Author's Chapter Notes:
One more mini-chapter today, and then more substance tomorrow. I'm not purposefully trickling it out . . . just want to make sure I'm not writing myself into a corner before I post.
I can tell this story isn't getting the usual warm fuzzy response that my typical Jam fluff gets, so thanks to you brave souls who are reading it anyway!
I can tell this story isn't getting the usual warm fuzzy response that my typical Jam fluff gets, so thanks to you brave souls who are reading it anyway!
My apartment in Philly is nothing like any place I’ve ever lived, and my new job is nothing like Dunder Mifflin. My fresh start is officially here and I feel a lightness inside of me, a freedom that I haven’t felt in at least seven years. Maybe that I’ve never felt before at all.
The house I grew up in was similar to the house I lived in with Mark – generic, built in the 70s with wall-to-wall carpeting and cheap hollow doors. In Stamford I lived in a more modern rental condo, with Pergo floors and smooth Corian countertops, but it didn’t have a lot of style or personality and I ended up feeling empty and cold there for reasons besides my sorry emotional state. Even the apartment I shared with Pam for a few months was a compromise between what we wanted and what we could afford, just like the living arrangement was a compromise between just dating and being married. But here, my apartment is old – a century old at least – with weathered hardwood floors and heavy oak doors and wide wood trim that climbs up every wall. The kitchen has been refinished with new cabinets and stone countertops, but it has vintage light fixtures and a quirky layout as a result of the large wrought iron vents dotting the floor. The rooms are fairly small and cozy, but the ceilings are high and the windows large and it’s filled with a bright, cheerful light that I know Pam would have loved.
And it has history. Lots of history. Something about this is comforting to me, like it’s witnessed a lot and my sort of pitiful and embarrassing story is nothing to it. So what? it seems to tell me. I’ve seen worse. Living in a place with a hundred years of sorrow and joy within its walls makes my sorrow or my joy feel normal and expected. Like a rite of passage.
With my brother’s help, I move in my portion of the furniture from the Scranton apartment Pam and I shared for a short time. We picked out some of the pieces together for a married life we never actually got to have, but it was all peacefully divided up when we split. I got the sofa (since I’m taller) and she got the two comfy chairs. I got the high stools, she got the small dining set. I look at the furniture as mine now, not ours. I suppose that shows I’m healing.
My job is both intimidating and exciting. I’m still in sales, because I’ve discovered I’m good at it and actually even like it when I’m not trying so hard not to. I work with people who are smart and funny (in a completely different way than Michael was funny) and who enjoy their jobs (in a completely different way than Dwight did). More is expected of me but I find that I like that. I’m finding that when I try, I surprise myself. And it’s sort of intoxicating to look forward to coming into work for reasons other than messing with your annoying coworkers and seeing the woman you are secretly in love with. I feel like I’m finally getting a taste of what Pam felt in New York – a new world, a new passion, a fresh start.
I keep an eye out for Emily around my neighborhood, but as the weeks pass, I realize I’m having trouble remembering exactly what she looked like. We only spoke for a couple of minutes and now her features blend together in an indistinct blur. I know she was tall – at least four or five inches taller than Pam was – because her head came above the level of my shoulder. And I know she was thin but not scrawny in a way that said she never ate French fries or ice cream. Her hair was brown, but a light honey brown, maybe even a little bit blonde, past her shoulders but I can’t remember exactly how long. And if it were up in a pony tail or under a baseball hat, I’m not sure I’d recognize her at all. I have no idea what color her eyes were – maybe blue, maybe gray. She was pretty in a clean cut, universal way, in the way I like girls to be pretty – natural and wholesome and girl-next-doorish. But Philly is a big city – much bigger than Scranton – and the more time that passes without running into her, the less I think I’ll recognize her if I do. I feel a vague sense of disappointment that I may not see her again and am increasingly frustrated with myself that I didn’t ask her for even her last name. But a month ago I wasn’t feeling as brave as I am now. I wasn’t feeling like I was ready to move on.
I drove Pam to New York on the first Saturday morning in June. We unpacked her things and took a walk around her neighborhood, checking out the closest restaurants. We made love in her tiny new bedroom and before I left we kissed for awhile by my car. She let go of me first, I think, anxious to go back inside and look over her class schedule. I had secretly wanted to stay overnight, to go for coffee the next morning and maybe wander around the city some more, but she had an orientation the next day and I didn’t want to be a distraction, so I insisted on leaving. I’d be back the next weekend, I told her. She seemed okay with that compromise.
When I think about it now, I remember feeling a vague sense of worry as I drove away, knowing that this experience was hers alone. She was growing and changing and starting to live her dream. I was going back to Scranton, where her engagement ring still sat in my nightstand, to the same job that I dreaded, to the nagging feeling of failure and unmet expectations, of unrealized potential.
