her. She’s aware that the two groups are exchanging greetings…handshakes and hugs…but she can’t make out distinct words. It’s like people are talking under a sea of deep green water. There’s something familiar about the color of the liquid shimmering in front of her eyes, but she can’t place it. She thinks that things like this only happen in movies…this break with reality… but then she realizes that her eyes have been locked with Jim’s for almost a minute. She wants to break the eye-contact. She tells herself that she has to look away but she can’t.  

Slowly, Michael’s voice breaks through the waves and brings her back to the surface. He’s yammering about leadership and the qualities that make a good boss. She still can’t look away from Jim, though. She’s transfixed. All of the emotion that was behind his eyes back on Casino Night is still there, but amplified tenfold. The longing, the hurt, and the disappointment…it’s all still fucking right there. It’s as if he’s the one who was broken…not her. He’s the one that left…what right does he have to look like that…to look…so….fucking….damaged?

She takes a step forward…purposefully. Michael hands over her room key and says something about a reunion of old friends, but she’s tuned him out.  She’s in front of Jim now and his eyes have gotten wider…even sadder, if that’s even possible. So she does the only thing she can.

She slaps him.

Hard.

Across the cheek.

When her palm connects with his face, she can almost feel the collective gasp of the people around them, but she doesn’t care. This is the most satisfying thing she’s done in months…maybe years. She doesn’t stop to gauge the reaction or offer an explanation. She heads straight to the open elevator.

It’s only once the doors close that she allows the tears to come.

Her hand is stinging and her wrist is throbbing. She’s never really hit anyone like that before.

Her hand hurts…but it’s a good kind of hurt.