David Wallace's house, one week later
Dressed in sweats and socks with sandals, Michael pressed the ornate doorbell by David's front door. Within seconds, a butler appeared.
"You must be Michael Scott," he was greeted flatly.
"Man, a butler? This whole 'Michael, I can't give you any cash or gifts' deal really sucks," grumbled Michael as he stepped inside.
"Here, let me take your bag and… ahem, footwear."
"Oh, no thank you. I'll need this with me," Michael hugged the black duffel to his chest. As he finished kicking off his sandals, he glimpsed David cautiously lurking around the corner. "David! Good morning. I'm ready for my rub-down!"
"You brought the cameras?" David moaned.
"What can I say, they follow me everywhere these days. Is the table all set up? Calypso music playing as requested?"
"Yes," David confirmed as he slowly led Michael to a spare room. "I have a timer set. The instant it goes off, I'm done."
"Fair enough. Oh, and I hope you don't mind, but I packed my bag of essential oils. I decided to throw in a few non-essential ones too: olive, coconut, vegetable, and canola. Take your pick."
One hour later
Shortly before noon, Teddy and Tessa Wallace ventured down from their rooms, having reveled in the option to sleep late that Saturday. Since they'd missed breakfast, lunch ended up being double fare for the 17 and 15-year-olds. They sauntered into the dining room with plates piled high, eyeing their food with great anticipation.
Yet as they raised the first bites to their mouths, a strange sound reached them. It was a cross between a low moan and a high-pitched wail, if such a bizarre auditory blend was possible. And it was gradually getting closer, louder.
Their curiosity soon brought them face-to-face with Michael Scott, whom David and his butler were attempting to help shuffle down the hall. They flanked him with their shoulders bracing beneath his arms.
"Ooooh… aaaa-ooooo… eeeeeeiiiiiuuuuu… haaaaa waaaaa luuuuuu…."
"Dad, who is that?" Teddy asked, visibly disturbed by the scene.
David shot him a silencing look. "No one you need to concern yourself with."
Somehow, in his post-massage haze, Michael recognized the teens. "You… kids. I know you. You're Gumby, and you're – you're Peppa Pig."
Teddy snorted. "That's us."
"Hey, waddya think your parents will name the new baby? Spongebob?"
"Maybe."
"Or how about, 'YourDadStillDoesYourMom Wallace!'" Michael guffawed, nearly falling over.
"Sounds too long. And it'd be a nightmare to spell," Tessa chimed in.
"That's enough," David clenched his jaw, dragging Michael the rest of the way.
Michael paused on the front stoop. His internal gyroscope appeared to still be off its axis. "Walk me to my car?" he slurred.
David linked arms again. "Why not? This has already been the most humiliating day of my life. Having the neighbors see this will be the cherry on top."
"You… you didn't enjoy it?"
"The less said about this, the better, Michael. Are you okay to drive home? If not, you can sit here until five. Then we'll need you to go so we can leave."
"That's so generous of you David," tears glistened in Michael's eyes. "Hey, I wanted to tell you something. If things go south with Ryan, like they did with Jan, I want you to know that you're my backup man crush."
"I am?"
"Absolutely."
David lowered Michael into the driver's seat as if he were a nursing home patient. "I'm flattered. Now promise me you won't drive until you can see straight."
Nodding, Michael closed his eyes as he reclined his seat all the way back. From a second-story window, Robin Wallace had watched it all in great amusement.
Michael to camera crew later:
"I can't believe I actually said that to David… I swear, massages are the equivalent of, like, twenty beers for me. Yet, even beer can't get me to say the things massages can. It's like my heart turns into a spring-loaded trampoline that my brain sends high-dive thoughts onto, and they fly out of my mouth like candy-coated doves riding a lightning bolt. Mm, I should write that down and send it to a greeting card company. Pure poetry."