***
I knew today would suck. I knew it from the moment Phyllis handed me her save-a-date on the same stationary as the one that I had prepared what seems like years ago now. But my intuitions were further confirmed when my alarm clock remained shockingly silent through the hours of eight and nine, and the first thing I woke up to was a call from Michael at 9:45 a.m
“PAMWOW! Have you ever heard of a Shamwow?”
Wow. That was too much loud for this hour of the morning. It must be, what, 5:30 a.m? I still have three hours left to sleep.
“Yes…Michael…why are you calling me so early to talk about unnecessary cleaning inventions?”
“No, I don’t want to talk about it. I ordered it last week; it will arrive sometime on Monday. Then we can talk about it.”
“Okay…well…Michael, why couldn’t this wait for when I come in to work?”
“Well Sir Pamalot, that’s what I’m calling about. When exactly do you plan on coming in?”
“The same time I’m always in Michael. I’ll be there at 9. Now I’m going back to sleep, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“WAIT, PA-“
I hung up on him and rolled over to casually see what time it was so that I could maybe count this “work” phone call as overtime or something. I was still really tired, so I was hoping that it would be around 5:30, but if it was any later than 6:30 I decided I would just get up and make myself pancakes and maybe blow out my hair. I was clearly not prepared to see the numbers 9,4, and 5 (in that order) almost evilly mocking me. “SHIT!” I screamed, and dramatically threw off my covers as I sprinted into the bathroom.
As I brushed my teeth, I contemplated whether or not it would be worth it to try and feign a shower. I was definitely going to take one later tonight before Phyllis’s wedding. My hair had that day-old look, but it wasn’t notably greasy or anything. I held the toothbrush in my mouth using only my teeth as I used my hands to pull back my hair into a modest ponytail: low, and at the base of my neck. Perfectly centered. I had seen Karen wear a ponytail to the office once: firmly situated on the top of her head, leaning ever so slightly to the left side, as her side swept bangs framed the right side. She had taken the day off to visit her mother in Stamford, but wanted to come in early to pick up her paycheck. Jim was out too that day. I remember thinking that he was probably waiting for her in the car, and I craned my neck out the window to see if this was true. Sure enough, there was his Corolla, parked by the entrance, as he waited outside talking to the security guard. He was so painfully friendly. He could make conversation with anyone. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt—were those the same shorts from the basketball game? I remembered how masculine he looked, his long legs taking twice the strides of Roy’s as he sprinted down the court and powering to the basket. The bagginess of the shorts fluttered around his legs, occasionally accentuating his perky little butt. Yea, these were definitely the same shorts, I thought as he jogged to the car door to open it for Karen before she got there. She was wearing long shorts too—definitely not women’s. I wondered if they had just gone to the gym together. I could picture the two of them running on treadmills next to each other, spotting each other as they lifted weights, and gently wiping the sweat off their foreheads before leaning in for a kiss.
Okay Pam, this is really not the time to torture yourself. You’ve been over this stuff a thousand times, and right now you really need to focus on looking somewhat presentable within the next 30 seconds. If you can get out of here by 9:50, you can still make it to work by 10, and maybe even avoid the first conference room meeting of the day.
After the successful combination of teeth brushing and hair styling (I did, of course, use a different brush for each), I threw on a loose navy blue skirt, since I didn’t have time to wiggle into my typical pencil gray one. I grabbed a pink striped blouse and a gray cardigan, and slipped on my sneakers without even undoing the laces from yesterday. Everything about me today was just old, like the leftovers from a great Italian meal. It was like going to Antonio’s, ordering the Monday night lasagna special, and savoring every bite your stomach can fit, over red wine and the cheesecake encore. You wrap up the broccoli and the scraps of the meal, maybe the burnt pasta, the meat that couldn’t stay in place. You try to eat it for lunch the next day, but it’s just, well, awful, and you wonder why you even bought it in the first place. That was me. I was the leftovers. The stuff nobody wanted anymore. My novelty had worn off. But Karen…Karen was a lasagna special. Maybe even a movie matinee.
I ran out the door, grabbing a Chewy bar and a water bottle. Nice Pam. Is this supposed to be breakfast or lunch? I hopped in the car and promptly decided that it would be breakfast, as I turned the key in the ignition while simultaneously shoving half of the flavorless brown muck in my mouth. I threw my car into reverse, and slammed on the gas; not caring that I just ran over today’s newspaper and edged the curb as I turned out. I ran stop signs and sped up for yellow lights, and even turned ‘right on red’ despite the traffic sign that told me not to. I wasn’t sure why I was in such a hurry to get to work today. Work sucks. I don’t talk to anyone and I don’t have any real responsibilities. Could it really be that I was rushing so that I didn’t miss an hour of pay? Did I honestly believe that some sort of serious emergency would happen at work, all because the receptionist wasn’t there? Or was I just desperately anxious to see Jim?
Yea, that was definitely it. As I ran up the office stairs (not running the risk of waiting for the elevator) and plopped down at my desk, Jim casually wandered over.
“Beesly, Beesly, Beesly. Are you moonlighting as a stripper again?”
“Yea, you caught me. This was actually the outfit I wore, too.”
“Oh yeah? How’d that go over?”
“Well it was going really great unti—“
“Jim, can you come look at these pictures and tell me which dress I should wear tonight?”
And with that, he was gone. Not gone gone, but gone to the other side. The Karen side. I watched as he leaned over her desk, with his elbows bending slightly in the wrong direction. Double jointed, I had learned, as he showed me how he could click his thumb in and out of place. I wonder if Karen knew that about him.
I pretended to make a copy of something just so I could pass the desk and see what Karen was showing him. How exactly did she plan on picking out a dress tonight, and either getting it delivered by 7 pm or counting on finding it, in the exact color and size, in the store?
Oh. She was showing him pictures from her Facebook. Pictures from nights out with her girlfriends, her cousin’s wedding, and the renewing of her parents’ vows. I felt a pang of pain; I had a Facebook too, but I didn’t have nearly as many pictures as she did. I didn’t have “Girls Night Out”, and I was camera shy even at the most intimate of family functions. I had pretty much given up all my girlfriends when I was with Roy. I gave up a lot of things for Roy.
I spent the rest of the day fairly sedentary at my desk, playing Minesweeper and beeping in phone calls to Michael. I’m not good at Minesweeper. I’m not even sure if I fully understand the concept. I see all these red flags and I click anyway, only to find out that I get bombed. But I’m addicted to the game. I couldn’t help but wonder that Minesweeper was a lot like my own life. I see the red flags Jim puts up, he’s with Karen, he’s changed, I had my chance. But I try to ignore it. I want something to happen. And at the end of the day, I’m always “bombed”. Turned down. Alone. But I’m addicted to the pain.
Later that day, I got to actually get ready. I took a long, hot shower, thinking of the conclusion I had just come to. I am addicted to the pain. I put myself in these painful situations because I think I deserve it. I deserve everything I get, it’s my own fault for being so stupid in the past. I turn the shower water hotter, and hotter still, until I can see the steam swirling off my arms with every movement. My crappy apartment has crappy water pressure (it’s all I could afford) but with the pure energy of the heat in each droplet, I feel like volcanic rocks are pounding against my body, and I have no defense. I don’t turn it colder. I let them burn me. I can only hope that they burn me enough to help me realize that the past is over.
I step out of the shower, gently combing my hair with my fingers as I wrap a pale yellow towel around me. It’s nice to take a relaxing shower and not have to worry about Roy trying to rip my towel off as I come out. I walk over to my closet, which is only a mere 10 feet from my bathroom. Which, coincidentally, is only about 20 feet from the kitchen. The apartment is small and cluttered with my things. I wonder if moving out was the right choice—my new place is so cramped that I can’t even have my family over for dinner. But I like the clutter, it makes me feel less lonely. Like someone else is here, someone else shares this space with me. No one person could entirely overfill an apartment with their single belongings.
I stare into my closet blankly, waiting for a dress to pop out at me. I really only have a couple of dresses, since I haven’t really been to that many events. Each one has its own story.
My prom dress. Pink, empire-waist, sweetheart neckline.
My first time
A pale yellow sun dress. Halter top, with white embroidery.
Roy asked me to marry him at my college graduation.
A brown, silk dress. Spaghetti straps, tight at the top but flared at the bottom.
Roy’s sister’s wedding. The day he actually bought me a ring.
A light blue, somewhat sheer, taffeta dress. Slight V-neck, some pleating to the knee.
My other first time.
Of course, a person can only have one first time for everything. So with the blue dress, it wasn’t my first time in bed, but it was my first time in passion. I had never felt anything like that with Roy. I knew I liked Jim, and sometimes I was confused about how much I liked him. That night, I knew it. It was the first time I felt fireworks. Growing up in Scranton, you don’t really see flashing lights in the sky, only the neon lit signs of the local diner, reading “OPEN”. In fact, the first time I had even seen fireworks was with Jim on the roof. But now, I felt them. I understood what people meant when they there were “sparks” between a couple. My body was on fire, exploding at Jim’s lightest touch, creating a beautiful spectacle in my brain of a future that we could make together. The blues and greens of his eyes, the red of his lips, and the slight purple undertones of his veiny arms swirled together to create a brilliant fireworks show in my heart. These were no Scranton fireworks, created by Dwight and his cousin, these fireworks were worthy of the 4th of July in Manhattan.
I touched the dress, feeling its softness in my hands. I pressed it to my cheek; it still smelled like Jim. I took a deep breathing, letting his scent and the memories of that night course through my body, refilling me with a sensation that I had since lost. I shivered, knowing that it was not coming back again. I couldn’t wear this dress tonight, especially when Jim would be so close to me.
I was logically left with only one choice for an October wedding; the brown spaghetti strap dress. I pushed aside the memories of being a bridesmaid for Roy’s sister, Valerie. They weren’t as pungent as the blue dress memories anyway. I looked at myself in the mirror, tugging at the dress, trying to make myself look a little bit nice. I hate brown, it’s not my color. It would probably look great on Karen—she could pull off anything.
I did my hair and makeup in a daze, still lost in the memories of the casino night. I called Angela to see if she was ready for me to pick her up. She was shocked that I hadn’t left yet, saying I only had 2 hours to get to her house and to the wedding. I told her that I think we’ll be fine, as she only lives 10 minutes from me and the wedding is at the local church.
After listening to the Little Drummer Boy on repeat, as per Angela’s request, we pulled into the church parking lot about 45 minutes early. I went inside and sat down by myself. Angela had instructed me to read the Bible as I got in there, saying “It would do you some good, Pam.” I picked it up, and flipped through the pages, not really looking for anything, but just trying to occupy my time. I glanced around the church, admiring the wedding presentation. Phyllis has great taste, I thought. Then I realized that Phyllis just had great taste in choosing who to copy. Everything was from my wedding. I wasn’t mad about her laziness, or mad that she didn’t ask me to use her ideas, I was just mad that I would have to sit through what was supposed to be my wedding, alone. At least it’s better than sitting through it with Roy, I thought.
The time I had to spend waiting actually passed relatively fast, as I spent the time thinking about how I was sure I made the right choice. Yet I couldn’t ignore my delusion. I made the right choice, calling off the wedding for Jim. But here I am, single and 20 something, and not with Jim. As the music started playing, the whole audience turned around to see Phyllis. I turned around to see Jim. He looked so handsome, with his long hair tucked behind his ears, his broad shoulders defined in that jacket. I tried to look past Karen kissing him on the cheek, then wiping off the lipstick stain with her thumb. I must have been staring for too long though, as I made awkward eye contact with Karen and had to pretend that I was waving to Angela to their right.
Phyllis and Bob made their vows, promising to always protect each other, love each other, and make each other happy. I felt confident again, in knowing that I could not have said these vows to Roy and meant them, and he couldn’t have meant them for me. Like the time that I had to walk home from Poor Richards, because he didn’t want to wake up to take me home. That wasn’t protecting me. Or the time he chose to “do” Angela during the Survivor Island game. That wasn’t loving me. Or most of all, the fact that he wasn’t Jim. That wasn’t making me happy.
As soon as the reception started, I went to the bar to get a glass of champagne, fully taking advantage of the open bar. I sat down at a table and began to feast on the chicken francese; a dish that I had, of course, placed on the menu for my own wedding. Kevin’s band started playing, but I of course had no desire to dance. I took my anger out on the chicken in front of me, violently cutting it into little squares that were too little to even be eaten. As I lifted the fork to my mouth, I saw Jim and Karen out of the corner of my eye. I let the chicken sit in my mouth, too frozen to move. Jim was holding her closely, looking into her eyes, with his head leaning into hers and the slightly upturned smile that only he was capable of. I gulped down my food, whole, as I watched them sway back on forth. It was as if there was a magnetic field between my eyes and their love, I just couldn’t look away. And then it happened.
Suddenly he was facing me. He was looking directly at me. His smile faded—was that my fault? Is he that disappointed to see me?
Our stares held for a few more seconds than what would be socially acceptable. I wondered if he was thinking of me in that moment, really thinking of me. Thinking of the way we used to laugh together, talk together, joke together. The way we kissed together. The way we were together.
He broke Karen’s grip and walked to the bar, then took a step outside. I decided to follow him. I just wanted to do anything to be near him. He was within my reach, yet he was still so distant.
He said “Hey” first. I told myself that was a good sign. Did he want to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to him?
“Hey”
“So when are we going to get to see some of those famous Beesly dance moves”
I could show them to you in private, I thought. We could dance outside together. We could make this night just us.
“Ha. Ha. I’m pacing myself”
“Come on. Get out there; give the people what they want”
I owe the people out there nothing. But I would give you anything you want, Jim. Anything. Please let me make up for my mistakes.
“No, I’m such a dorky dancer”
“I know. It’s very cute”
My heart skipped a beat. Did he just say that? Does he still think I’m cute? Am I a fourteen year old girl again?
I was paralyzed by the moment when Dwight marched by with an old man, escorting him out the door. And then I saw the camera crew approaching. I knew I had to make a quick getaway. I tried to pretend to help the old man with Dwight. I can’t talk to anyone right now, let alone cameras. I don’t think I could physically come out with any words.
And then Jim was gone. I saw him go back into the dance floor somewhere between the time when I stopped forming rational thought and picked up a watermelon slice. I lingered in the same spot, hoping for him to come back out and we can talk again. We don’t even have to dance or kiss. We can just talk. About something, anything. Just talk.
But he had left, to talk to the girl he really wanted to. Karen. Jim is with Karen. Not me. I am with this champagne and watermelon slice. And no one else.
Just as I finished convincing myself that I’m not with anyone, I hear “You were meant for me” coming from the next room. Great, I think. Mine and Roy’s song. I begin to think that I was foolish for ever believing that we were meant for each other. I turn to go to the bathroom, hoping to wait out this song, as I see Roy coming towards me. He tells me that he paid the band twenty bucks to play this song.
Perhaps it’s because I’m vulnerable, or because I’m going to get my period, or because I want to make Jim jealous, or maybe it’s because I really do just want someone to dance with. I follow him. I want to be held, I want someone to care for me. Even if it is Roy. So I let him take my hand and guide me into the next room, although I have doubts. This is a slippery slope I’m about to step on—dancing with Roy, at what seems to be my very own wedding? I don’t want to start things up with him again, not now that I know what true feelings are.
We dance in the corner of the room, me not wanting Kelly to criticize my dance moves, and Roy not wanting his friends to think that he’s a sap. We go fairly unnoticed for the remainder of our song.
Then Karen steps up to the mic, saying that she’s going to perform for Jim. He’s laughing, and waving his cell phone. This is what couples act like. They giggle, they play with each other, they love each other. Karen loves Jim. And Jim is now taking her hand and gently bringing her down to his level, presumably to kiss her. I can’t watch, so I concede to Roy’s pleas to go back to his place.
I think I made the right choice. Right? Didn’t I? Jim is going home with Karen. I am going home with Roy. We both have a chance to be happy. It’s okay if it’s not with each other. Right? I managed to live the first 26 years of my life without him, without his touch, without his soft lips and strong arms. Without his caring nature, his sarcasm, and his cute, perky butt. Without his kiss, his passion, his heart. I can live without him. If I could do it for 26 years, I could certainly do it for tonight.
And for a second, I almost believe myself.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Pam's POV. reviews are much appreciated! and maybe ideas for a next story!
