Author's Note:
I wrote it in a fit of excitement over the impending end of the writer's strike! My first "Office" fic!!! Feel free to flame.
Rock Band
In the office, Monday morning. Kevin slumps into the entrance, looking dour.
Kevin: My band lost its guitarist.
Pam: Oh Kevin, I'm sorry.
Kevin: Yeah, thanks. But Scrantonicity has a major gig this weekend. The bassist's grandpa invited us to play at the VFW Hall. And there's like, at least 40 old guys and their wives drinking there on any one weekend.
Jim: What happened?
Kevin: His mom got a new job, so they're moving to New Jersey.
Michael, hearing the commotion, comes out of his office and stands next to Kevin, hands on his hips.
Michael: So, you have an opening in Scrantonicity?
Kevin: Yeah, Michael. And there's no way we're going to be able to find somebody by this weekend.
Michael: Well, Kevin, I'll have you know that I am quite the neck bender.
Jim: You mean string bender.
Michael: No, I mean neck bender.
Kevin: You can't bend the neck, Michael. You'll break the guitar.
Michael: Well, I bend the strings so hard that the neck absorbs the vibration, creating the appearance that the neck is bending.
Jim: I've never seen any other guitarist do that before. Jimmy Hendrix, B.B. King, Eric Clapton --
Kelly: Yeah, and like, Avril Lavigne? If there was such a thing as neck bending, I'm sure she would've done it.
Cuts to camera with Kelly: Oh my God, I love Avril Lavigne. And her boyfriend, so hot. I mean, oh my God, if I knew that wearing black eyeliner would help me get guys like that, I would so do it. Or like, you know, being all depressed and wanting to commit suicide? I'd so do that, too.
Michael: All the more reason for me to join your band, Kevin. He play-boxes his arm. So what do you say?
Kevin: I don't know, Michael. You can't just say you want to join Scrantonicity. You'll have to prove your knowledge of The Police. Do you know anything about The Police?
Michael: He steals a smirk at the camera. I know they arrested me once. For rocking too hard.
Kevin: I'm serious, Michael. Scrantonicity isn't a joke.
Michael: I am being serious. I am being very, very serious. Somebody ask me something about The Police. Anything.
Jim: Who's the lead guitarist?
Michael: Well, I am now, obviously.
Kevin: No, the real Police.
Michael: That's what I meant, Kevin. Since The Police no longer exists, and I am now the lead guitarist in a Police tribute band, I am, by default, the lead guitarist for The Police.
Kevin: They reunited last year, Michael!
Michael: Well, Kevin, they're old now. So it doesn't even count. Once rockers start losing all their hair, they can't get chicks, and if they can't get chicks, they can't play music anymore. When do you practice next?
Kevin: Tonight. In my garage.
Michael: I will be there. And you don't have to put on your red light! Just the porch light. So I can see where I'm going.
Once the coast is clear, Jim approaches Pam's desk. He leans in and speaks to her in hushed tones.
Jim: So, you still want me to give you a ride this afternoon?
Pam: Yeah, I mean, if you don't mind.
Jim: Oh no, no, not at all. I mean, it's kinda my fault that you have to go.
Pam: She grins. Yeah, kinda, but it's still really nice. I appreciate the support.
Jim: Hey, no problem. We'll grab some lunch after, OK?
Pam: OK.
Cuts to camera with Pam: I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon. With a lady doctor. To get a prescription for … something that has to do with me and Jim. And that's it. No big deal.
Michael wanders over to Kevin's desk.
Michael: So how many groupies will I have?
Kevin: What do you mean?
Michael: You know, chicks following me around because they want to bend necks with the lead guitarist.
Kevin: Well, my kid sister comes to a lot of our shows.
Michael: Is she hot?
Kevin: She's my sister, Michael! And she's married with five kids!
Michael: Eww, kids! No way. Rockers have to live the free life. No extra baggage.
Pam is then seen checking over her shoulder. Once she ensures that the coast is clear, she starts scanning through a page on her computer prominently labeled "Planned Parenthood: Birth Control." Kelly walks over, pretending to take candy from the dish on the desk, and peeks at the screen.
Jim is nowhere to be seen.
Kelly: Oh my God, you're getting birth control?
Pam: Kelly, please!
Kelly: Not lowering her tone. Does that mean you and Jim are going to be having sex like all the time now?
Pam: No, no, it doesn't, Kelly.
Dwight: Not looking up from his computer. Birth control will lead to the downfall of the human race. If you limit the fruit of your ovaries, you are spelling our doom, Pam.
Kelly: You know, Pam, that is true. I mean, wouldn't you just love to be pregnant right now while it's still in style?
Pam: No, no, I don't want to … Just don't worry about it, OK?
Kelly: Wouldn't Jim just be like the cutest father ever? You should so like, say that you're taking the pill, and then don't.
Pam: I don't think so.
Jim reenters, his bag slung over his shoulder. Kelly gives him a knowing smirk.
Jim: What?
Kelly: Oh, nothing.
Jim: Confused. O… K…
Kelly: Just promise me I can go shopping for baby clothes with you guys!
Jim: What?
Pam puts her hand to her forehead.
Jim: Umm, ready to go?
Pam: Yeah.
They ride together in Jim's car in silence. They arrive, and Pam checks in at the front desk. Jim sits down in the waiting room and eyes a mobile hung on the ceiling made of birth control methods: a box of pills, a diaphragm, a condom, etc. He just gives a goofy grin to the camera.
The camera manages to steal a shot from afar of Pam inside the exam room.
Doctor: So how many sexual partners have you had in the last two years?
Pam: Umm … two?
Doctor: You didn't sound sure.
Pam: Well, yeah, two.
Doctor: What birth control methods did you us?
Pam: Looking increasingly uncomfortable. Umm … the normal one?
Doctor: What do you mean, "the normal one"? Removing the penis before ejaculation?
Pam: No, no! A condom, just a condom.
Doctor: We'll have to ask you to take a pregnancy test.
Pam: Well, no, that's not necessary. I'm not pregnant.
Doctor: I can't prescribe the birth control pill to you unless we ensure that you're not pregnant. Here. He hands her a cup.
Pam: OK, sure.
Doctor: What is that camera doing over there? Turn that off!
Pam hides her face in her hands as the scene ends.
The ride back.
Jim: So, how'd it go?
Pam: Well, I'm not pregnant.
Jim: That's … good to know?
Pam: Yeah, I guess. She smirks. It was fine, you know. I can start them in a week or two.
Jim: That's good.
They return back to the office, holding fast food bags and sipping from straws. Pam is also tightly clutching a small, brown paper bag.
Michael approaches them, hands on his hips.
Michael: I want you both to know that I'm very happy for you.
Jim: Umm, what?
Michael: You've taken a serious step in your relationship, and I want to congratulate you on making this commitment together.
Pam ducks away from the camera and demurely takes her spot at her desk.
Michael: What? No, it's cool, guys! I mean, wow! The pill! The ol' peel-o. La pill de la no les enfantes!
Jim: Umm, didn't you and Jan have a pregnancy scare a few months ago?
Michael: His eyebrows come together.That was not a pregnancy scare. That was gas.
Jim: But, she thought she was pregnant.
Michael: No, she had gas, which made her want to call me, and try to force me into a marriage proposal and into writing her in my will.
Jim: That's … some gas.
Michael: Quickly and dismissively. She had beans. Now, Jim, if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to my I-Musics for inspiration.
That night, Michael arrives at Scrantonicy practice. The guys are all middle-aged and are still in their cheap ties and slacks from the work day. They are setting up equipment and doing sound checks in a suburban garage, complete with a pink kiddie trike hanging on hooks behind them. Kevin is already taking his seat at the throne. He tries to spin his drum sticks but drops one. It crashes into the cymbal.
Before he can pick it up, he spots Michael.
Kevin: OK, guys, here's the new guitarist.
Bassist: Hey, wassup. Let's hear you play.
Michael: Wow, guys! This is ... really hard core.
Kevin: Yeah, well, I had some posters up in here, but Stacy made me take them down.
Michael: That's the thing about chicks! Always making you take your stuff down. Well, you know what? Not. Any. More. He punctuates each word as he rips off his suit jacket and throws it into the lawn.
Kevin: Abby's puppy poops out there, Michael.
Michael: Well, Kevin, it doesn't matter anymore. Because I'm a free man. I don't need that corporate coat! I don't need this corporate tie! He rips it off. It's a clip-on. I don't need this corporate hair! He runs his fingers through it, but it barely moves because of all the rock-hard gel. And you know what? Rockers … They gotta just, let it all be free, you know?He untucks his shirt and sprawls his hands out, reveling in his quasi-anarchy.
Bassist: So let's hear you play. He hikes his leg up on a tool box and then lets his fingers fly up and down the neck.
Michael: OK.
Kevin: Where's your guitar?
Michael: Nonplussed. What do you mean where's my guitar.
Bassist: You mean this guy doesn't have a guitar?
Michael: Of course I have a guitar! It's in the trunk.
Kevin: Well, hurry up, Michael. I'm supposed to take Abby to her school play in an hour.
Michael: Do I have a guitar. What a question! As soon as he is out of their line of sight, Michael sprints to his car and leaps in the driver's seat. He starts the engine and goes flying down the quiet parkway.
He arrives at a music store just as a long-haired, heavy pierced associate is locking the doors. He pounds on the door.
Worker: We're closed, man.
Michael: Come on, just let me in!
Worker: No way. I got a concert.
Michael: Please! All I need is one guitar! Just one.
Worker: Oh, a guitar player. OK, yeah. But make it fast.
Michael: Thank you. His confidence back, he starts at attention before the rows and rows of guitars lined up along the front wall. Yeah, I need one of those.
Worker: Yeah? OK … which one?
Michael: You know, just one that works.
Worker: They all work, man. He casually picks up an acoustic and starts bending through "Stairway to Heaven." What kind do you need?
Michael: That one.
Worker: Eyebrow raised. That's a bass.
Michael: Yeah, and?
Worker: It's not a guitar. It's a bass. Groaning. You know what, man? I shoulda been outta here like five minutes ago. Just get out.
Michael: No, no! Just please, tell me which one to buy and then show me how to play it, and then I'll leave.
Worker: Dude, I'm calling the cops.
Michael rushes out.
Defeated, he wanders up and down a small strip mall. All of the storefronts are closed for the evening except for a brightly-lit video game store. Advertisements beckon, especially an oversized banner that reads "Rock Band," depicting the silhouette of a lead vocalist leaning into the mic.
He slips inside and sees three kids on a demo system. One is on a plastic guitar, another is on plastic drums and the last one is singing "I Think I'm Paranoid" by Garbage.
Michael: What are you children doing?
Girl: During a pause in the song. Playing a game, duh?
Michael: Let me try. He grabs the microphone and begins to sing. Bend me, break me, all I want is you! The audience begins to boo.
Boy on drums: Hey, knock it off!
Girl: Give it back, you jerk!
Michael: Jeez, sorry, I just wanted to try it. He strolls up to the checkout counter. What is that?
Worker: It's "Rock Band." You get the kit, and it comes with the instruments.
Michael: So you can have your own band …
Worker: Well, sort of. They're just controllers and --
Michael: Lost in the fantasy. My own band … How much?
Worker: Like $160. He looks Michael over. You do have a next-gen gaming system, don't you?
Michael: Of course. Pauses. What's that?
Worker: A Wii, 360 or PS3?
Michael: Why do I need one of those?
Worker: To play the game.
Michael: How much?
Worker: Depends. PS3's are down to $500 now.
Michael: His eyes bug out of his head. And you children play these games?
Girl: Duh, that's why we play it here?
Michael: Fine, fine. He slaps plastic on the counter. A small price to pay for stardom.
He checks out and leaves with two giant bags.
The office, the next day. Michael and Dwight are fiddling with wires in the conference room. Toby enters.
Toby: What are you guys doing?
Michael: We're starting a band, Toby.
Toby: I don't think that's proper use of company property, Michael.
Michael: Toby, you just don't get it, OK? He plugs the guitar into the PS3 and turns on the TV. Nothing but fuzz. He curses and fiddles more with wires in the back. Rockers, we gotta live by our own rules. And squares like you? You guys just don't get it.
Dwight: Yeah, you don't get it! He points a plastic drum stick at him accusingly.
Toby sighs and walks out, passing by a red-faced Kevin.
Kevin: Michael, where did you go? We waited and waited and waited and waited and … Hey, is that "Rock Band"?
Michael: A grin to the camera. Why, yes it is, Kevin. Would you like to join my rock band?
Kevin: Can I play drums?
Michael: I don't know, I'm going to have to hear you play first.
Kevin: You saw me at Phyllis' wedding!
Michael: He shakes his head. No, not good enough. We'll have to test you out. I'm on guitar. Dwight, get on bass.
Dwight: Yes, sir! He slings the bass controller over his shoulder. It rides all the way up to his chest. He sneers at the screen and waits for the song to begin.
Cuts to camera with Dwight. Of course I've played in a band before. I play the spoons in my folk, slash, metal band, The Flailing Hennies. Spoon playing is a Schrute family tradition. I remember many a fond night nursing from my mom's teat as she played antique silverware on her knee.
Michael: Now all we need is a sexy lead vocalist. Dwight, go get Pam.
Dwight bounds over the controller chords, forgetting the bass is attached. He flies out the door, and the controller chord smacks into the doorframe and then dangles at his side.
Dwight: Pam, our rock band requires your presence immediately.
Pam: Umm … OK? She looks at Jim. He just shrugs. All of the employees, aroused by the noise, gather in the conference room.
Michael: He stares at the screen blankly and randomly presses on the colored keys that are meant to look like frets. How does this stupid thing … Toby, you have kids. Make this work.
Toby: Press the blue button.
Michael: What? He plucks at the bar.
Toby: No, the blue button.
Pam: She shyly enters and takes the microphone. Press the green one. Now the red one. OK, and hit enter. Now pick your song.
Michael: How do you know how to work this thing?
Pam: Sheepishly. My cousins have it.
Michael: Ooh, ooh, I wanna do "Can't Stand Losing You"!
Kevin: He squats behind the drums, his knees almost touching the top of one of the drum pads. This is going to be so easy.
The song begins. Pam begins to warble out the first few notes. Kevin clumsily slaps at the round pads on the fake drums, and Michael and Dwight diligently pluck on their controllers. The digital audience begins to boo almost immediately.
Michael's recorded voice is heard over the music and mess-ups.
Michael: So, you see, you really don't need real instruments anymore. Technology has eliminated the need for talent. Kevin, all of Scrantonicity, in fact, has been upstaged by a toy. A toy that maxed out my credit card.
Michael's voice fades out, and Kevin's cell phone rings. He stops playing the drums to answer it, and Jim slides in to take his place.
Kevin: Really? You're not moving away? Your mom got fired? That's awesome!