Title: The Love Song of Toby Flenderson
Rating: K+
Discliamer: Office = NBC. T. S. Eliot = His estate, or whatever.
A/N: So this is basically a shameless vanity fic, because "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot is my favorite poem in the world (The WORLD!) and it seems rather apt, all things considered (especially since I alluded to it in the summary...). You should definitely Google the poem before reading if you're not familiar with it.

"So what should next month's book be?" Oscar asked in the final minutes of the meeting of the Finer Things Club.

"I was thinking we could do some poetry" Pam suggested.

"What would you suggest?" Oscar asked.

"I've always really liked Emily Dickinson..."

He couldn't hold back a scoff. "Come on, Pam. This isn't high school." He looked to Toby to back him up. "What do you think?"

"Poetry sounds fun, but I don't like Emily Dickinson either," he said apologetically.

"Who's your favorite poet, then?" Pam asked, trying to skip past the rejection.

"T. S. Eliot," he replied automatically.

Oscar chuckled. "That's a shock."

"I don't know that I've ever read any of his poetry," Pam said. "It'll be something new."

"I can live with Eliot, even if he is a downer," Oscar conceded. "Are we agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

"Okay, then... Same time next month."

ooo

"I didn't really like it," Pam said with an apologetic shrug, laying the book on the table. "It's really depressing."

"You didn't like it at all?" Toby said, feeling a little hurt.

"Well, some of the ones where he's talking about faith aren't so bad. Kind of. But everything's so hopeless and sad."

"I kind of have to agree with Pam. The man can write some amazing verse, but it makes you want to hang yourself when you're done reading it. The Waste Land's good in it's own way, but it really doesn't make any sense."

Toby shrugged. "Yeah, I never really understood that one, either."

Pam looked at him. "Well, you really like Eliot, Toby. What's your perspective?"

"On his work in general or something specific?"

"Which one's your favorite?"

He sighed a little, feeling put on the spot. "...The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

They opened their copies and flipped through until they found it.

"It's been my favorite poem by him... since I first read it, pretty much. I guess at first I didn't really understand it, but I liked the way he used language and the weird rhyme scheme. I started seeing different things in it the more I reread it, though. Understanding his perspective a little more. I always kind of liked how the poem said specific things, but putting them together just formed this loose framework through which you could view things in your own life. Well my life, anyway."

They were both staring at him intently. Not because they pitied him or were judging him, but because they were listening to what he had to say. Emboldened, he continued. "The thing that always struck me was that... This man basically has lost any chance for love in his life. And he knows it. But he doesn't give up, and he doesn't stop trying to understand it, even though he knows he never will. It's like... He sees his own mortality and he works his way through it. And he doesn't come to a good conclusion and he doesn't get a happy ending but he accepts it all with some dignity." He shrugged. "That's how I take it, anyway."

Oscar nodded slowly. "That's actually a pretty good analysis."

Pam pressed her lips together. "When I read that one, I just thought it was a lament that the narrator missed out on his only shot for happiness, but I can completely see where you're coming from."

Toby's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he nodded. 'There's one part that always seemed really poignant to me. It's near the end." He cleared his throat a little and recited from memory.

"'No... I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.'"

Toby never considered himself much of an orator, but he'd always been comfortable with that monologue, if only because he fit the part. Pam and Oscar were staring at him again, but this time there was just a touch of admiration mixed in, and he felt a flutter of pride. He was finally more than the soft-spoken mediator... He was making a contribution.

"So... Wow, you definitely won the audition there, Toby," Oscar joked, effectively breaking the spell.

"Thanks," he murmured, looking down. He suddenly felt very exposed.

"I think you've given me a whole new perspective on Eliot," Pam added.

He shrugged and gave a little embarrassed smile.

"I think that's enough T. S. for one day, though," Oscar said, and Toby nodded gratefully. "Should we just go on to food?"

"...Guys, I have a confession," Pam piped up, pulling another book out of her purse. "I brought Emily along, just in case."

The mood immediately lightened, and they spent the rest of the lunch hour passing the volume around reading the quirky little verse out loud as they nibbled on their fancy cookies and tea. Pam managed to cajole Oscar into saying something more or less nice about every poem they shared, and more than once laughter chorused around the table.

Oscar had to go back to his desk the second his break was over or face Angela's bitching, so Pam and Toby cleaned up folding up the tablecloth and storing it away for future meetings.

"You see yourself as the man in that poem, don't you?" Pam asked as they finished up.

He didn't answer. He thought that would have been obvious.

"You're not, though. You're not so..." she trailed off, trying to find the right word.

"Eloquent about it?" he finished, a little more bitterly than he intended.

She pursed her lips. "That's not what I meant at all,' she said, turning towards the door, leaving him all alone in their little make-believe playhouse.

Toby leaned on the counter and sighed. "I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas," he mumbled.

A/N II: Yes, Toby was merely spouting my ideas on the poem. Also, yeah, he's kind of a jerk at the end, but there's a whole fun aspect to writing Creepy Toby that is getting him to do and say inappropriate things.

Thanks to the following for paying the ransom... KipperMay, JAMonMyToast, and bingbangboom714. You guys is cool. Next chapter is not ransomed but it will be a few days before it's up becuase I have two night shifts and I don't see myself having the time or energy to type. But maybe if I had some reviews to motivate me, I might find a little extra willpower...