Jim Halpert never believed in magic. When he was young, much to the dismay of other children and certain parents, he was always the one to shout “The rabbit was in the hat the whole time, you guys!” It wasn’t that he was cynical or didn’t like the idea of a little mystery. It was just that he had never experienced anything that made him want to believe in all those little extra somethings in the universe. Plus, watching Michael Scott grimace his way through more than one magic trick gone wrong did nothing to inspire the concept of wonder in one’s life.
After all, if there were miracles would he really still be a paper salesman?
He believed in a logical sort of magic, the stuff with an explanation. Everyday miracles like love or the birth of a child - sure, he could get on board with those. Those had a clear place in life. Yes, there was a bit of magic attached to events like that, but there was also a definable pattern you could trace that made those things make sense. Point A reached Point B simply. You couldn’t get lost on a straight line like that.
As Jim had witnessed, Mark had followed that path diligently and would be getting married in the summer. Jim moved out of the house and found a small apartment that he could afford on an apathetic paper salesman’s salary. While Mark and his fiancée prepared for their wedding, Jim scoured local stores for furniture to fill his apartment and went on a few dates a month. Nothing ever really stuck.
The woman he was dating now, Anne, was nice enough; she was a teacher who liked rock music and foreign films. They had fun together and he liked her enough to ask her on another date, but truthfully, it didn’t matter whether or not he saw her again. She may have been nice enough but she wasn’t enough.
After another lunch date with her failed to spark anything within him, he dropped her off at her apartment with the promise to call then decided to spend the rest of the afternoon looking for more furniture. He was bringing work home more frequently and didn’t have a proper desk to sit at, so he decided to pick one up. He avoided the larger chain stores in favor of a local antique shop that his mother promised would give him a good deal.
When Jim arrived at “Olde Good Things,” he realized that his mother had grossly misinformed him with the term ‘antique shop.’ The building was a large warehouse with different departments filled with architectural antiques and fixtures. He made a beeline for the furniture section and began searching for what he wanted. The cheapest desk he could find was made of maple and had six drawers, three on either side. One of the corners was chipped and someone had carved their initials on the underside, but it was in his price range and light enough for him to be able to take home by himself.
When he got home with his newest addition, the old Italian man who lived in the apartment below him insisted on helping him get the desk up the stairs.
“Thanks, Mr. Castellani,” Jim said once the desk was in his apartment. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did!” Mr. Castellani replied. “We’re neighbors! Besides, I was going to come up here anyway and invite you to dinner. Alessandra wants to see you. And I’d like to watch the game with somebody who knows what’s going on for a change.”
Jim laughed and agreed to join his neighbors for dinner. It was like having two sets of parents, except that the Castellanis never nagged or asked what he was doing with his life. They mostly just invited him to dinner or left a plate of food on his doorstep on the nights they knew he would be working late, and Mr. Castellani liked to talk sports with him whenever he got a chance.
Jim shoved the desk into a corner then freshened up and went downstairs.
Dinner went like it usually did - a lot of conversation, laughter, and Mrs. Castellani fussing over him and telling him he needed to eat more. When Mr. Castellani fell asleep in his recliner, Jim said his good-byes and returned to his apartment.
He didn’t feel like calling the woman he was seeing and didn’t really know what to do with himself, so he grabbed some disinfectant wipes from under the sink and decided to clean the dust off the desk. After he wiped down the top, he opened the first drawer to wipe it out and was surprised to find that it wasn’t empty. Inside the drawer there were pieces of stationery, matching envelopes, some stamps, and an old pen.
Jim took everything from the drawer and placed it on the desktop. The paper had been yellowed with age but didn’t appear to be in bad shape. He picked up the pen then decided to scribble something on the back of one of the envelopes, and was surprised that it still worked. While he was scribbling, he noticed that there appeared to be something inside of the envelope, so he ripped it open.
Inside the envelope was a letter, written on a sheet of the stationery.
March 9, 1924
Dearest You,
Why won’t you come to sweep me off my feet? Why don’t you come to take me dancing in the rain on a summer night? We could turn circles in the wet grass, our feet bare, and I could let my hair down to fly in the wind. You could take me to the altar. You could kiss away all my tears and I would wonder why I bothered with crying in the first place. We could go to the big city and sneak into the speakeasies and drink giggle water until we’re so drunk and kisses feel like water sliding down our faces on a hot summer’s day.
I guess what I’m saying is, I could love you better. And you could love me better. I know you could. You would know me like the back of your hand. We could be that pair that makes everyone else look all wet. I know I’m not just talking bunk. I’m convinced you’re out there somewhere, pacing round some little room and thinking up all the ways to save me. At least that’s what I dream.
I’ll carry this torch for you, even though you don’t exist. You aren’t real, except in my imagination, and what’s that to me but a runaround? If you were real, certainly you’d be here by now.
I guess I’ll have to follow my father’s advice (or command, more like) and go down that middle aisle with Roy. I’ll be somebody’s Mrs. What a thought. I guess I went to school for nothing. I didn’t learn any baking and mother’s convinced he’ll leave me for it, but she doesn’t know how we spend the weekends. Roy’s not so much concerned with baking as he is finding the good hooch. And to think I used to think that Roy was a real flat tire! I guess you don’t know someone until you get to know someone. Anyway, his brother’s cellar ain’t no speakeasy. It’s damp and dreary and makes me wonder how long I’ll make it living the rest of my life like this.
As the summer gets closer, all I can think about is the wedding. And not in the good way that I might think about a wedding with You. I suppose if I don’t get married now, I never will - I’m nearly 30. I’ll be the last in the family to go. I guess a part of me likes to be different. But I’m too scared to be all different all the time. I think Roy makes me the same as everybody else and I suppose I love him, but is it enough? Who’s enough for me?
Well, you are. You’re enough. But you’re not real. I guess I won’t invite you to the wedding, but I hope you come and I hope you say something. You’ve only got a few weeks, so SPEAK UP. I’m yours if you find me.
Love,
Pamela Morgan Beesly
Jim reread the letter and let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He had found finally found someone who understood the empty way he felt, but the trouble was that she had felt it more than eighty years previously. He tried to imagine her, a young woman approaching not only thirty but also a marriage she wasn’t sure about, sitting at this desk, pouring her heart out to a someone she didn’t think existed. He felt like he could relate.
He couldn’t explain why, but he felt like he needed to write her a reply and let her know that someone felt like her (or maybe he was writing to himself, he wasn’t sure). He grabbed a piece of the yellowing stationery, picked up the old pen and began writing.
