"…yes, yes," Jim said into his phone, trying not to sound impatient, "yes, Mom, I will absolutely call you and tell you how it goes." He glanced at the digital green numbers staring at him from his dashboard. 8:46 A.M.
"Jimmy's first big salary job…" Larissa Halpert was still murmuring into the phone.
"Right," Jim said, smiling in spite of his moderate irritation, "and Jimmy's gonna be late on his first day if his mom won't let him go." The gasp and exclamation ("Look what time it is!") he heard from the other end of the phone call made him grin even wider.
As Jim headed into the modest Scranton building he wondered mildly if he should be feeling nervous. He wasn't. Jim was prone to generally not having a care in the world about anything.
He did hustle to the elevator, though, conscious of the time. He would prefer, after all, to make a good first impression on his boss. He had yet to meet Mr. Scott, but he was confident he'd have a solid first day of introductions. Though Mrs. Levinson-Gould had seemed to imply that Mr. Scott wasn't easy to get along with.
Jim pressed button four (he was pretty sure it was the fourth floor he was trying to get to), but swiftly stuck his arm between the closing doors to hold it open for a girl who was rushing toward him.
She stepped in when the doors opened. "Phew," she was slightly out of breath from her jog, "thank you." Jim couldn't help feeling slightly relieved that he was not the only one running late. He stepped to the side to let her in, but was admittedly struck by her appearance and had to stop himself from staring.
The girl was quite a sight shorter than him, red-nosed from the cold Pennsylvania January, and possibly the cutest thing he had ever seen.
It was when she smiled a cheeky, nervous looking smile at him that he realized he was staring.
Even under her bulky gray winter coat she seemed to be small. Her hair was the color of dark copper, and beneath earmuffs it appeared that enough of it was pinned back so that her face was perfectly unobstructed. While he would have guessed she was in her mid-20's like he, her face adorably rounded edges to make her look even younger, almost babyish. Her lack of makeup added even more youngness to her face. Her eyes were round, though they did look tired. Her coat was long enough that only her panty-hosed legs and thick-heeled shoes were visible past the hemline the winter plush outerwear.
He shook himself out of taking the sight of her in. He blinked, aware that she was still eyeing him. He felt embarrassed, and a little ashamed. He had never been that kind of guy, even in college. He didn't want to start now. He tried to brush off the feeling. "Um," he cleared his throat," which floor?"
"Oh," she seemed to come back from somewhere else, too. "Four."
"Ah, gotcha covered," he grinned, pointing to the lit up number button.
"Hey!" She smiled, her pleasant voice filled the small space. "Are you James?" He was surprised by the light in those eyes which had looked so tired before.
"You know, I get asked that a lot, but I'm actually his far cooler, much more laid back alter ego Jim. James really only comes around when he has to talk to far lamer, much less laid back people."
The elevator doors opened and they stepped off in sync, keeping pace with each other as they walked to the office. Jim had to keep conscious of his steps to match hers as his strides were much longer thanks to his 6'3" frame. He suspected girl couldn't have been any more than five and a half feet tall.
"Well, see, that works out," the girl said, pulling the earmuffs off her head, "because I often get confused for Pamela, when in fact I am actually her far meaner, much more intimidating alter ego Pam."
The thought of this Pam intimidating anyone made him snort back laughter.
As they approached the door, Pam suddenly stopped, putting her hand on Jim's arm to stop him too. She looked up at him with a strange look of concern and amusement. "Have you met anyone from the office yet?" She asked him. He could now definitely see the corners of her mouth beginning to tug up in a smile. He just didn't get the joke. He hesitated before telling her no, he hadn't.
"I'll let Michael Scott speak for himself," she said, pausing to glance away. "But, enjoy this moment," she looked back up at him, "because you're never going to go back to this time before you met your desk-mate Dwight."
And with that, she opened the door, and Jim knew he was smitten.
He surely hadn't expected this. When was the last time he'd had a crush? A real, pure interest in a girl. He'd had a couple of girlfriends in his life. One of them, Regina Gunn, was almost even serious. They'd dated for a year right after college. They were just too different, in the end. Regina wanted to move in together, wanted Jim to get himself a career, wanted to start her run in the rat-race as soon as she could. Jim, though he did care for her, just couldn't indulge her. He hadn't seen a point. He was sure they weren't in love. He was sure he'd never been in love. When they finally called it quits he hardly even felt affected.
He pushed Regina out of his mind as he stood in the doorway and watched Pam take her seat right at the front desk. Pam the receptionist.
Jim didn't more than three steps into the office before he heard a loud, crass voice from around the corner.
"Who could this be? Hey, everyone, someone's coming. That's what she said." From around that corner emerged a shorter, square man with thinning dark hair, a necktie, and a vulgar looking grin on his face. He held his arms out as if to offer a hug, but Jim felt his feet planted to the ground. He glanced at Pam's desk, who, though on the phone, flashed him a very knowing look.
Jim pointed at the man in lieu of an embrace. "Are you Michael Scott?" He asked, already knowing the answer.
"That's Dr. Michael Scott to you, young grasshopper." Michael said, laughing at his own joke. No one else laughed. Jim smiled as much as he could muster, but was sure that it wouldn't fool anybody.
After an uncomfortable moment of stillness and silence, Michael Scott clapped his hands and put on something of a down-to-business face. "So," he said, rubbing his hands together, "let's have you meet everybody." Michael walked past him without making any eye contact. Jim followed, wishing he could go to Pam to tell her he understood exactly what she meant by letting Michael speak for himself. He wanted to talk to her. When would he get to talk to her?
Michael went right over to Pam's desk, immediately brightening Jim's disposition. He'd follow Michael to Pam anytime. He'd follow anyone if their destination was within her vicinity. Even walking closer to her seemed to warm him from the inside.
"This is reception," Michael began, "home of our office hottie Pam Beesly." Pam blushed deeply at these words, looking down at her keyboard. Jim felt equally embarrassed by and angry with Michael for saying it. Though, in what Jim would come to recognize as true Michael Scott fashion, Michael barreled forward with the harassment: "Or, ask I like to call her," he smiled at Jim and then at everyone else in the office, "Pam Squeeze-me." He put his hands in a rather suggestive position aimed at her chest and flexed his fingers. Everyone in the office stayed quiet. Jim looked around briefly, almost desperate for someone's acknowledgement that what he was doing was wrong, too far over the line. But still, no one said anything. Even Pam now had gotten over the initial humiliation, her face clear of any redness. She was now staring at Michael, looking bored.
"We met on the elevator, Michael," she told him, smirking up at Jim. I told you. I warned you. He could almost hear her thoughts as clearly as he could read them upon her face.
"Going up or down? That's what she said." Michael snickered so hard his face turned bright scarlet. Jim and Pam looked at each other, smiling, seeming to share their own joke between the two of them.
Since again nobody laughed, Michael decided to move on. Just across from reception was a desk cluster. Seated at this desk cluster was a stiff looking man who could have been in his late 30's. His brown hair parted in the center of his forehead, one set of bangs over each eyebrow. He wore outdated wire-framed glasses and he, dare Jim think it, looked slightly ridiculous in an over starched, deep mustard colored short-sleeve button up with a tie, nice and brown, to go with it. He looked intensely focused on whatever he was typing, almost glaring at his computer screen. Jim had noticed him when he'd first walked in, and he was sure that this man hadn't looked away from his monitor for even a moment since he'd been there.
"This here is Dwight," Michael gestured to the man who promptly (and without blinking) looked up at Jim.
Dwight. Desk-mate. He wanted to look back at Pam again to share another moment of silent understanding. He fought the urge.
"Hello." Dwight's salutation was short. "Welcome to Dunder Mifflin. I would shake your hand, but I cannot safely do so until I can fully trust that you don't have any anthrax in your palms. And I cannot fully trust that you have no anthrax until I have shared close proximity with you for at least a consecutive hour. I do hope you understand." And with that, he was back to glaring at his computer and clicking viciously at his keyboard.
Jim needed a moment to process everything that Dwight, his new desk-mate, had just said to him. But, without even allowing Jim a chance to breathe, Michael came into the conversation swinging.
"Dwight, please, don't be such a freak," Michael seemed to mean to say this under his breath at Dwight directly. Jim smirked inwardly, wondering how someone like Michael Scott could have the gall to suggest that someone else be less of a freak.
Jim couldn't help himself. "Couldn't I just blow anthrax powder off of my palm into your breathing area?" He could have sworn he heard a little giggle come from Pam behind him.
Dwight looked right back at him, obviously unamused. "That is ridiculous." His tone was flat. "To blow the powder would break up its concentration, thus rendering it ineffective upon entering my bloodstream. In order to properly poison me like a powder-like substance, I fully recommend compacting it into your palm, placing that palm in my own, and letting me absorb it through my skin. Fool-proof method of murder."
Jim considered this, but before he could respond, Michael was shushing Dwight again. "Shut up, Dwight, my God." He looked nervously back at Jim. "Jim is not here to kill anybody." Dwight smirked at this, not looking at any of them.
"God, anyway," Michael went on, "here is your seat-a-roony." He clapped his hands on the back of the empty chair at the empty desk, which, Jim realized and felt his heart skip a beat, had a perfect view of Pam at her desk.
Michael and Jim made their way around. Michael made an inappropriate joke about every single person he introduced Jim to, but, as far as Jim could tell, the rest of them seemed fairly normal. And they all, too, appeared immune to the ridiculous words of Michael Scott. Jim thought this odd at first, but even he was used to it by the time he got seated at his own desk for the first real time.
Pam was eating yogurt at her desk when Jim sat down. He knew he would have to get out of the habit of staring at her, and the sooner he could, the better. Don't be that guy, don't be that guy, don't be that guy. He kept chanting it to himself, fighting the need to look up at her every other minute.
But he wasn't "that guy." Not about Pam. And he knew it. "That guy" was someone who ogled a woman with impolite thoughts in his mind. Jim didn't think whatever feelings forming within himself about Pam quite qualified. Michael was "that guy." Jim couldn't be "that guy." Now that he'd met a "that guy" and seen a "that guy" in action, he knew that truly, deep down, he was utterly incapable of ever becoming "that guy."
Finally, after forcing himself to stay settled at his own desk for 33 minutes (though he'd been shooting for an hour) he got up to go to Pam's reception desk. He'd decided fifteen minutes before that he'd ask her to remind him what the bigger guy in accounting's name was (Jim knew it was Kevin, but couldn't think of anything else and was getting too antsy to stay in his seat).
He got up and noticed a little plastic dish of jelly beans on her desk. He smiled a small smile to himself, thinking how sweet she was, and simultaneously feeling silly for thinking that and giddy for having these thoughts about her at all. Jim was sure he would love Dunder Mifflin, and sure that he could even love-
-and then he saw it.
How had he not noticed it before? On Pam's left hand was a diamond ring, glinting rudely at him beneath the harsh office lighting. Taken. Pam was taken. Of course, he should have known. How could a girl like Pam stay single? Still, the sight of it stirred his stomach up with sick feelings. The giddiness he'd experienced only moments before seemed to turn to nauseous bile in his gut and he sat back at his desk just in time for Pam to notice he'd been up at all.
The rest of the day seemed to pass him in a blur. He was stuck feeling again that nothing really mattered. As he left the office and bid her farewell, he accidentally bumped into a huge guy, as tall as he, but much bulkier. The guy muttered at him to watch it. Jim didn't recognize him, but caught sight of his name patch. Roy. He'd remember that. He wasn't in the mood to be messed. He didn't know what he'd do or who that guy was, but he'd make sure to remember that name.
Jim sat in his car for a moment before leaving the office lot. It was already dark at quarter after five that evening. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at it for a few moments.
He put it back in his pocket without calling his mother.