Author's Chapter Notes:
I’m taking a bit of a risk with this one (and I am prepared for the barrage of garbage), but it’s a story that’s been begging me to be written. It was inspired by the following quote from Jenna “ so . . . there you go. I didn’t just pull it completely out of my ass. Anyway, here’s the quote:
“I don't know if Jim and Pam are ultimately meant to be together. I say this to producers all the time: ‘Sometimes that person helps you become the person that you're supposed to be to meet the person you're supposed to marry.’ Maybe that's our story. And if that's our story, that's still a beautiful story to tell.”
It’s probably the most ambitious and planned out fic I’ve attempted, so I hope you’ll give it a chance. C’mon. Put that old shoe or rotten tomato down and read and think about whether it might be possible and realistic for things to play out like this…
If this one works and I don’t receive any death threats, I might do a companion piece from Pam’s POV.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
“I don't know if Jim and Pam are ultimately meant to be together. I say this to producers all the time: ‘Sometimes that person helps you become the person that you're supposed to be to meet the person you're supposed to marry.’ Maybe that's our story. And if that's our story, that's still a beautiful story to tell.”
It’s probably the most ambitious and planned out fic I’ve attempted, so I hope you’ll give it a chance. C’mon. Put that old shoe or rotten tomato down and read and think about whether it might be possible and realistic for things to play out like this…
If this one works and I don’t receive any death threats, I might do a companion piece from Pam’s POV.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
“What happened?”
They always ask it in the same way, with the same inflection on “happened”. The people who ask vary quite a bit: awkward young high school girls who either simplify or complicate everything depending on their hormone levels, middle-aged housewives who’ve been there, done that but are still trying to figure it all out, little old ladies who need to believe a happy ending is always possible, despite what life may have taught them. The people who ask are almost exclusively women, but that is where the similarities end. Except for how they ask it: “What happened?”
I’ve gotten used to it, sort of. The barrista at Starbucks who squints at my face before her eyebrows shoot up in recognition and suddenly feels it’s her right to know everything, to understand the intricate weaving of my failed relationship even though I don’t completely understand it myself. People feel like Pam and I belong to them – our story is their story, and that they should have a say in it. And I guess that’s my fault, really. If I had been more like Stanley – kept my nose buried in a crossword puzzle, paid less attention to the cameras, suppressed my goofy personality and desire to be liked – people would probably not only not recognize me, but they probably wouldn’t care what happened between me and a shy receptionist at a failing paper company. But I had to wear my heart on my sleeve, make every woman feel like my mother or sister or potential soul mate. So now it’s somewhat disconcerting that hundreds of people (or thousands or millions – I have no idea how many people actually watched our show) feel like they know me better than I know myself. And the truth is, they might.
My mind has often tried to convince me of a lot of things – that I loved somebody when I didn’t, that I didn’t love somebody when I did – with varying degrees of success. I thought that just maybe I was fooling everyone with those purposeful shrugs, as if I didn’t really care, or my carefully worded talking heads. But despite my best efforts, the audience always seemed to figure out the truth. The damn cameras – they are a bitch. They captured every look of longing, every eye roll, every smirk or grimace. They knew when I was lying to someone else or to myself, and it was their job to tell the truth. So I guess I can’t blame these strangers who want to know, after years of watching my longing and seeing me finally get exactly what I thought I wanted, why it didn’t work out. I’d want to know if I were them.
I’m so tempted sometimes to try to explain it, to defend myself, maybe even to defend Pam. A part of me wants to write a proclamation and publish it in the Scranton Times and wherever else The Office may have a following. But I’ve learned a little bit about being a pseudo-celebrity and rule number one is: just shut it. No matter how careful you think you’re being with your words, no matter how little you try to say, you will almost always end up regretting 99% of what comes out of your mouth. So I usually smile, turn on the charm. “It’s complicated,” I might offer, because that’s the truth. And most times they take the hint and instead ask for an autograph or a picture and I gladly indulge them as thanks for letting it drop.
But once in awhile there is a drunk girl at a bar or a nosy grandmother who will be like a dog with a bone: “Did she cheat on you? Did you cheat on her? Was it that art school? Was it Roy/Karen/Katy?” They try to simplify it, try to place blame appropriately, but there is no way to dole out the blame on this one. Pam and I were both equal partners in our demise, just as we were equally guilty of the five years it took us to get together in the first place. And to try to explain the complex downfall of the infamous “Jam” in the middle of a Starbuck’s, with a line of cranky, caffeine-starved people behind you . . . well. It’s nearly impossible. And frankly, far too much of my adult life has been open to the public as it is. So I’m grateful that, as a salesman, I’ve learned how to steer conversations where I want them to go, and I deflect the line of questioning however I can. I sometimes think of Pam getting these same types of questions and the way she might stammer or blush or even actually, God forbid, answer. I don’t think she’d purposefully throw me under the bus or anything, but there are two sides to every story and her version … well. I’m still not sure what her version is. Verbal communication was never our strong point. Neither was timing.
The show is off the air now, the series finale trying to tie up all the loose story lines in a neat, packaged, marketable sort of way that can be promoed in 15 seconds. But Pam’s and my story is one with frayed edges that refuses to be neatly tied or summarized in a sound bite. Although it has been months since Pam and I actually broke up, it’s only been a few weeks since the final show aired. After Pam and I left Dunder Mifflin and refused to let the cameras follow us beyond the terms of our contract, the filmmakers dragged our story out for far too long, using the existing footage they had to script a soap opera of sorts. They toyed with the audience to create some kind of climactic dramatic ending instead of the slower fizzle that it actually was. So to our “fans,” who haven’t had much time to process it yet, the response to our break up is still visceral, personal. People expect me to be broken and weepy and are somewhat disappointed to find that I’m functioning and able to smile. I’ve been lectured and propositioned and hugged, often all in one conversation. The constant scrutiny and unwanted advice has been exhausting. I’m looking forward to some day in the hopefully not so distant future when my fifteen minutes of fame will be long forgotten and I’ll be able to go out in public without being seen as one half of the most famous former couple in Scranton.
Yeah, I’m really looking forward to that day. To a fresh start.
Fresh isn’t something I’ve felt for awhile. Even when Pam and I got together and we called it a fresh start, it wasn’t really. When you’re finally happy after such a long bout with misery, a fresh start seems so simple, like it will be easy to forget what made you miserable for so long. But underneath the shiny new surface of our fledgling relationship was a whole lot of rotting stuff, between us and within ourselves, that eventually we couldn’t ignore.
So I’m due for a fresh start, but that time hasn’t come quite yet. I’m still in Scranton, still running into people daily who pepper me with questions like machine gun fire. I walk around in a constant state of tension with tight, slouched shoulders and a baseball cap pulled down low. I still can’t relax and I still can’t be anonymous. Not yet.
So today, when I run to the Steamtown Mall to pick up a few shirts for my new job, I still duck my head as I pass by a group of women with strollers. I grab several shirts off the rack without trying them on because I’ve discovered that a disproportionate number of teenage girls spend time at the mall, and my “fans” (if you can call them that) are disproportionately teenage girls. Plus, most teenage girls have yet to learn the art of subtlety or reading body language or quiet conversation vs. squealing interrogation. They are like Kelly on steroids. So the quicker I can get in and out, the better. I toss the shirts over my arm and turn, head down.
“Excuse me?” The voice behind me is soft and female and I tense in a way that I never thought I could at the sound of a soft female voice asking for my attention.
I turn and ready myself for the barrage: Oh my God! Aren’t you Jim Halpert? I, like, totally love your show! What happened with you and Pam?
But the woman I turn to face isn’t a teenager – she’s probably about my age – and she doesn’t have that anxious, excited look people get when they recognize someone from TV.
“I’m sorry to bug you, but . . . do you mind me asking: um, how tall are you?”
I tilt my head, surprised. This is a new one. My vital statistics – age, height, weight, eye color (sometimes listed as green, sometimes as hazel), even shoe size – are posted on just about every fan website. People don’t usually bother with confirmation of the obvious.
“Um . . . 6’3”?” I answer, still waiting for some kind of bait and switch.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she nods. She holds up the brightly colored shirt in her hands. “What size would you wear? A large? Or extra large? Or, like, a large tall?”
“Um…”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at herself. “I’m sorry. I just … I’m trying to buy a birthday present for my brother-in-law and he’s about your size.” She looks me over for a brief moment. “Maybe a little . . . wider.”
She doesn’t seem to know who I am at all and I feel a wave of relief flow over me, like the tingle that travels through your arms and hands when you narrowly avoid an accident.
“How much wider?” I ask, relaxing a little. “Because I’d get a large tall, but depending on his . . . um, girth . . . you might want to get an extra large.”
She laughs. “His girth is fairly substantial.”
I bite my lip to hold back a that’s what she said. What can I say? Old habits…
She looks down at the shirt. “So maybe the extra large? The large tall just has longer sleeves, right?”
I nod and she bites her lip, still looking down at the rather unfortunate shirt in her hands. She sees me looking at it, too.
“It’s hideous, isn’t it?”
I start to shake my head, even though it is truly hideous, but she continues without waiting for my answer.
“It is. I know. And the fact that I’m spending hard-earned money on a shirt like this will haunt me forever. But he’ll love it.”
I grin slightly. “Is he . . . um . . .blind? Or . . . a clown?”
She suppresses a laugh. “Oh, he’s a clown alright. But mostly he just has alarmingly bad taste.”
We smile at each other and I feel something unfamiliar and worrisome tickle at my throat and down my spine. For a moment I almost mistake it for fear before realizing that it might be interest. Attraction, even.
“Okay, well, thanks.” She tucks her hair behind one ear in a way that reminds me of why I feel slightly afraid. “If I’m going to invest in this repulsive clown shirt, it might as well fit him.”
“No problem. At least you didn’t ask me to try it on.”
She smiles again and her smile is easy and light, like it’s the most familiar expression to her face, the one she wears most often.
“Oh, one more thing?”
I tense a bit, fearing that she’s known who I am all along, wondering what question she’s going to ask. Why didn’t you tell Pam you loved her sooner? Why didn’t you propose at Toby’s party?
“Um. Will you try it on for me? Just to be sure?” She sees the look on my face and laughs again. “I’m kidding!”
I shake my head and roll my eyes at her.
She tries unsuccessfully to swallow her smile. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . kidding. No, I just . . . do you know if there’s a Hallmark store at this mall? I need a card to go with this horrid shirt and I’m not from around here…”
“Um, yeah. It’s down by Boscov’s, I think. By the store where all the teenagers hang out?”
“Abercrombie?”
“No, the other one.”
“Hollister?”
“Bingo.”
She laughs and shifts her purse to her other arm, not quite ready to leave yet, or not quite sure how to end the conversation.
I’m actually not quite ready to end the conversation myself. “Where … where’re you from? Since you’re not . . . well . . . from around here.” I’m all sorts of awkward and ridiculous. Damn. I’m so out of practice at this.
“Oh. Um, Philly?” She offers it like a question, like ever heard of it, but without Andy’s condescension. The way she does it is charming, as if she thinks stating “Philly” in a matter-of-fact way would sound pretentious.
“Just in Scranton for the shopping?”
“Yeah,” she deadpans. “I thought: Magnificent Mile. Rodeo Drive. Madison Avenue,” she holds up one hand, palm up. “Or Scranton’s Steamtown Mall.” She holds up the other hand, same way, but lifts it high, while the other drops, like weights on a scale.
“No contest,” I agree.
“It is a shopper’s Nirvana.”
“A Mecca for people seeking clown shirts.”
She laughs, and it feels good to make her laugh. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt such an easy rapport with a woman, and I feel like I do when I hear a once favorite song that I haven’t heard in awhile: nostalgic. The joking and the banter with this woman brings back memories of when I first met Pam, when things had been simpler. Pam and I always had the rapport, but we also always had the added tension of a fianc or a girlfriend or our checkered history. This feels . . . unfamiliarly comfortable. Easy.
I shift my weight, slide one hand into the front pocket of my jeans. And, because I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two over the years, I take a glance at her left hand. No ring.
“Um. Where in Philly are you from?”
“Bella Vista. You know Philly?”
“Not really,” I say. “Well, not yet. I’m actually … I’m moving there in a few weeks.”
“No kidding?”
I shake my head, remembering that I’m not kidding. My fresh start is fast approaching and every time I say it out loud I feel a little lighter and more hopeful. I glance down at her flip-flop clad feet, tan and peeking out from the bottom of her jeans. Her toenails are painted a rosy pink.
“Where in Philly?” she asks.
“Um… Queen Village? Monroe Street? I don’t actually know the area that well yet…”
Her jaw drops a bit in slightly overexaggerated shock. “That’s 5 or 6 blocks from me!”
“Really?”
She nods, her straight, sandy hair sliding against her collarbone. The ends are smooth, thick, and even, like a paint brush.
“Well. We’ll be neighbors, practically.”
I have to admit, the prospect isn’t unappealing. “Small world.”
We stand awkwardly for a moment and I consider asking her for her information, her name, number, something. Despite my previous successes (if you can call them that) with women like Katy and Karen, my experience with Pam has made me question my instincts and I shift my weight, trying to decide if I’m reading her warmth correctly. She mistakes my movement, my insecurity, for impatience.
“Well. Thanks again….” she trails off, inviting my name.
“Jim.”
“Emily,” she says, touching her hand lightly against her chest. We don’t shake hands. “So. Maybe I’ll see you around Philly,” she adds.
I smile, impressed by her easy confidence, her friendly smile, her unambiguous but subtle flirtation. I think that maybe I used to be like her once, not so long ago.
“Maybe I should get one of those shirts. You won’t be able to miss me.”
“Jim,” she says, her face serious. “If you’re wearing this shirt?” she holds it up, “I might miss you on purpose.”
I shake my head in mock disappointment. “So shallow.”
She laughs again and holds out her hand. I take it.
“It was nice meeting you, Jim.”
“You too, Emily.”
“See you around.”
“Sure. Yeah.”
She slides her slender hand from mine and smiles one more time before she turns and walks away, her hair swinging slightly against her shoulders.
If I had to pinpoint when I knew that things were changing, I would probably say early August. But maybe they had actually started to change the night of Toby’s goodbye party, when Andy had unwittingly sabotaged my plan to propose. After that night, nothing went quite like I thought it would. When we got home after the party, Pam was distant, a little cool. Not exactly angry but … something was off. I wondered if she had been expecting the ring and I suspected that she was getting tired of waiting for me, tired of my joking around. I was kind of tired of waiting, too, so I decided to ask her the next day, first thing in the morning. I’d wake up early and watch her sleep until her eyes fluttered open and I’d be waiting there with the ring. Fuck the ass kicking. I was ready to marry her.
But Pam woke up even earlier than I did and leaned over me while it was still almost dark outside, telling me she was running home to do some things and would see me later. And when we did see each other later the weight of our mutual disappointment took its toll and we got into a stupid argument about where we would eat dinner, although the argument was really about a lot more than that. So . . . no proposal.
And then I talked to my brother, Jeff, about it all and when I told him how Pam was going to New York for three months, he had groaned.
“You can’t ask her now, dipwad.”
“Um. Why, exactly?”
“Because it’s like giving a girl your high school ring before you both go off to college. It’s kind of desperate, like getting matching tattoos or . . . branding her.”
“Branding her? Come on.”
“Yeah. It’s like you’re trying to mark her as yours. So when she meets all those artsy New York guys, she’ll already be taken. It’s kind of passive aggressive, actually.”
“You’re insane.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
But the more that I thought about it, the more right my stupid brother seemed. Asking Pam to marry me did seem sort of desperate, given the timing. Here she was, about to go off on the biggest adventure of her life so far, an adventure I had encouraged 100%, and I was going to play the part of hometown honey, distracting her with wedding plans and shit.
I imagined a guy asking her out after class and her saying, “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m engaged. My fianc is back in Scranton.”
The guy would look at her and say, “Really?” and then look for the ring on her finger and depending on the guy, she might be self conscious of its size or its design, like she sometimes had been with Roy’s ring. And then the guy would say, “Scranton, huh?” in a confused sort of way, his voice slightly smug.
And Pam might feel a little tickle of something that she’d try to dismiss, but it would be there. It might remind her of being engaged to Roy, of the sense that something was a little off, that the life she was leading was not exactly the life she wanted. Not that I thought she didn’t want to be with me, but just that she might not want the tired label of “engaged girl,” one she’d had already for years, following her around on her big adventure.
So I sat her down a few nights later and explained what I was thinking. I told her that I had jumped the gun a bit and now that she was going to Pratt, I didn’t want her to think about anything other than what she was doing there, what her dreams were, what she wanted to accomplish. I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, and that I wanted to marry her, but only when the time was right, when she was back in Scranton and ready to move forward. I told her that getting engaged right before we were going to be apart for three months felt reminiscent of war brides during WWII – rushing the process a bit. And we were in no hurry. We had already waited years to be together. What was three more months in the grand scheme of things?
Pam had argued with me, saying that she didn’t want to wait, but I stood my ground. I was confident that I was doing the right thing. The mature thing.
“Go,” I said. “Be brilliant. We’ve got time.”
So she went, her ring finger bare.
Chapter End Notes:
Updates should be fairly quick on this one . . .
Feedback is always most appreciated.
Feedback is always most appreciated.
