The Tie, Part 2: Jim/Pam, Michael/Jan, ensemble, PG/PG-13
Title: The Tie
Author: J.L
Category: Jim/Pam, Michael/Jan, ensemble
Rating: PG-13. ish.
Summary: When corporate nixes Christmas parties, Michael decides he and Jan should host one of their own. Meanwhile, Jim and Pam have some fun with Dwight when Michael arrives at work with a questionable tie.
Disclaimer: All WIP rules apply for now. Also, I don't own them. I wish I did. I would make them do naughty things.
----
The Tie
by J.L
----
"We've been good but we can't last.
Hurry, Christmas--hurry, fast!"
- The Chipmunks Christmas Song
----
12:20pm
Jim is busy formulating a plan to hang Michael’s tie from Dwight’s car antenna when Jan Levinson arrives for lunch, a wicker picnic basket draped over one arm. He glances at his watch. It is 12:20 exactly. In six months, Jan has yet to be late for lunch with Michael. Tipsy? Sure. Completely drunk? More than once. And that one time? The day after Michael apparently had tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert? Jim’s pretty sure she was out-of-her-mind stoned. Whatever the case, she always shows up at 12:20, like a soldier reporting for duty.
Jan nods at Jim, who nods back. Whatever anyone’s said about Jan Levinson in the past year (and Jim has heard…a lot…), Jan has always been nothing but cordial and real around him. Maybe she’s Schizophrenic?
Jan sets down her basket and unzips her hoodie. Underneath is…oh dear Jesus on Christmas-- a T-shirt with “Sandals Gal!” emblazoned in rhinestones-so many, in fact, that even the shirt looks perplexed.
Jim blinks.
He’s not entirely sure what to do with this information. He’s not even entirely sure this is really Jan. Briefly, he recalls the Jan Levinson he met six years ago, back when she worked in Corporate--complete with power-suit, diamond earrings, a handshake that almost broke several of his fingers, and hair that strangely never moved. And now she’s…Jan Levinson-- Michael’s weird girlfriend with the ugly picnic basket. So fucking bizarre.
An IM window pops up on Jim’s screen:
Pamarama0522 Says: I appear to be missing half my ice dancing costume. Have you seen it anywhere?
Jim smiles. He is, once again, eternally grateful for a girlfriend who can appreciate Jan Levinson in drag.
SlimJim0522: I knew I shouldn’t have lent out my Bedazzler.
Pam glances up at Jan, who lingers for a moment at the reception desk. “Hey, Jan-“
“A little tired, to be honest,” says Jan, “but otherwise good.” Pam glances around as if expecting to find the person whose question Jan just answered.
“Michael in his office?” asks Jan.
“Yeah.” Pam motions vaguely at Michael’s door. “Go on in.”
Jan turns and enters Michael’s office without knocking. Before the door closes, Jim hears Michael’s astonished gasp: “wow, it looks awesome. The twin cities all lit up!” Immediately following is Jan’s aghasted sigh. “Only for another hour, Michael. I feel like a palm tree disguised as New Years Eve.” The door slams shut.
Feeling giddy, Jim picks up the phone, dials zero. Pam answers after a ring. Too much has happened in so short a time. If Dwight comes back from lunch wearing an evening gown, Jim just might need to be resuscitated.
“Hi,” says Jim, “this is the government of Sandals, Jamaica. We seemed to have misplaced our really ugly shirt and I heard it might have found its way to Scranton. Can you confirm this? We have a group of blind people coming and it's imperative that the shirt be returned.”
Pam smiles, answers, “I'm sorry, sir, I can neither confirm nor deny the location of the shirt. However, I have a blinking tie that speaks seven languages...if you're interested.”
Jim considers for a moment. “I am interested,” he says.
--------
12:22
Jan pokes at her cobb salad, not really 'feeling it' this afternoon, the crunch of lettuce and tomato splashed with balsamic dressing--why does she always get the same stupid fucking thing she doesn't really like?
Jan puts down her fork and watches Michael. He likes to play with his food as he eats, working at the center of a sandwich from the outer perimeter, like water circling a drain. Jan bites the inside of her cheek and wonders exactly why and when she started cataloguing Michael Scott’s eating habits.
Michael puts down his sandwich. He sips daintily at a carton of chocolate milk. "You get everything?" he asks.
Jan recalls her earlier trip to the supermarket--a task she despises on principal. She answers, "I got those little--those hot-dog-crescent things you like, some candy canes, some chips, and the liquor." She glances at the camera, set up, as usual, in the corner of Michael's office. She hates that camera. "We're out of vodka," she says, which is not a lie. The fact that she drank it all, turned on the stereo and slam-danced to Donna Summer, and then had to crawl upstairs and heave up breakfast, is not something she particularly wants to share.
Michael gives her a funny look. "That's not everything."
"I'm not hiring a stripper, Michael."
"She's not a stripper, Jan," Michael corrects, "She's a Christmas Dancer. A festive gymnast. Or, as the website calls it, a 'Candy Stripper.' Also, there's some sort of Raindude/Candy Stripper special for, I think, Co-ed Christmas parties? So maybe you could research that?"
"No."
Michael, still in his world of Christmas and Raindudes, continues, "Which reminds me, about the disco ball--"
"No, Michael," says Jan.
"I think you’re being a little unreasonable," says Michael, "Just think about it logically for a moment. When the holiday contortionist descends from the ceiling, she’s going to need to climb out of something, right?" He gives her a pointed look.
Jan sighs. "Michael, you’re not--"
Michael shakes his head. He thrusts out his palm. "Talk to the hand," he says. "Cause the face is eating a sandwich."
Jan presses a finger to the bridge of her nose, where it appears the excruciating pain has originated. She imagines a naked woman jumping out of a disco ball in her living room while Dwight eats hotdogs out of the punch bowl. Her brain floods and she feels suddenly nauseous. If you kill him, you can't have sex with him. If you kill him, you can't have sex with him. If you kill him, you can't have sex with him. If you kill him--
"Are you okay?" asks Michael. He's stopped eating and is gazing at her like a confused puppy. His eyes are wide and green and endless. He looks worried. Of all the people Jan has ever known, Michael Scott is the only person who consistently worries about her or even cares enough to ask. Sometimes, he even leaves her post-it notes around the house: “A kiss for m’lady,” they’ll say, in Michael’s neat cursive. Jan keeps them all in an envelope in her nightstand. She sighs. Goddamn it.
"I'm fine," says Jan, who stabs her salad.
---
12:33
Jim leans into the phone, feeling nicely conspiratorial. Pam is using her Official “Secret Assistant To The Assistant Regional Manager” voice, which has always been generally effective for pranks played on Dwight---not to mention that it’s totally hot (well, in a disturbing sort of way.) “Fifteen-hundred hours?” she asks.
Jim frowns. He glances at Dwight out of the corner of his eye. “This is a very serious situation,” he says, “Lives could be lost. We’re talking hundreds and hundreds of lives. No-I don’t know where it might be.”
Dwight, interested now despite all attempts to eavesdrop inconspicuously, shoots Jim a glance over his paperwork.
“Over and out,” finishes Jim. He pauses, then adds, “Echo-one-niner.”
Dwight’s expression is unreadable. “I’m not falling for it,” he says. He begins to flip several papers across his desk. His tone is unusually flippant, which probably means he’s thinking much harder than his mouth is moving.
“Falling for what?” asks Jim.
Dwight sighs, which somehow manages to come out as an insult. “Whatever this is,” he says, and waves a dismissive hand. “I am not falling for any of your juvenile pranks.”
“Ouch.” Jim shakes his head. He places his hand on his chest as if wounded. “Dwight, I will have you know that my brother, John, is a Navy Seal.”
“Impossible,” says Dwight. “Your brother’s lived in Bethlehem for years and there are no oceans in Pennsylvania.”
Jim purses his lips, nods once, to himself. Suddenly, he gets an idea. He picks up a photo from his desk, swivels it to face Dwight: a snapshot of his brother, John, who is tall, dark-haired, and smiling, and dressed as a Navy captain. In John’s right hand is a beer, in the other is a walkie talkie. In the background are red Christmas lights. Man, thinks Jim. That was one terrific Halloween party.
Dwight gazes at the photo. His mouth is half-opened, his expression blank.
“Think what you want,” continues Jim, “But John was only calling to ask for my help. Apparently, some piece of undercover naval equipment got sent to Scranton by mistake.”
“You are a liar,” says Dwight. Then, after a beat, “The government would never send undercover equipment to Scranton.”
Jim shrugs. “If that was true,” he says, “Then why would they send a camera crew to videotape our every move and write down all the things we're saying?”
Dwight frowns. He glances over at the far side of the room, where Gene, watching with rapt interest, jots some notes down on his legal pad. He catches Dwight’s eye and shoots him a quick smile.
“The cameramen weren't sent by the government,” says Dwight, in a way that implies what he really means is the opposite of what he’s just said.
Jim shoots him an innocent look. “The government tell you that?”
---
1:30pm
On her way out, Jan is cornered in the hallway by the cameramen. Her picnic basket sits on the floor beside her feet. Greg, Michael's favorite, eyes the basket curiously and points his camera at it. Briefly, Jan has a flash of her future, of her and Michael getting orthopedic shoes and losing teeth and arguing over the good side of the couch. A sharp pang at being remembered not as Jan Levinson, Northeast VP of Sales, but as Jan Levinson, Michael Scott's live-in girlfriend with the ugly wicker picnic basket, is a horrifying idea she can't even face without wanting to stab herself in the brain with a paperclip.
Greg holds up four fingers, then points at her. Jan takes a deep breath, clears her throat. The red light appears. She begins, "Things are going well, I think. This is my first winter with Michael--"
Jan recalls Michael dragging a Christmas tree from the car into the house. Every twenty seconds or so he'd drop the tree, adjust his stupid Santa hat, then pick the tree back up, mumbling about his delicate muscles, to try again. After about ten minutes, he'd gone only two and half feet. Jan hung back on the sidewalk, the opening pangs of freezer burn creeping up her legs, her hands long gone stiff, her cheeks sore; Michael turned, smiled, and waved. Jan waved back as she searched frantically through her coat for a cigarette. If she was going to freeze to death, she wanted to at least go out on a cloud of unhealthy personal habits. She kept her cell phone in her right-hand pocket---911 on speed dial. Last time Michael had tried moving the futon out of the house, she’d had to call the paramedics before he’d even lifted it. He’d apparently hyperventilated perfecting his “warm up strategy.”
As Greg waves her on, Jan continues, "Of course, I don't really celebrate this holiday. My family was kind of Jewish…I think." She waves a hand in explanation. "You know, we were just… somewhat…vaguely....vague-ishly, uh..."
After approximately the tenth time Michael had dropped the tree, Jan lost her resolve to let him do it himself, as he'd insisted. "Tell me what to grab," she'd said, as Michael snickered and dropped the tree, and Jan finished, "Yadda yadda, that's what she said, get out of my way."
Finally, after some careful maneuvering, Jan grabbed the back-end of the tree and Michael grabbed the front. Together, they heaved and hoisted, at first, going nowhere. Then, suddenly, like an engine revving, they moved together, the tree thrusting heavily forward, like a pine-scented bottle rocket. "Michael?" called Jan. "I don't think this is the best--" Suddenly, there was a crash, a spray of pine needles, a shower of glass. An accordion of horizontal blinds, shards of wood, and parts of the window frame, all hurtling like confetti into the bushes. Which was when Michael stopped, let go of the tree, and said, "How about right there?"
The camera-light blinks at Jan. She suddenly feels like a roach under a magnifying glass. "I'm not that into the holiday season," she confesses to the camera. "As a child, I just always thought...how stupid the other children were. Believing in a fat creep who crawls into the house through your fireplace and tries to woo everyone with candy and gifts, who keeps lists of everything everyone does? I mean...who the hell came up with that? A lawsuit is what it is-a lawsuit just waiting to happen. And what about those stale cookies and milk? Stockings filled with coal? Uh, maybe it’s just that I’ve seen so much during my time as a professional, or because I’m Jewish, I don’t know, but that seems like a really dangerous game. Or at least it did when I was ten." Jan sighs. “I was on a lot of anti-depressants back then.”
-----
1:33pm
Dwight wanders over to the annex, where Paul is minding his camera and munching on an apple. Jim swivels in his chair to glance at Pam, who is already watching the action. Sometimes, it’s just better than television.
“Question,” says Dwight to Paul, “In the classic Orson Welles movie Citizen Kane, what is the meaning of ‘Rosebud’?”
Paul pauses, mid-bite, as if to consider this. He stares wordlessly at Dwight.
“You should know,” hints Dwight, suspiciously, “I’m sure you went to film school.”
Paul says nothing, but continues to calmly chew his apple.
“False,” declares Dwight. “Rosebud is a sled. This is very disappointing.” He pulls out a tiny notepad from his back pocket, makes some sort of notation. “For security purposes, I’m going to need the social security numbers of everyone on this documentary crew. Also, I will require fingerprints and urine samples.”
Dwight turns and walks away. Over his shoulder, he adds, “By the end of the day.”
Paul blinks, looks down at his apple, then at Dwight, then at his apple, then at the camera. Gene comes up behind him, motions at Dwight, spreads his arms as if asking a question. Paul sighs, shrugs, and shakes his head. He offers Gene his other apple.
Jim grins, feeling quite content. Behind him, Pam starts laughing. She covers her mouth with her hand and huddles closer to her desk. A tiny corkscrew curl flops into her eyes. The glow from her desk lamp catches a glint, alights her cheeks just-so. She brushes the hair quickly away.
This is the best part of Jim’s day so far.
---
CONTINUED...
Author: J.L
Category: Jim/Pam, Michael/Jan, ensemble
Rating: PG-13. ish.
Summary: When corporate nixes Christmas parties, Michael decides he and Jan should host one of their own. Meanwhile, Jim and Pam have some fun with Dwight when Michael arrives at work with a questionable tie.
Disclaimer: All WIP rules apply for now. Also, I don't own them. I wish I did. I would make them do naughty things.
----
The Tie
by J.L
----
"We've been good but we can't last.
Hurry, Christmas--hurry, fast!"
- The Chipmunks Christmas Song
----
12:20pm
Jim is busy formulating a plan to hang Michael’s tie from Dwight’s car antenna when Jan Levinson arrives for lunch, a wicker picnic basket draped over one arm. He glances at his watch. It is 12:20 exactly. In six months, Jan has yet to be late for lunch with Michael. Tipsy? Sure. Completely drunk? More than once. And that one time? The day after Michael apparently had tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert? Jim’s pretty sure she was out-of-her-mind stoned. Whatever the case, she always shows up at 12:20, like a soldier reporting for duty.
Jan nods at Jim, who nods back. Whatever anyone’s said about Jan Levinson in the past year (and Jim has heard…a lot…), Jan has always been nothing but cordial and real around him. Maybe she’s Schizophrenic?
Jan sets down her basket and unzips her hoodie. Underneath is…oh dear Jesus on Christmas-- a T-shirt with “Sandals Gal!” emblazoned in rhinestones-so many, in fact, that even the shirt looks perplexed.
Jim blinks.
He’s not entirely sure what to do with this information. He’s not even entirely sure this is really Jan. Briefly, he recalls the Jan Levinson he met six years ago, back when she worked in Corporate--complete with power-suit, diamond earrings, a handshake that almost broke several of his fingers, and hair that strangely never moved. And now she’s…Jan Levinson-- Michael’s weird girlfriend with the ugly picnic basket. So fucking bizarre.
An IM window pops up on Jim’s screen:
Pamarama0522 Says: I appear to be missing half my ice dancing costume. Have you seen it anywhere?
Jim smiles. He is, once again, eternally grateful for a girlfriend who can appreciate Jan Levinson in drag.
SlimJim0522: I knew I shouldn’t have lent out my Bedazzler.
Pam glances up at Jan, who lingers for a moment at the reception desk. “Hey, Jan-“
“A little tired, to be honest,” says Jan, “but otherwise good.” Pam glances around as if expecting to find the person whose question Jan just answered.
“Michael in his office?” asks Jan.
“Yeah.” Pam motions vaguely at Michael’s door. “Go on in.”
Jan turns and enters Michael’s office without knocking. Before the door closes, Jim hears Michael’s astonished gasp: “wow, it looks awesome. The twin cities all lit up!” Immediately following is Jan’s aghasted sigh. “Only for another hour, Michael. I feel like a palm tree disguised as New Years Eve.” The door slams shut.
Feeling giddy, Jim picks up the phone, dials zero. Pam answers after a ring. Too much has happened in so short a time. If Dwight comes back from lunch wearing an evening gown, Jim just might need to be resuscitated.
“Hi,” says Jim, “this is the government of Sandals, Jamaica. We seemed to have misplaced our really ugly shirt and I heard it might have found its way to Scranton. Can you confirm this? We have a group of blind people coming and it's imperative that the shirt be returned.”
Pam smiles, answers, “I'm sorry, sir, I can neither confirm nor deny the location of the shirt. However, I have a blinking tie that speaks seven languages...if you're interested.”
Jim considers for a moment. “I am interested,” he says.
--------
12:22
Jan pokes at her cobb salad, not really 'feeling it' this afternoon, the crunch of lettuce and tomato splashed with balsamic dressing--why does she always get the same stupid fucking thing she doesn't really like?
Jan puts down her fork and watches Michael. He likes to play with his food as he eats, working at the center of a sandwich from the outer perimeter, like water circling a drain. Jan bites the inside of her cheek and wonders exactly why and when she started cataloguing Michael Scott’s eating habits.
Michael puts down his sandwich. He sips daintily at a carton of chocolate milk. "You get everything?" he asks.
Jan recalls her earlier trip to the supermarket--a task she despises on principal. She answers, "I got those little--those hot-dog-crescent things you like, some candy canes, some chips, and the liquor." She glances at the camera, set up, as usual, in the corner of Michael's office. She hates that camera. "We're out of vodka," she says, which is not a lie. The fact that she drank it all, turned on the stereo and slam-danced to Donna Summer, and then had to crawl upstairs and heave up breakfast, is not something she particularly wants to share.
Michael gives her a funny look. "That's not everything."
"I'm not hiring a stripper, Michael."
"She's not a stripper, Jan," Michael corrects, "She's a Christmas Dancer. A festive gymnast. Or, as the website calls it, a 'Candy Stripper.' Also, there's some sort of Raindude/Candy Stripper special for, I think, Co-ed Christmas parties? So maybe you could research that?"
"No."
Michael, still in his world of Christmas and Raindudes, continues, "Which reminds me, about the disco ball--"
"No, Michael," says Jan.
"I think you’re being a little unreasonable," says Michael, "Just think about it logically for a moment. When the holiday contortionist descends from the ceiling, she’s going to need to climb out of something, right?" He gives her a pointed look.
Jan sighs. "Michael, you’re not--"
Michael shakes his head. He thrusts out his palm. "Talk to the hand," he says. "Cause the face is eating a sandwich."
Jan presses a finger to the bridge of her nose, where it appears the excruciating pain has originated. She imagines a naked woman jumping out of a disco ball in her living room while Dwight eats hotdogs out of the punch bowl. Her brain floods and she feels suddenly nauseous. If you kill him, you can't have sex with him. If you kill him, you can't have sex with him. If you kill him, you can't have sex with him. If you kill him--
"Are you okay?" asks Michael. He's stopped eating and is gazing at her like a confused puppy. His eyes are wide and green and endless. He looks worried. Of all the people Jan has ever known, Michael Scott is the only person who consistently worries about her or even cares enough to ask. Sometimes, he even leaves her post-it notes around the house: “A kiss for m’lady,” they’ll say, in Michael’s neat cursive. Jan keeps them all in an envelope in her nightstand. She sighs. Goddamn it.
"I'm fine," says Jan, who stabs her salad.
---
12:33
Jim leans into the phone, feeling nicely conspiratorial. Pam is using her Official “Secret Assistant To The Assistant Regional Manager” voice, which has always been generally effective for pranks played on Dwight---not to mention that it’s totally hot (well, in a disturbing sort of way.) “Fifteen-hundred hours?” she asks.
Jim frowns. He glances at Dwight out of the corner of his eye. “This is a very serious situation,” he says, “Lives could be lost. We’re talking hundreds and hundreds of lives. No-I don’t know where it might be.”
Dwight, interested now despite all attempts to eavesdrop inconspicuously, shoots Jim a glance over his paperwork.
“Over and out,” finishes Jim. He pauses, then adds, “Echo-one-niner.”
Dwight’s expression is unreadable. “I’m not falling for it,” he says. He begins to flip several papers across his desk. His tone is unusually flippant, which probably means he’s thinking much harder than his mouth is moving.
“Falling for what?” asks Jim.
Dwight sighs, which somehow manages to come out as an insult. “Whatever this is,” he says, and waves a dismissive hand. “I am not falling for any of your juvenile pranks.”
“Ouch.” Jim shakes his head. He places his hand on his chest as if wounded. “Dwight, I will have you know that my brother, John, is a Navy Seal.”
“Impossible,” says Dwight. “Your brother’s lived in Bethlehem for years and there are no oceans in Pennsylvania.”
Jim purses his lips, nods once, to himself. Suddenly, he gets an idea. He picks up a photo from his desk, swivels it to face Dwight: a snapshot of his brother, John, who is tall, dark-haired, and smiling, and dressed as a Navy captain. In John’s right hand is a beer, in the other is a walkie talkie. In the background are red Christmas lights. Man, thinks Jim. That was one terrific Halloween party.
Dwight gazes at the photo. His mouth is half-opened, his expression blank.
“Think what you want,” continues Jim, “But John was only calling to ask for my help. Apparently, some piece of undercover naval equipment got sent to Scranton by mistake.”
“You are a liar,” says Dwight. Then, after a beat, “The government would never send undercover equipment to Scranton.”
Jim shrugs. “If that was true,” he says, “Then why would they send a camera crew to videotape our every move and write down all the things we're saying?”
Dwight frowns. He glances over at the far side of the room, where Gene, watching with rapt interest, jots some notes down on his legal pad. He catches Dwight’s eye and shoots him a quick smile.
“The cameramen weren't sent by the government,” says Dwight, in a way that implies what he really means is the opposite of what he’s just said.
Jim shoots him an innocent look. “The government tell you that?”
---
1:30pm
On her way out, Jan is cornered in the hallway by the cameramen. Her picnic basket sits on the floor beside her feet. Greg, Michael's favorite, eyes the basket curiously and points his camera at it. Briefly, Jan has a flash of her future, of her and Michael getting orthopedic shoes and losing teeth and arguing over the good side of the couch. A sharp pang at being remembered not as Jan Levinson, Northeast VP of Sales, but as Jan Levinson, Michael Scott's live-in girlfriend with the ugly wicker picnic basket, is a horrifying idea she can't even face without wanting to stab herself in the brain with a paperclip.
Greg holds up four fingers, then points at her. Jan takes a deep breath, clears her throat. The red light appears. She begins, "Things are going well, I think. This is my first winter with Michael--"
Jan recalls Michael dragging a Christmas tree from the car into the house. Every twenty seconds or so he'd drop the tree, adjust his stupid Santa hat, then pick the tree back up, mumbling about his delicate muscles, to try again. After about ten minutes, he'd gone only two and half feet. Jan hung back on the sidewalk, the opening pangs of freezer burn creeping up her legs, her hands long gone stiff, her cheeks sore; Michael turned, smiled, and waved. Jan waved back as she searched frantically through her coat for a cigarette. If she was going to freeze to death, she wanted to at least go out on a cloud of unhealthy personal habits. She kept her cell phone in her right-hand pocket---911 on speed dial. Last time Michael had tried moving the futon out of the house, she’d had to call the paramedics before he’d even lifted it. He’d apparently hyperventilated perfecting his “warm up strategy.”
As Greg waves her on, Jan continues, "Of course, I don't really celebrate this holiday. My family was kind of Jewish…I think." She waves a hand in explanation. "You know, we were just… somewhat…vaguely....vague-ishly, uh..."
After approximately the tenth time Michael had dropped the tree, Jan lost her resolve to let him do it himself, as he'd insisted. "Tell me what to grab," she'd said, as Michael snickered and dropped the tree, and Jan finished, "Yadda yadda, that's what she said, get out of my way."
Finally, after some careful maneuvering, Jan grabbed the back-end of the tree and Michael grabbed the front. Together, they heaved and hoisted, at first, going nowhere. Then, suddenly, like an engine revving, they moved together, the tree thrusting heavily forward, like a pine-scented bottle rocket. "Michael?" called Jan. "I don't think this is the best--" Suddenly, there was a crash, a spray of pine needles, a shower of glass. An accordion of horizontal blinds, shards of wood, and parts of the window frame, all hurtling like confetti into the bushes. Which was when Michael stopped, let go of the tree, and said, "How about right there?"
The camera-light blinks at Jan. She suddenly feels like a roach under a magnifying glass. "I'm not that into the holiday season," she confesses to the camera. "As a child, I just always thought...how stupid the other children were. Believing in a fat creep who crawls into the house through your fireplace and tries to woo everyone with candy and gifts, who keeps lists of everything everyone does? I mean...who the hell came up with that? A lawsuit is what it is-a lawsuit just waiting to happen. And what about those stale cookies and milk? Stockings filled with coal? Uh, maybe it’s just that I’ve seen so much during my time as a professional, or because I’m Jewish, I don’t know, but that seems like a really dangerous game. Or at least it did when I was ten." Jan sighs. “I was on a lot of anti-depressants back then.”
-----
1:33pm
Dwight wanders over to the annex, where Paul is minding his camera and munching on an apple. Jim swivels in his chair to glance at Pam, who is already watching the action. Sometimes, it’s just better than television.
“Question,” says Dwight to Paul, “In the classic Orson Welles movie Citizen Kane, what is the meaning of ‘Rosebud’?”
Paul pauses, mid-bite, as if to consider this. He stares wordlessly at Dwight.
“You should know,” hints Dwight, suspiciously, “I’m sure you went to film school.”
Paul says nothing, but continues to calmly chew his apple.
“False,” declares Dwight. “Rosebud is a sled. This is very disappointing.” He pulls out a tiny notepad from his back pocket, makes some sort of notation. “For security purposes, I’m going to need the social security numbers of everyone on this documentary crew. Also, I will require fingerprints and urine samples.”
Dwight turns and walks away. Over his shoulder, he adds, “By the end of the day.”
Paul blinks, looks down at his apple, then at Dwight, then at his apple, then at the camera. Gene comes up behind him, motions at Dwight, spreads his arms as if asking a question. Paul sighs, shrugs, and shakes his head. He offers Gene his other apple.
Jim grins, feeling quite content. Behind him, Pam starts laughing. She covers her mouth with her hand and huddles closer to her desk. A tiny corkscrew curl flops into her eyes. The glow from her desk lamp catches a glint, alights her cheeks just-so. She brushes the hair quickly away.
This is the best part of Jim’s day so far.
---
CONTINUED...