Although I have some sales calls to make, I can't help but watch from the corner of my eye as Jim and Pam talk to each other at the receptionist's desk. Jim seems to have taken a liking to our secretary. I suppose I can't blame him. Pam's personality is not exactly appealing compared to someone like – just for the sake of example – Angela, but she does have a decent figure, full breasts with what must be an ample supply of milk for future children, and good birthing hips.
I would not normally attempt to eavesdrop on trivial office chatter, but I noticed the two of them glancing at me earlier and smiling. If they are talking about me, then it is my business to know exactly what they said. Unfortunately, I hear Jim mention the word 'lunch', and the two of them leave the office together before I can overhear anything useful. I look at my watch. It is getting close to lunch.
Lunch today is going to be particularly good, as I looked in my briefcase earlier and noticed that Mose filled a baggy with leftover bacon from breakfast and put it in there for me. Sometimes Mose comes off a little slow in the head, but most of the time he's just delightful, whether it's playing ping-pong with me or giving me a bagged lunch for work. I enter the break room and make sure to avoid Creed, who is reading a magazine with Chinese print in the far corner of the room. Unfortunately, this means that my other option is to sit near Kelly, who is eating her lunch closer to the door.
“Hey Dwight,” she says as I reluctantly sit down at an adjacent table. “What's for lunch?”
“Bacon,” I tell her as I remove the strips from their baggy and place them on a paper towel.
“Ew.”
“What are you eating?” I ask her.
“Crackers. I'm trying to watch my weight.”
“Tapeworms,” shouts Creed from the other side of the room.
Kelly and I ignore him. I get a candy bar and soda from the vending machines to add to my bacon lunch and begin to eat, while Kelly starts prattling on about some party she went to the other night. How someone can lead such a socially bizarre lifestyle, I'll never understand. If her parties involved paintball, or at least everyone gathering around to watch a science fiction show, it would make more sense. But as far as I can tell, these parties are mostly about drinking, trying on outfits, and talking about boys with her female friends.
The sound of Kelly's voice fades into a dull, high-pitched stream as I zone her out, thinking about my beet farm instead. She can go on for minutes on end, even if the other person in the conversation isn't responding. I chew a strip of bacon in my mouth, less crunchy than it was in the morning, as I wonder if Mose has started harvesting the beets yet. Hopefully he's being gentle with them.
.....
Lunch is over. Jim and Pam have not yet returned; they're taking their sweet time. I decide to pay Michael a visit and get his impression of Jim. My work can wait for a little while.
“Hello Michael,” I say as enter the office and close the door behind me for confidentiality. Michael has his feet propped up on the desk, and some music is playing on his computer. William Joel, I believe.
“What's the haps, Dwight?”
“Question: what is your impression of Jim Halpert?”
“Cool guy, cool guy,” says Michael. He stops the music with a mouse click before removing his feet from the desk and peaking his hands together below his lips in a thoughtful gesture. “Didn't really seem to have a good sense of humor, though. Most of my jokes went over his head. But I think he's got some potential. He seemed friendly, and he was excited to be working here. And his resume is pretty solid.”
“Not as solid as mine, right? Did he have any martial arts skills?”
Michael eyes me for a moment.
“People don't need to put martial arts skills on their resume, Dwight. What does that even have to do with selling paper?”
“It could have everything to do with it, Michael. You could find yourself needing martial arts training no matter where you are or what you're doing. Imagine we are on our way to meet a new client, and we haven't armed ourselves. When we get to the client's office, it turns out that a rival paper company has decided to resort to hired thugs in order to intimidate us from-”
“Oh for God's sake, Dwight. Enough!”
“You asked me what it had to do with-”
“Are you even a black belt?”
Michael's question cuts my point off. I am very disappointed that he's ignoring what I'm trying to explain and bringing up trivialities instead.
“I am a future black belt, Michael.”
Michael sighs, and the office falls silent for several moments while I stand and wait for him to continue. I've suddenly lost my train of thought, and can't remember why I came into Michael's office in the first place.
“You know, speaking of meeting new clients,” says Michael, “we still have to stop by that new office park over in Pittston and see if we can get any bites. There's just too much work to do,” he says with a sigh as he leans back in his chair. “Not enough employees! Maybe we could use a temp or something to do some of our busywork.”
“I can handle all of it, Michael,” I reassure him.
“That's what she said.”
He laughs at himself, and I join in. Michael has such a great sense of humor.
“A temp,” he says more quietly as he goes over the idea in his head. “That's definitely a good idea. We should get a sexy temp too,” he adds, sniggering. “Anyway, what are you doing this afternoon?”
“I will be making several calls, organizing the contents of my lower desk drawer, and after that I will be returning to my beet farm and beginning the fall harvest with my cousin Mose.”
I smile, beginning to wonder if Michael wants to hang out with me later, but he waves his hand impatiently at me before I can ask him if this is why he's interested in what I'm doing. “I don't care about any of that,” he says. “I meant at work. Get Phyllis to take care of your calls – I want you to take Jim over to that new office park and have him shadow you on a few visits. Maybe you guys can set up a few meetings with potential clients, get our name around, that kind of thing. And Jim can get some experience in the field. What do you think?”
“I think it's an excellent idea.”
My comment elicits a smile of pleasure from Michael, who raises his personalized coffee cup to his lips.
“Well, that's why I'm the boss.”
Michael is giving me the directions to the office park in Pittston when his door opens. I'm about to turn around and tell the intruder that we are in an important meeting, but Angela comes in. I assume Angela must have a good reason for interrupting.
“Angela Martin!” exclaims Michael. “Crunching numbers in accounting! Just the person I wanted to talk to! Oh, how is Sprinkles, by the way?”
Angela looks pleased that Michael asked her something about what I assume is one of her cats. Personally, I don't have time for cats.
“She's doing much better,” says Angela, “thank you for asking. The doctor says the fur will grow back in about a week if I keep giving Sprinkles her rectal pills.”
“So,” Michael says after a brief flash of disgust crosses his eyes, “what can I do ya for?”
“You still need to turn in the quarterly reports, Michael.”
Michael's pleased expression turns into a frown, just for a moment.
“Yeah yeah, I'll do that later. Look, Angela, I'm glad you're here, because I need to talk to the head of the Party Planning Committee – we gotta set up a party for Jim, don't you think? Sort of a welcoming party to the Dunder Mifflin Team.”
“I think it's a bit frivolous,” says Angela as she holds a collection of papers tightly to her chest. For some reason, the sight of her tight grip on the papers sets off a deep rumble in my loins. Not to mention I agree with her complaint about the welcoming party being frivolous.
“Come on, Angela, live a little. You accountants need to get out of your cave once in a while! Especially that weirdo Tom. If he doesn't cheer up and walk around a little more, he's gonna turn into Toby.” Michael laughs at his comment almost before he finishes it. “No, that's mean – nobody could end up like that.”
“Michael, I just wanted to get the quarterly-”
“If you get can the Party Planning Committee together and figure everything out, I'm thinking a party on Friday. I'm talking appeteasers, a few drinks,” says Michael as he mimics downing a shot glass. “And maybe we can get some dancers or something. Exotic dancers.”
“Strippers?”
“No, just exotic dancers. You know, with the foreign dances. Spice things up a little. Maybe Kelly can give you some advice, I don't know. Just look around for that, okay?”
“That sounds inappropriate.”
“Oh, please, don't be ridiculous,” Michael says, failing to stifle a snort and a laugh. He looks at me for support, and I find myself strangely conflicted. I try to nod in his direction while shielding the movement from Angela. It doesn't work, and she looks at me angrily for siding with him.
“Look, this is a morale building exercise, it's work related. Jim needs to feel welcome here, right? He's the new guy, come on! And I'll whip up a speech about teamwork and sales objectives, that kind of thing. It's no problem. Just make sure it all goes on the corporate account, alright?”
“Did you clear this with Toby?” asks Angela.
“Did I clear – what – clear with Toby? Nnngh!”
Michael leans back in his chair for a moment, rubbing his temples.
“Just tell Toby to deal with it, okay? Now, Dwight and I are having an important meeting, if you don't mind.”
Angela stands for a moment longer with a frown before leaving. I watch her go, my gaze lingering a little, but I return my attention quickly to Michael's desk when I notice him looking at me strangely. “Michael,” I say quietly, “what about the quarterly reports?”
“Go do that thing with Jim, Dwight.”
“I thought you said we were having an important meeting.”
“I just made it up to get Angela off my back. Now give me some privacy, please.”
“Yes Michael.”
I hear a mouse click behind me, and the William Joel song begins to play again as I leave Michael's office and return to my desk.
“Phyllis, you need to complete the rest of my calls for me today.”
Phyllis looks back at me and gives me a beaming smile. “I'll definitely do that, Dwight. You can count on me.”
I am surprised – normally Phyllis can be a little disagreeable when I give her orders, but she's surprisingly eager to do my work today. I stare across the desk as I sit down; Jim is sitting across from me. Back from lunch with Pam, apparently, since she's at the receptionist's desk. For some reason Jim doesn't look as happy as he did when he left for lunch with her. Maybe he ate something that's disagreeing with him. If he's new in town, it's possible he chose to go to Pizza by Alfredo without knowing what he was getting into. But then, Pam should have warned him. Whatever. It's none of my concern.
“Jim.”
Jim looks up from his computer.
“What?”
“We need to go on a sales trip together.”
“A sales trip?”
“Yes, what you were hired to do, Jim. We're going to visit the new office park in Pittston and see if we can get any leads on future clients. This is a good opportunity for you to learn from the pros.”
“Pros? Who else is going?”
“Just the two of us. So, me. You'll learn from me, the one sales pro on this trip. Michael wanted you to accompany me, and I'm ready to go, so drop what you're doing and follow me quickly!”
Even as I'm talking to him, I notice that Jim has already crossed the line into my desk space with a stapler and some loose leaves of paper. I move the offending material back to his side of the desk; sometimes actions speak louder than words. Jim stares at me for a moment and then gets up incredibly slowly, like he's moving in slow motion. He's got to be the slowest person I've ever seen.
“We're going on a sales trip, Pam,” he says as he turns to the receptionist's desk. “It's important that we go right now.”
He begins to walk as if he's caught in molasses. I don't know if he's having some kind of energy problem or if this is his idea of a joke, but it's not funny. I brush past him impatiently and walk out the office door. He'll follow me, and if he doesn't, I can do the sales trip myself and tell Michael about his insubordination when I get back. That's Jim's problem, not mine.
“Hank,” I tell our security guard after getting downstairs, “I will be gone for several hours. If anyone arrives here and wants to talk to me, do not let them up into the office – take their information and force them to wait for me until I return.”
“You expectin' somebody, Dwight?”
“No. It's just a precaution.”
Hank asks me if I am expecting someone every single time I tell him to hold all of my potential visitors. I don't know why – it seems like a simple enough command to me. Jim still hasn't caught up with me yet, and I assume he's chatting it up with Pam again, so I exit the building as Hank returns to his newspaper.
A number of cars are parked outside in the office parking lot. Michael's Sebring convertible, Meredith's minivan. I know which vehicle belongs to which of my coworkers, and even which vehicles belong to the warehouse workers and a few Vance Refrigeration employees. I've carefully noted the make and model of every employee's car, whether they work at Dunder Mifflin or not, because it's useful information in case someone here at the office park ends up on the wrong side of the law, and – as volunteer sheriff's duty – I have to hunt them down and apprehend them.
There is one car, however, that I do not recognize. A car which I already saw when I pulled into work this morning. Jim finally decides to follow me down to the parking lot and do his job, and I point to the Corolla as he comes out the front door.
“That's your car, I assume?”
“Yep. How'd you know?”
“It's the one I don't recognize.” I point to my Trans Am with a smirk. “Check out my car.”
“Which one?”
“Right there,” I tell him as I point more insistently. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Wait, which one is cool?”
“Can't you – the Trans Am, duh! I'm pointing at it!”
Feeling a little flustered, I motion impatiently for Jim to follow me to my car.
The Trans Am is my baby, and I've fed her with the sweet milk of my tender love for a number of years now. Just looking at the car brings back fond memories: waxing and buffing it in the warm air of the barn, hay sticking to my bare sweaty skin; driving it in circles on the beet fields after the harvest while Mose runs behind; driving Michael to his urologist appointment last month. It's true that my memories form a large part of my love for this car, but I would have expected Jim to recognize its awesomeness just by looking at it.
A surge of raw power goes through me as I turn the ignition and shift the car into gear. Loud classic rock blares from the radio – my favorite genre, other than nineteenth century German folk music. Jim tries to change the dial on the radio twice, but I slap his hand away each time. My car, my music. We leave the parking lot, and I point out a few Electric City landmarks to Jim as we drive through Scranton. The Steamtown Mall goes by on our right; I don't usually like to shop there, as there are too many disrespectful teenagers loitering, but it is technically a landmark, and I want to make sure Jim looks to me for any information and questions he may have in the future.
“So why didn't you tell me Pam was engaged?” asked Jim.
“Was I supposed to?”
“No. I was just wondering. At lunch she said her fiancé worked in the warehouse, but I don't remember seeing him when we went down there.”
“Yes, that would be Roy Anderson. He was probably on break. Those guys down in the warehouse don't have a salesman's work ethic, Jim. You'll learn that after you work here for a while.”
As we approach Pittston, I wonder if I should take Jim by Schrute Farms on the way back from our little trip - maybe try to instill some beet-related metaphors for good salesmanship since we're already out – but I decide that Michael probably wouldn't want to be waiting after work hours for us to get back and report on our success. The thought of Michael makes me wonder what exactly went on during that meeting in the morning.
“So how was your morning?” I ask him. “Anything interesting happen?”
“Um, no, not really... let's see, I came in early for that meeting with Michael and Jan. Pam showed me my desk and told me to enjoy that moment,” says Jim with a laugh.
“Enjoy that moment? Why?”
“Oh, because I'd be meeting you soon. She thought it was a really momentous occasion, I guess.”
I nod, unsurprised at Jim's explanation. It's good to hear that Pam knew just how much of a life-changing influence I could be for this new employee, which will soon be demonstrated by the lessons I will teach him on our little sales trip. Without me, Jim might have been just another salesman – a thinner, younger Phyllis or Stanley. But with me... well, with me, he could be the best. I mean, besides me. The second best. A loyal number two member of Team Schrute.
“But what about the meeting?” I ask him, wanting to get back to my original line of interest. “Anything interesting happen during the meeting? What did Michael say to you? Did he mention anything about me?”
“Oh boy,” says Jim. “He said so many things about you.”
“What? Really? What about me, good things?”
“I don't know, Dwight. That would violate confidentiality, wouldn't it?”
I curse inwardly, realizing that Jim is correct.
“One thing he did say,” Jim continues, “oh man, you might not like this, but he told the most hilarious-”
“No!” I shout, almost swerving off the road for a moment in my panic. If Michael told Jim something in confidentiality, I can't hear it. It would be a betrayal to Michael, and I will never, ever, do that to him. Almost at the same time I tell myself this, I find myself second-guessing my decision. If Michael didn't know, would I really be betraying him? This could just be between me and Jim...
“No,” I finally say, not wanting to give in to temptation. “You'd better keep the events of the meeting private, Jim. It's the right thing to do.”
“Well, Dwight, if you insist.”
The car falls into an uneasy silence, other than the classic rock, as we keep driving. The Steamtown National Historic Site passed by a few minutes ago, and it won't be much longer before we get to Pittston. I decide to probe Jim on his hobbies and interests, as they can tell you a lot about a person's character.
“Do you play paintball?”
“No.”
“What kind of shows do you watch? Smallville? 24? Battlestar Galactica? You know they're making a remake of that?”
“I don't watch any of those. I only like soap operas.”
I scoff at his pathetic taste in television programming.
“What about martial arts? You know any of those?”
“Lots.”
I don't believe Jim, and yet I am intrigued.
“No you don't,” I state confidently. “What kinds?”
“Oh, I can't tell you. It's classified.”
Again, while definitely lying, I find myself more intrigued than ever before.
“Classified for – what, some kind of job? A government job, Jim?”
“A classified job.”
“What kind of classified job?”
“I can't tell you. The kind of classified job I had is classified. And watch the road, Dwight.”
My attention returns to the road, my fists clenched in frustration on the steering wheel. Clearly Jim was trained well in this classified job, because I can tell he's not going to give anything away. I'll have to do more research on his background – my sources as a volunteer sheriff should come in handy. Not that there will be anything to find, I remind myself. Jim is obviously lying. There is no classified job. I'd never believe him in a million billion years.
Jim and I sit in silence for a few more minutes until finally we arrive at our destination: the new Pittston office park. A number of single-story businesses are arranged in a semi-circle around a large parking lot. Most of the businesses share offices within a few buildings. The windows are dark, and it's difficult to see inside; I can't help but wonder if other paper salesmen have beaten Jim and me here. Maybe they're already inside, peddling their inferior product, and we'll be forced into physical conflict upon meeting them. For a moment I consider bringing in my spud gun from the trunk of my car, but I decide against it. It doesn't always make the best impression during sales calls, I've learned.
“You coming?”
Jim has already gotten out of the car, and he peers in at me from the passenger side.
“No. I need to get ready. Close the door.”
Jim raises an eyebrow at me, and – growing impatient – I wave at him to close the door. He complies after another moment of standing there slack jawed like a fool.
After I am alone in the car, I fish out one of my Motley Crüe CDs and pop it into the car's player. Jim will need a few tips and pointers before we hit the first office to try to gain a client, and I'll need to make sure that he pays close attention to everything I do – but right now, it's Schrute time. An electric guitar riff cuts into the air. As the music speaks to my primal senses, I imagine myself naked except for a loincloth made from a lion I killed, standing over the bloodied corpses of rival paper salesmen.
I have no fear. No doubts. I will get new clients. I will make sales. I will obliterate my enemies with the wrecking ball of my awesomeness! I am Dwight Schrute, and I am unstoppable!
.....
