The Tie, Part 4
Hey all,
Apologies for the delay with this part. The holidays are a tricky time when you work in theater. In any case, please enjoy my continuing saga of workplace ludicrosity (totally just made that word up right there) and, as always, feedback is welcomed like the Pocket-Jan I put on my list for Christmas...
- J
Title: The Tie (part 4)
Author: J.L.
Rated: PG-13. ish.
Category: Michael/Jan (MJR?), Jim, ensemble, some Jim/Pam
Disclaimer: All WIP rules apply for now. Also, I don't own them. I wish I did. I would make them do naughty things.
Spoilers: Up to season 4. Cocktails, and The Deposition, perhaps, depending on your point of view.
----
The Tie
by J.L
-----
Part 4
--
"I am taking a calculated risk. What's the upside? I overcome my nausea, fall deeply in love--babies, normalcy, no more self-loathing... The downside? I date Michael Scott publicly and collapse in on myself like a dying star."
- Jan Levinson
Raw Interview Footage,
Dunder Mifflin Documentary,
1.21.07
"I don't want a lot for Christmas. There is just one thing I need."
- Mariah Carey, All I Want For Christmas
----
4:30pm
By the time Jim returns from the conference room, Dwight is fluttering about like a retarded hummingbird.
"Yeah," says Pam into the phone, her index finger raised to Jim, "Thanks, Bob. Yeah, I don't know why our fax machine's broken, but that was a big help. Yeah, okay--I'll tell Phyllis." Her grin grows wider, flashes across her eyes. "Thanks again." She hangs up. "Okay," she says to Jim, her smile wide and her eyes bright, "So. Dwight was at his desk, trying to dial the government. And I was thinking, wouldn't it be perfect if--"
Dwight stalks past reception carrying a cardboard box filled with power-tools, Elmer's glue, several assorted Japanese weapons, and a gas mask. None of this is especially shocking to Jim, seeing as how just last week Dwight accidentally slashed a set of tires in the parking lot with--what Jim can only describe as--the blow dart from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Dwight would have otherwise been reprimanded for that sort of thing, but it was Toby's tires he slashed, so...yeah. Instead, Michael bought Dwight a Dr. Pepper and blasted Little Red Corvette by Prince into the annex for the rest of the day.
Dwight halts in front of Jim. Trailing Dwight is Andrew Bernard, who...well, how to describe Andrew Bernard? Probably by saying...If Dwight had attended Cornell, joined an acapella choir, and spent ten weeks in anger management, he probably could have been Andrew Bernard...Or, well, maybe just...a weirder version of Dwight.
Jim turns and leans back against the reception desk, his arms folded across his chest. "Hey, Dwight," he says, sneaking a glance into the box. "What's up?"
"More than you could ever possibly imagine," says Dwight, pausing for a moment before adding, "Get out of my way."
Jim nods, thinking that sounds about right. He murmurs at Dwight with exagerrated interest, then grins, poking at the box. "Hey, look at that," he says, "are those Ninja throwing stars?"
Dwight sighs heavily, shifts the box to his other hip. "Jim," he states, in a way that implies Jim is actually a toddler, "I do not have the time to stand around talking sophomoric nonsense with you."
"Okay, Great," replies Jim. He turns his back to Dwight and begins rifling through the sales department's inbox.
"In laymens terms," continues Dwight, pausing just long enough for Jim to turn back around, "There has been a security breach in this office. And a very serious one at that. Your brother was apparently onto something." Dwight pauses, looks left and right. He lowers his voice. "The government IS watching us," he says. "My advice? Trust no one. Fox Mulder. Best advice anyone ever gave me outside of Michael."
Jim frowns. "Isn't Fox Mulder fictional?"
"The point," says Dwight, "is that I am an officer of the law."
"Volunteer officer of the law."
"A man of principals," snaps Dwight. "And the safety of everyone here--perhaps everyone in the city of Scranton itself-- has been compromised. And as a man of principals, and as a trained Wii samurai, I have a responsibility--"
"Self-inflicted responsibility."
"--to use these skills to save my subordinates--"
"Coworkers."
"--from a terrible fate. And in order to save everyone, I may be required to use extreme force and physical violence. And if it comes to that, then yes, I may be forced to utilize ninja throwing stars--"
"No Ninja throwing stars," calls Toby from the other side of the office.
Jim turns to Pam, who is biting her lip so hard she looks like she might chew it off.
"Damn it," mutters Dwight. He grits his teeth and gestures with one hand towards Andy, who has apparently been twirling a giant plastic bucket like a beach ball and shifting his weight back and forth; he looks like a dancer in a child's flip-book. Andy has also been humming Christmas music in falsetto for, oh, the past three or four hours now. And this, thinks Jim, is at least a welcomed change from yesterday's afternoon-long rendition of Step By Step by New Kids on the Block. Or last week's eight-am breakfast performance of Girls Just Want to Have Fun, which was...not at all fun. For anyone. Of any gender.
Andy bobs his head, and is right at the part of the Chipmunks song where Alvin sings about the hula hoop, when Dwight barks his name.
"When I brought you on board," says Dwight, "I was very specific about singing during serious security situations. Do you recall this?"
"I do," says Andy. He shifts from one foot to the other, brows furrowed, and says, "You uh..." He wags a finger in the air, "said that..." He nods to himself, "I was, uh... auditorily spectacular, despite any and all dangers posed to me within this...Sphere of Dangerosity--" He pauses, smirks, and continues, "Cornell slang-- you wouldn't understand." He nods again and makes a popping sound with his lips. "Also, that I should keep the scimitar at my desk."
Dwight purses his lips. "No," he answers. And then, as an afterthought, "Shut up."
Jim blinks and glances at Gene, who is filming the action from behind Pam's desk. Earlier that afternoon, Gene had filled up his specimen cup with apple juice. He gave it to Dwight with a smile and a thumbs-up, which Dwight had dismissed as, "reverse government psychology."
Jim shifts so that Dwight can shove past him with the box, the bucket, and Andy trailing dutifully behind, humming, "We can hardly, hardly wait, please Christmas don't be late--"
Ah yes. The day before Christmas break is a beautiful day, indeed. And while Jim is still not quite sure what Pam has done to instigate this, he's considering just taking her, right here, in front of God and Dwight and Andy's bucket and Angela's Halloween cookies of Evil.
Jim turns to Pam, his face flush with excitement. "What the hell did you do?" he asks.
Pam, still grinning, hands Jim a folder. Inside the folder is a fax on US Navy letterhead that appears to have been photocopied then taped to another fax on Dwight Schrute's letterhead. The outer fax is labeled from Future Dwight. The inner fax is addressed to nobody. It says:
The tie has been compromised. Find Michael Scott. Destroy tie.
And then at the bottom:
This message must be destroyed within thirty seconds to prevent paradox and destruction of universe.
"So?" asks Pam, the word lilting like a crooked finger, "What do you think?"
Jim glances up at Pam. He is...without words. Well, without most words, except, maybe--
"I love you."
Pam nods, her lips pursed, her gaze vaguely mischevious. "Yes," she says, "As you should." She turns to Jim and grins. Jim grins back. On the opposite side of the room, Dwight is putting on a gas mask.
"Merry Christmas," says Pam.
"Merry Christmas," says Jim.
---
4:35pm
Jan sets her hands on her hips and stares tiredly out into the foyer.
As if spending an entire afternoon grocery shopping, cleaning, pinning Michael's Kwanzaa Now! banner on the wall, and rolling hot dogs into crescent rolls wasn't humiliating enough, Jan has now been tasked with finding a place of honor for David Wallace's fucking Christmas card.
Of course, as Jan had insisted to Michael--for the sake of reality, and because David Wallace is a disingenuous troll with glasses--the card is practically meaningless; all branch managers get the same card from David every year. Michael, however, being Michael, had insisted to Jan that his good friend David Wallace had purposely singled him out--via Christmas card--because Michael had removed himself from consideration for Jan's job, and that was apparently a great show of humility.
"I did something professionally glorious," Michael had said. "Corporate is not yet ready for Michael Scott...but they sure as hell like him a lot."
And then, realizing he'd invented a rhyme, Michael pitter-pattered around the condo for the rest of the day, humming nonsense, comparing himself to Eminem, and inventing bizarre dance moves, until dinner (and the act of chewing his food) finally shut him up.
Jan shakes her head at the memory; that comfortably lazy Saturday afternoon; Michael wandering around in his slippers, humming the lyrics to Stan and twirling in his bathrobe. Why such a thing immediately makes him more attractive to Jan, she has no idea, although she's pretty sure there's medication she could take to correct it.
Jan wanders into the foyer and picks up the card from David Wallace. On the front is a white and silver winter wonderland, complete with nauseatingly cozy cottage, Christmas tree, and snowman. "Happy Holidays" says the outside. Jan opens it and examines the inside.
Best wishes for the holidays and a happy New Year, Cordially, David Wallace.
"Fuck you," says Jan to the card.
The card, of course, does not respond.
Jan flexes and un-flexes the fist of her opposite hand, and recalls a discussion she'd had with David at that disastrous cocktail party last January.
In the months leading up to the party, Jan had been noticing some strange numbers on the Northeast Branch quarterly report. The quotes had just been too suspicious to overlook; five-thousand dollars here, two thousand dollars there, all very strange surpluses of cash with Scranton listed as the reference.
At first, David had refused to speak with Jan about anything related to the matter. "It's nothing you need to worry about," he'd said, "I promise you." And then he studiously avoided all of her emails and calls for about a week, which had infuriated Jan to no end. Quite frankly, she had spent too long working her way up the ladder, just climbing and clawing and shoving people out of her way, to hit a glass ceiling with David Fucking Wallace, of all people. For crying out loud, she’d been working with him for five years at that point. She’d even driven him home after 2005's horrifying Corporate Christmas party-when he’d gotten drunk, hit on her assistant, and puked over the railing of the promenade at Lincoln Center.
Jan tries to shake off the memory of David Wallace; as it is, she has a throbbing headache. The day has just been poking at her brain like...well, she doesn't even know. Something dull and incredibly painful. Like one of Dwight's weird ninja toys.
"Ugh," Jan groans, thinking of Dwight Schrute. And Jim Halpert. And Pam...whatever-her-last-name-is. And...uh, that drunk slutty one. And that other weirdly religious one with the blonde hair. And that Indian girl with the pink and the talking and the annoying. They will all be standing here in her living room in about an hour.
Jan slumps into a chair, taps her foot frenetically on the carpet. She runs her hands over her face, scratches the back of her neck. She pulls her legs up into the chair and then lets them fall back to the floor. Her other leg shakes hysterically, as if to some invisible music.
"Fuck," says Jan to herself, rubbing her temples. "I need to stop thinking." She sighs, shifts again in the chair, and considers calling Michael. He's still mad at her about the spa thing, though, and Jan's not really in any mood to talk Michael down from yet another boxcar.
With a yawn of frustration, she leans back into the chair and closes her eyes.
In the end, Jan falls mercifully asleep before she can even begin to remember where the hell the phone went.
---
4:40pm
Kelly Kapur wanders into Michael's office with a stack of papers in her hand and her thumb chucked in the direction of the sales pit. Michael glances up from his article on indoor barbequing (apparently grilling in the house is a fire hazard? Even if he barbeques in the bathroom where all the water is readily available? really, that just seems untrue); and he nods to Kelly, feeling irritable. If there's anyone in this office who annoys people with her inappropriate commentary, it's Kelly Kapur.
"What?" demands Michael.
"Uh," says Kelly, dropping the stack of papers on Michael's visitor's chair, "Dwight's walking around with, like, a space-mask on?"
Michael sighs. He vaguely recalls Dwight hiding a weird mask in the ceiling of the men's restroom. But, seriously? Everyone in this office knows that Dwight is an idiot.
"And?" asks Michael, wondering why people keep bothering him with this ridiculous nonsense. If he's going to grill Mahi Mahi for his party, he's going to have to tell Jan to go to the store again pretty soon.
Kelly frowns. "And it's weird?" she answers.
"Look," says Michael, "If I were to investigate every weird thing that goes on in this office--" He pauses, unsure of where he's going with this, and finishes, "then, uh, I would be spending my days... investigating weird things. And that would be an ineffective use of my time, don't you think?"
"I don't know," answers Kelly. She shrugs, an impossibly blank look on her face. "What do you normally do all day?"
Michael frowns. He has...never been asked that question before. Or, at least, not by someone who wasn't really hot. Like Jan. Or Ryan. And both of them have always had the right to ask, if only because of their hotness. And, uh, because of the boss thing. Although, honestly? Michael is never sure how to answer that question anyway, except to say, "Incidentally..." which always sounds really good when Jan says it, even if he's not sure what it means. Michael clears his throat. "So, uh, will you be attending tonight's Dunder Mifflin Christmas Siesta?"
Kelly frowns. "You mean Fiesta?"
"No," says Michael, "Siesta is the spanish word for party. You are confusing it with Lunesta, which is the Portugese word for relaxation."
"I'm pretty sure Lunesta is a sleeping pill."
"Kelly," interrupts Michael, "I really don't have a lot of time today."
Kelly sighs. "Well, I would totally go," she says, "But I was like, sick this morning? And I totally thought it was laryngitis, but when I cleared my throat and drank some tea, it got totally better." She takes a deep breath.
"Great!" says Michael, pleased to hear the good news. "Then I'll see you at--"
"But my boyfriend--you know Darryl, right?" Kelly smiles and gestures wildly. "See, Darryl was all like, Kelly, we need to spend some time together away from your work friends! So of course, I was all, 'Darryl, that's so totally sweet!' Because that's so totally sweet, right? But then I remembered how Grey's Anatomy is new tonight, and I'm sorry, but if Meredith and McDreamy get back together and I miss it because of some stupid real-life thing? I will, like... die."
"Uh..." Michael's face is blank. Kelly's brain somehow makes Jan's brain look like an afternoon of crayons and fingerpuppets. "What..." He frowns, "What is a McDreamy?" His brow furrows. "Is that like a McFlurry? Because I don't know how to make those."
"--And it's so weird," Kelly's still saying, "Because for the longest time? I was soooo all about The Hills." She pauses, nods to herself, and smiles. "So, I think it's like, a total sign of evolution on my part, you know? Like...growing into a higher state of being? But, like, when I told Darryl how I had grown so much this past year and become so much more awesome? He was all, 'really? You should try raising a kid sometime.' And I was all, 'Whaaaat? I don't even like dogs!' So then--"
"Okay!" Michael interrupts desperately, "So, uh, I hope to see you there, and please close the door on your way out-- Maybe... lock it?"
Kelly frowns. "But what about Dwight?"
"Thanks!" says Michael, waving her out. He gets up from his desk and grabs the door handle from Kelly, shutting it just as she stumbles backwards into the hallway.
---
4:45pm
In Jan's miserable recurring dream, it is still last year, and David Wallace's cocktail party is never-ending, like something from Dante's Inferno, or the Tenth Circle of Hell, or that Weekend at Bernies movie Michael loves so much.
"Some of the documentary footage goes into editing this week," David told Jan, ushering her into the comfort of his study. He offered her a drink, but she waved him off. "Anyway," he went on, "we get a check for the rights at the editing stage. And then when it's done, we'll get another check. It's actually...really profitable. Maybe the most profit the Scranton branch has ever brought us." He took a breath, and finished, "That’s really all there is to it. So why don't we get back to the party and just discuss whatever else on Monday." He nodded at her and turned to leave.
"David," said Jan. "There's more you're not telling me."
"Like what?" he asked.
"Well," said Jan, "For starters, this thing should not be profitable at all. Far as I know, we never negotiated any residuals after that employee video fiasco, because none of the footage is ever going to air anyway." Jan clasped her hands in front of her. “That was the deal, so...”
David was silent.
“That was the deal,” Jan repeated, waiting for a response. When there was none, she felt her pulse quicken. "David?” she asked.
David averted his eyes.
"Oh my god,” said Jan, “you’re kidding me.”
"Look," said David, "Apparently, they screened it for some local festival, which generated interest from outside parties... And as it turns out, the investors are interested in bringing it to Bravo. So now the plan is to go national, which will be great publicity for us.” David leaned heavily against the door. “You know what our numbers look like, Jan. We need whatever we can get, however we can get it."
“National,” Jan repeated. Every muscle in her body went tense. All of her fingers and toes tingled unpleasantly. "That,” she said, “would be a disaster, David.”
“Jan-“
“No.” Jan sliced the air with her hand. “Disaster,” she repeated. “Just...disaster.” Trying to keep her thoughts in order, she asked, “How long have you known about this?”
David folded his arms. “Why is that important?”
"Maybe because I run that branch, David," said Jan. “And I have the right to know.”
David sighed. Jan set her hands on her hips. The silence between them carried throughout the room like some deafening, crashing sound.
“End of last year,” admitted David. “That’s, uh...that’s when the board told us.”
Jan felt her stomach twist into a knot.
“A year?” Adrenaline filled her ears, and she advanced upon David as David tripped backwards towards his desk. “You’ve known for a year?”
“Jan. Come on. Don't look at me like that, like...I've been hiding some enormous secret,” David said, hiding behind his desk chair. "We all knew this was a possibility."
Jan pursed her lips. "Right."
"It wasn't up to me, Jan."
Jan nodded. "No," she said, her back teeth grinding, "Of course not."
"Then you understand the company's position," said David.
Jan stared blankly at David; her words had momentarily gone missing. Everything in her body felt weighted down.
Jan thought of Michael, of how he accidentally destroyed the warehouse last year. And after that, how he invited a stripper to the office and let her give him a lap dance. And the time he kissed Oscar in the name of "sexual equality," which had led to Jan giving Oscar an extended paid vacation, and then going home to smoke seven cigarettes and half a joint. She thought of how ridiculous this would all look in front of millions of people--she, Jan Levinson, the head of this speeding locomotive of crazy.
“It was a closed board meeting,” explained David, backing further into his desk chair, and then into his desk. “Bravo insisted on discretion.”
Jan pictured the board of directors--that bizarre bunch of blue haired geriatrics and drunks--making this terrible decision that would inevitably ruin her life. Everything in her body deflated. “This has to be a joke,” she muttered, “Please tell me I’ve just been punk’d.”
David's brow pinched. "I'm sorry?"
“Punk’d?" Jan stared vaguely off into space, her brain suddenly empty. "Ashton Kutcher? MTV?"
David blinked. "Jan, do you need to lie down?"
"Michael likes it," Jan continued, a weird kind of nervous energy thrumming in her stomach, "I--I don’t watch it, he--” She shifted uncomfortably, fell back into herself. “Look, don’t change the subject.”
“I didn’t change-“
“Do you even have signed consent for any of this?” Jan asked, “Otherwise, it’s completely unethical."
“Well, clearly,” said David, "But there was always a clause in the Scranton contracts for public consumption. You approved and signed the same contract I did, remember?”
Jan frowned. She did remember. "Well, yes,” she said, “but that's not--"
"It is," said David. "I assure you."
Jan desperately tried to digest this information and it gave her brain terrible heartburn. “David, I...they can’t air that footage,” she finally managed. As if that would undo the horror show unfolding in her brain.
“Jan,” said David, “I think you’re making this out to be much harder than it is.”
“Right,” Jan mumbled, “That’s what she said.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Jan paused in front of the couch, stared blankly at it, then sunk down onto the leather cushions. “You keep changing the subject,” she accused, and pressed her fingers to her temples. “Just...let’s focus, here.”
There was that time she'd gone to Scranton to shrug off work for Jacuzzi Sex at Michael's place. Whichever time that had been--the fifth or sixth, she had no idea anymore. Just how much of their verbal exchange had been caught on camera? She shuddered to think. And then there was the time she'd surprised Michael in his office after-hours and stripped nude on his desk. Which, she recalled, with a strange spurt of fondness, was the time Michael had dubbed her, "the most beautiful woman ever seen naked on a keyboard." Granted, he didn't have a wide frame of reference for such a thing, but still.
"Hey," David was suddenly standing over her. He waved a hand in front of her face. "Hey, Jan...do you... need...something?" He watched her peculiarly, as if he worried she’d take a nose-dive into the leather. "Water, maybe?"
Jan shook her head. “When is this trainwreck is set to air?"
David shrugged. "I don't know, a few years from now?" He crept slightly closer, waved a hand in explanation. "Look," he said, "Both the board and the producers are agreed. An announcement to everyone would be incredibly disruptive and ultimately a mistake, so...we really need your discretion. The plan is to continue editing and filming the Scranton branch, really as just a simple, comic --"
"Comic?”
All the blood in Jan's body rushed to someone else.
“Uh,” David turned a faint shade of radish. “It’s really not how it sounds.”
“Oh?” asked Jan. “Then how is it?”
David squinted as if trying to think. “Can I get back to you on that?” he asked. “Um, Monday...maybe? After four-thirty...” He frowned. “Or later?” He shrugged. "I have a ton of meetings, a trip to Utica, and a dinner."
Jan nodded vacantly. She rubbed her hand over her face. “Fine,” she said. “Monday.” She crossed her legs. "In the meantime, just tell me when the floor opens up and swallows the couch.”
"That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think? The Scranton Branch is not that bad.” Then, after a long pause, David added, “Is it?”
Jan grimaced and balled her fists in her lap. “I’ll be sure to let you know the next time I get a call about one employee trapping a bat in a garbage bag over the head of another employee." She folded her arms across her chest. “I had to take a meeting with finance to explain away three-hundred and fifty dollars in expenses for a bat funeral." She pursed her lips. "And a bat tombstone." She blinked. "Michael thought the closure would boost morale."
“Really?” asked David.
Jan nodded, closing her eyes.
“Wow.” David let out a whistle. “What kind of bat? A vampire bat?”
Jan opened her eyes.
“I've never even seen a bat.” David chuckled. “Did you get to see it?" He folded his arms and lounged back against his bookshelf. “Who ended up catching it? Dwight?”
“Stop changing the goddamned subject!” Jan snapped.
David sighed. “Okay,” he said, “Look. Bottom-line? Everyone on the board agrees that whatever comes from the Scranton branch documentary can only be beneficial for this company." He sat down on the couch next to her. “You know how these things go, Jan. Business is business. A seven year series run, if Bravo plays their cards right, could apparently bring in close to four million dollars." He paused, smiled faintly, and added, "Which would make Michael Scott famous, right? And isn't that what the guy wants anyway?" David leveled his gaze at her. "You would know," he said. "You are sleeping with him...” David shot her an indecipherable look. “Uh...aren’t you?”
Jan's eyes narrowed. A white-hot ribbon of anger flashed through her. "How about I pretend you didn’t just say that," she said. Then, as an afterthought, “I cleaned your goddamned puke off the hood of my car, you know.”
David nodded, staring at the floor. “I know.”
Jan closed her eyes again. She wished she knew how to meditate.
"So what are they planning to call this thing?" she asked.
"I don't think you --"
"Just tell me the name.”
David shifted away from her, looking slightly embarrassed. "Bad Boss," he answered.
Jan’s eyes filled with horror. She twisted to face David, her mouth agape. Somewhere, deep below her lungs, at the very core of her ribcage, it hurt to breathe.
"Jan," David tried, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, "This is precisely why we didn't tell--"
"That," interrupted Jan, "That will kill him."
David did not answer.
"I just...I can't believe..." Jan spread her hands to the ceiling. "They have to change that title, David. Michael, he --"
She gestured helplessly, and thought of the Michael who’d sat with her on the beach in Jamaica; the Michael who’d brushed her hair away from her face and told her she was pretty; the Michael who’d wanted to name the constellations after her; the Michael who’d lain with her in bed all day, hitting both her and himself in the face with M&Ms because he’d insisted he could catch 300 in a row in his mouth.
“Michael may be a lot of things,” said Jan, “but he doesn’t...nobody deserves that.”
"The final decision belonged to the network," said David. "And they've already begun drawing up proposals to advertisers." He sighed. "For what it’s worth...I'm sorry.”
"Okay..." Jan shook her head. "Fine," she said. “Just...please tell me Dunder Mifflin had no part in coming up with something so...” she fought for the right phrase, “Painful, yet... appropriate.”
David did not answer her.
"Oh, of course," muttered Jan. She touched her palm to her forehead. “I think I need a drink.”
David nodded, seemingly anxious for a reason to get up and walk away. He motioned towards his desk, and an assortment of bottles. “Merlot?”
"No," said Jan. “Something stronger."
“Brandy?”
She shook her head.
“I have some whiskey in the cabinet.”
Jan sighed. “How about embalming fluid?”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said David.
The door creaked open and Michael popped his head in. He looked from Jan to David and then to Jan again, and grinned. “What’s up, buttercup?” he asked Jan, smiling. “Am I interrupting anything?” He turned his gaze towards David. “I sure hope not, cause...that’s my girlfriend you’re sitting next to. I don’t want to have to duel you for her.” Michael chuckled at his own joke, and added, “You know, with...swords, probably? I think that’s how they do it.”
Jan sank further into the couch until it was clear there was no hole she would fall into. “Michael,” she said, taking a deep breath. “David’s married. And, it’s...We were actually, we were just talking about--”
“No, Jan, it’s okay,” said David, quickly. “Everything’s fine, Michael. I was actually just about to offer Jan a drink. Do you want anything?”
Michael shook his head. “Nothing for me,” he said. “But do you know where I can find the hour dourves table? I was really looking forward to those...uh, the hot dogs in comforters?”
“Pigs in blankets,” Jan snapped.
“Yes,” said Michael, “That.” He chucked his thumb in the direction of the party. “Anyway. I didn’t see any at the buffet, so I thought maybe I just wasn’t looking in the right place. But I checked everywhere...And they’re definitely not in the fridge, either, although I found some pudding cups that were out of this world-say, did your wife make those? They were really awesome.”
Jan gazed helplessly at Michael. Her heart raced. She honestly couldn’t tell if she was repulsed or turned on, and in trying to figure it out, something in her physically cracked open, like an egg. For a moment, she was sure her brain had trickled out the top of her head. She turned to David, and touched his arm. “Whiskey, you said?”
Jan jolts awake, a sharp pain cramping up her leg. She gasps, mutters, "fuck," under her breath. She gets up from the chair, stretches, and stalks back over to the foyer table.
"I've got the perfect place for you," says Jan to the card, and she wanders into the bathroom to rest it on top of the toilet tank. "There," she says, "That looks about right."
On her way out, Jan notices a pink post-it taped to the mirror: "A kiss for m'lady!" it says. Jan smiles, pulls the post-it off the glass, and lets her gaze rest upon it for a moment.
“One of these days we'll call it a tie," she mumbles to herself, running her fingers over Michael's impossibly girly handwriting; he's scribbled a heart over the "i."
Jan stuffs the post-it into her pocket, and wanders back into the kitchen to check on Michael's hot dogs in comforters.
---
4:46pm
Jim loiters at reception with Pam, who's been munching on M&Ms and letting her calls roll over to voicemail. She's tied a Christmas curling ribbon to her hair clip, and Jim flicks the ribbon back and forth, thinking of how her hair smells like peaches and pineapple. This, of course, makes Jim think of those fruit cups from the vending machine, and how, on Jim's first day at work, Pam showed him how to cheat the vending machine by rapping first on the window, then on the left side, then on the right side, with the flat of his palm. She watched him make six or seven rounds of that before revealing that the vending machine had actually shorted out weeks earlier. "Welcome to Dunder Mifflin," she'd said. "We bore easily."
Jim twirls the curling ribbon around his finger. Pam wordlessly offers him a handful of M&Ms. Jim snatches them up and nods his thanks.
Dwight, now sporting the gas mask he won on eBay, and armed with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and Andy's plastic bucket, wanders up to the annex. Paul, using an old desk-chair for better leverage, swivels his camera to face Dwight. Dwight flips up his helmet.
"I can take it from here," Dwight says, with one hand on Paul's shoulder. "I have the knowledge and the skills that you do not."
Paul nods intently.
Dwight flips his gas mask back down.
Jim can't help but think that this is all somehow very Patriot Games meets Air Force One-- had Harrison Ford not been a hero, but instead, a moron with a gas mask.
Jim turns lazily to Pam. "You don't think Dwight'll actually kill Michael, do you?"
Pam shakes her head no. "At least, I don't think so." She frowns. "Maybe a seventy percent chance?"
Jim considers this. "Toby confiscated the throwing stars, right?"
Pam nods. "Oh," she adds, "And the sword."
"And the eight pack of carving knives?"
Pam nods again. "I think the only thing Dwight has left is that pitiful pair of pliers."
Jim leans against the desk. The air feels somehow lighter and more pleasant this afternoon. "So you think our work here is done?"
"You heard Dwight," says Pam, grinning, "He can handle it from here."
Jim pops another M&M into his mouth. "When you're right, you're right," he says.
Dwight strides across the office to a symphony of ringing phones and clicking mouses. He pauses at the door to Michael's office, takes a deep breath that sounds like Darth Vader exhaling, and bangs on Michael's door, calling, "Michael!"
"No more interruptions!" yells Michael from inside. The faint strains of Mariah Carey grow considerably louder and trickle out into the hallway. "I'm very busy!"
"Michael," says Dwight, "for the good of this office, all of mankind, Dunder Mifflin, the city of Scranton, and Christmas, I need you to exit slowly and relinquish your tie."
Pam covers her mouth with her hands and makes several unattractive snorting sounds. Jim bites his lip and touches several fingers to his chin.
Crouched next to Dwight, Andy has taped a plastic bag around his head (a decontamination suit? Jim wonders) and is holding Dwight's plastic bucket.
"This is the most amazing Christmas ever," says Jim. "They look like the two-man cast of Stomp."
"Should someone take that bag away from Andy?" asks Pam.
"Nah," says Jim, "See the breathing holes?" He points at several ragged holes in the plastic by Andy's ear lobes.
"Oh yeah," says Pam, popping a few more M&Ms into her mouth. "Look at that. Clever."
Jim shoots a quick glance over at Toby, who--with a set of industrial-sized headphones over his ears--sits quietly at his computer, a plate of Halloween cookies on the desk beside him. The back of Toby's head bobs back and forth, and he actually looks relaxed, for once. Jim supposes he's probably not missing anything new anyway.
"Michael!" yells Dwight. "This is of utmost importance!"
"Paramount Importance!" adds Andy.
"Andrew," snaps Dwight, "What did I tell you about speaking?"
Pam tosses a few more M&Ms into her mouth. "So I have exactly forty-seven voicemails," she says, and reaches out a handful of candy to Jim. "What do you wanna do for dinner?"
"Oh!" Jim turns to her and waves his hands in explanation. "I think we're all headed to Poor Richard's," he says, "Unless you're not in the mood for bar food."
Pam shrugs. "I could go for some wings," she says. She pops another M&M into her mouth. "But what about Michael's party?"
"Michael!" yells Dwight again, "Please do not make me have the U.S. Navy drag you out!"
"We'll just be fashionably late," says Jim. "But I figured...the only way we could ever get anyone else to go to a party hosted by Michael and Jan was if we tricked them first with alcohol." Jim shrugs, motions towards Dwight. "Or hit them over the head with a pair of pliers."
Suddenly, Michael emerges from his office--coat, briefcase, and a stack of papers in hand. With a quick, disgusted glance at Dwight, he rushes across the sales pit to reception.
"Michael," breathes Dwight, a look of relief flashing across his gas mask. He stands in front of Michael as if he's about to catch Michael like an outfielder at a baseball game. "I need you to listen carefully," says Dwight. "I need your tie."
Michael scrunches his nose. "You need my what?" he asks. "Look, Dwight, this office does not need an idiot. If we did, we'd have to call it a village."
"But--" Dwight stammers in Darth Vader-speak, "But I---I intercepted a transmission." He pulls up the helmet. "Your tie, I need it, it's--"
"Okay, that's it," snaps Michael. "Attention!" He waves his free arm, "Attention, everyone!"
Jim glances around as everyone in the office looks warily up at Michael; it's the way one might watch for jelly fish while wading in the ocean.
"Okay. I really didn't want to have to give this speech today, but..." Michael clears his throat. "Contrary to popular belief, Christmas is not about material things," he says, clasping his hands in front of him. "Like awesome light-up ties." He pauses to scan his audience, continuing, "Christmas is about.." he lunges suddenly and points at Stanley, "YOU!" and this time at Meredith, "YOU!" and this time at Creed, "YOU!" and turns, finishing, "and Jim and Pam finally having sex--"
"Michael," manages Pam.
Jim begins to cough, his face weirdly warm.
Michael smiles at Pam, somehow thinking she is so pleased at this attention that she's begun to hyperventilate.
Michael pivots and turns to the sales pit. "But not you," he finishes, this time pointing at Dwight," Because you are annoying and you look like a moron." Michael takes a deep breath, seemingly almost finished. "Also, remember that Christmas is about the generosity of your cool boss throwing an awesome party at his condo. So." Michael pauses and smiles. "I am officially leaving to go enjoy the true meaning of Christmas--a really bitchin' party."
"But--" Dwight motions frantically at Michael. "You don't--"
Michael raises his palm to Dwight. "Talk to the hand," he says, pushing past, "Talk...to the hand."
Dwight watches Michael walk away and deflates like a broken air mattress. "Damn it," he mutters, sinking into his desk chair.
"I know," says Andy, pulling the bag off his head. He sits down next to Dwight. "We'll have to come up with an even better strategy if we're dealing with Michael's hand." Andy whistles. "I've dealt with the hand before. Last March. Finger puppet day. Paid dearly."
Michael squeezes past Jim and taps on the reception counter.
"Pamdingo," says Michael, "Do you have Jan's present?"
Jim turns in surprise, gazing with one raised eyebrow at Pam, who lets out an amused chuckle. She reaches under her desk and hands over a textbook-sized, brown-paper package to Michael. Michael breaks out into a smile and hands Pam a candy-cane. "Thanks," he says, winking.
"Oh, no problem," says Pam, winking back.
Dwight watches all of this with rapt interest, and wheels over in his desk chair. "Okay," he says to Michael, "I'm going to need to inspect that."
"Shut up, Dwight," says Michael, who rushes out and slams the door behind him. Jim is pretty sure Michael will be at least ten minutes out of the parking lot before Dwight realizes Jim lined the inner ring of Dwight's gas mask with black shoe polish.
Jim glances at the clock: 5:50pm.
Hallelujah.
It's a Christmas miracle:
Quitting time.
Apologies for the delay with this part. The holidays are a tricky time when you work in theater. In any case, please enjoy my continuing saga of workplace ludicrosity (totally just made that word up right there) and, as always, feedback is welcomed like the Pocket-Jan I put on my list for Christmas...
- J
Title: The Tie (part 4)
Author: J.L.
Rated: PG-13. ish.
Category: Michael/Jan (MJR?), Jim, ensemble, some Jim/Pam
Disclaimer: All WIP rules apply for now. Also, I don't own them. I wish I did. I would make them do naughty things.
Spoilers: Up to season 4. Cocktails, and The Deposition, perhaps, depending on your point of view.
----
The Tie
by J.L
-----
Part 4
--
"I am taking a calculated risk. What's the upside? I overcome my nausea, fall deeply in love--babies, normalcy, no more self-loathing... The downside? I date Michael Scott publicly and collapse in on myself like a dying star."
- Jan Levinson
Raw Interview Footage,
Dunder Mifflin Documentary,
1.21.07
"I don't want a lot for Christmas. There is just one thing I need."
- Mariah Carey, All I Want For Christmas
----
4:30pm
By the time Jim returns from the conference room, Dwight is fluttering about like a retarded hummingbird.
"Yeah," says Pam into the phone, her index finger raised to Jim, "Thanks, Bob. Yeah, I don't know why our fax machine's broken, but that was a big help. Yeah, okay--I'll tell Phyllis." Her grin grows wider, flashes across her eyes. "Thanks again." She hangs up. "Okay," she says to Jim, her smile wide and her eyes bright, "So. Dwight was at his desk, trying to dial the government. And I was thinking, wouldn't it be perfect if--"
Dwight stalks past reception carrying a cardboard box filled with power-tools, Elmer's glue, several assorted Japanese weapons, and a gas mask. None of this is especially shocking to Jim, seeing as how just last week Dwight accidentally slashed a set of tires in the parking lot with--what Jim can only describe as--the blow dart from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Dwight would have otherwise been reprimanded for that sort of thing, but it was Toby's tires he slashed, so...yeah. Instead, Michael bought Dwight a Dr. Pepper and blasted Little Red Corvette by Prince into the annex for the rest of the day.
Dwight halts in front of Jim. Trailing Dwight is Andrew Bernard, who...well, how to describe Andrew Bernard? Probably by saying...If Dwight had attended Cornell, joined an acapella choir, and spent ten weeks in anger management, he probably could have been Andrew Bernard...Or, well, maybe just...a weirder version of Dwight.
Jim turns and leans back against the reception desk, his arms folded across his chest. "Hey, Dwight," he says, sneaking a glance into the box. "What's up?"
"More than you could ever possibly imagine," says Dwight, pausing for a moment before adding, "Get out of my way."
Jim nods, thinking that sounds about right. He murmurs at Dwight with exagerrated interest, then grins, poking at the box. "Hey, look at that," he says, "are those Ninja throwing stars?"
Dwight sighs heavily, shifts the box to his other hip. "Jim," he states, in a way that implies Jim is actually a toddler, "I do not have the time to stand around talking sophomoric nonsense with you."
"Okay, Great," replies Jim. He turns his back to Dwight and begins rifling through the sales department's inbox.
"In laymens terms," continues Dwight, pausing just long enough for Jim to turn back around, "There has been a security breach in this office. And a very serious one at that. Your brother was apparently onto something." Dwight pauses, looks left and right. He lowers his voice. "The government IS watching us," he says. "My advice? Trust no one. Fox Mulder. Best advice anyone ever gave me outside of Michael."
Jim frowns. "Isn't Fox Mulder fictional?"
"The point," says Dwight, "is that I am an officer of the law."
"Volunteer officer of the law."
"A man of principals," snaps Dwight. "And the safety of everyone here--perhaps everyone in the city of Scranton itself-- has been compromised. And as a man of principals, and as a trained Wii samurai, I have a responsibility--"
"Self-inflicted responsibility."
"--to use these skills to save my subordinates--"
"Coworkers."
"--from a terrible fate. And in order to save everyone, I may be required to use extreme force and physical violence. And if it comes to that, then yes, I may be forced to utilize ninja throwing stars--"
"No Ninja throwing stars," calls Toby from the other side of the office.
Jim turns to Pam, who is biting her lip so hard she looks like she might chew it off.
"Damn it," mutters Dwight. He grits his teeth and gestures with one hand towards Andy, who has apparently been twirling a giant plastic bucket like a beach ball and shifting his weight back and forth; he looks like a dancer in a child's flip-book. Andy has also been humming Christmas music in falsetto for, oh, the past three or four hours now. And this, thinks Jim, is at least a welcomed change from yesterday's afternoon-long rendition of Step By Step by New Kids on the Block. Or last week's eight-am breakfast performance of Girls Just Want to Have Fun, which was...not at all fun. For anyone. Of any gender.
Andy bobs his head, and is right at the part of the Chipmunks song where Alvin sings about the hula hoop, when Dwight barks his name.
"When I brought you on board," says Dwight, "I was very specific about singing during serious security situations. Do you recall this?"
"I do," says Andy. He shifts from one foot to the other, brows furrowed, and says, "You uh..." He wags a finger in the air, "said that..." He nods to himself, "I was, uh... auditorily spectacular, despite any and all dangers posed to me within this...Sphere of Dangerosity--" He pauses, smirks, and continues, "Cornell slang-- you wouldn't understand." He nods again and makes a popping sound with his lips. "Also, that I should keep the scimitar at my desk."
Dwight purses his lips. "No," he answers. And then, as an afterthought, "Shut up."
Jim blinks and glances at Gene, who is filming the action from behind Pam's desk. Earlier that afternoon, Gene had filled up his specimen cup with apple juice. He gave it to Dwight with a smile and a thumbs-up, which Dwight had dismissed as, "reverse government psychology."
Jim shifts so that Dwight can shove past him with the box, the bucket, and Andy trailing dutifully behind, humming, "We can hardly, hardly wait, please Christmas don't be late--"
Ah yes. The day before Christmas break is a beautiful day, indeed. And while Jim is still not quite sure what Pam has done to instigate this, he's considering just taking her, right here, in front of God and Dwight and Andy's bucket and Angela's Halloween cookies of Evil.
Jim turns to Pam, his face flush with excitement. "What the hell did you do?" he asks.
Pam, still grinning, hands Jim a folder. Inside the folder is a fax on US Navy letterhead that appears to have been photocopied then taped to another fax on Dwight Schrute's letterhead. The outer fax is labeled from Future Dwight. The inner fax is addressed to nobody. It says:
The tie has been compromised. Find Michael Scott. Destroy tie.
And then at the bottom:
This message must be destroyed within thirty seconds to prevent paradox and destruction of universe.
"So?" asks Pam, the word lilting like a crooked finger, "What do you think?"
Jim glances up at Pam. He is...without words. Well, without most words, except, maybe--
"I love you."
Pam nods, her lips pursed, her gaze vaguely mischevious. "Yes," she says, "As you should." She turns to Jim and grins. Jim grins back. On the opposite side of the room, Dwight is putting on a gas mask.
"Merry Christmas," says Pam.
"Merry Christmas," says Jim.
---
4:35pm
Jan sets her hands on her hips and stares tiredly out into the foyer.
As if spending an entire afternoon grocery shopping, cleaning, pinning Michael's Kwanzaa Now! banner on the wall, and rolling hot dogs into crescent rolls wasn't humiliating enough, Jan has now been tasked with finding a place of honor for David Wallace's fucking Christmas card.
Of course, as Jan had insisted to Michael--for the sake of reality, and because David Wallace is a disingenuous troll with glasses--the card is practically meaningless; all branch managers get the same card from David every year. Michael, however, being Michael, had insisted to Jan that his good friend David Wallace had purposely singled him out--via Christmas card--because Michael had removed himself from consideration for Jan's job, and that was apparently a great show of humility.
"I did something professionally glorious," Michael had said. "Corporate is not yet ready for Michael Scott...but they sure as hell like him a lot."
And then, realizing he'd invented a rhyme, Michael pitter-pattered around the condo for the rest of the day, humming nonsense, comparing himself to Eminem, and inventing bizarre dance moves, until dinner (and the act of chewing his food) finally shut him up.
Jan shakes her head at the memory; that comfortably lazy Saturday afternoon; Michael wandering around in his slippers, humming the lyrics to Stan and twirling in his bathrobe. Why such a thing immediately makes him more attractive to Jan, she has no idea, although she's pretty sure there's medication she could take to correct it.
Jan wanders into the foyer and picks up the card from David Wallace. On the front is a white and silver winter wonderland, complete with nauseatingly cozy cottage, Christmas tree, and snowman. "Happy Holidays" says the outside. Jan opens it and examines the inside.
Best wishes for the holidays and a happy New Year, Cordially, David Wallace.
"Fuck you," says Jan to the card.
The card, of course, does not respond.
Jan flexes and un-flexes the fist of her opposite hand, and recalls a discussion she'd had with David at that disastrous cocktail party last January.
In the months leading up to the party, Jan had been noticing some strange numbers on the Northeast Branch quarterly report. The quotes had just been too suspicious to overlook; five-thousand dollars here, two thousand dollars there, all very strange surpluses of cash with Scranton listed as the reference.
At first, David had refused to speak with Jan about anything related to the matter. "It's nothing you need to worry about," he'd said, "I promise you." And then he studiously avoided all of her emails and calls for about a week, which had infuriated Jan to no end. Quite frankly, she had spent too long working her way up the ladder, just climbing and clawing and shoving people out of her way, to hit a glass ceiling with David Fucking Wallace, of all people. For crying out loud, she’d been working with him for five years at that point. She’d even driven him home after 2005's horrifying Corporate Christmas party-when he’d gotten drunk, hit on her assistant, and puked over the railing of the promenade at Lincoln Center.
Jan tries to shake off the memory of David Wallace; as it is, she has a throbbing headache. The day has just been poking at her brain like...well, she doesn't even know. Something dull and incredibly painful. Like one of Dwight's weird ninja toys.
"Ugh," Jan groans, thinking of Dwight Schrute. And Jim Halpert. And Pam...whatever-her-last-name-is. And...uh, that drunk slutty one. And that other weirdly religious one with the blonde hair. And that Indian girl with the pink and the talking and the annoying. They will all be standing here in her living room in about an hour.
Jan slumps into a chair, taps her foot frenetically on the carpet. She runs her hands over her face, scratches the back of her neck. She pulls her legs up into the chair and then lets them fall back to the floor. Her other leg shakes hysterically, as if to some invisible music.
"Fuck," says Jan to herself, rubbing her temples. "I need to stop thinking." She sighs, shifts again in the chair, and considers calling Michael. He's still mad at her about the spa thing, though, and Jan's not really in any mood to talk Michael down from yet another boxcar.
With a yawn of frustration, she leans back into the chair and closes her eyes.
In the end, Jan falls mercifully asleep before she can even begin to remember where the hell the phone went.
---
4:40pm
Kelly Kapur wanders into Michael's office with a stack of papers in her hand and her thumb chucked in the direction of the sales pit. Michael glances up from his article on indoor barbequing (apparently grilling in the house is a fire hazard? Even if he barbeques in the bathroom where all the water is readily available? really, that just seems untrue); and he nods to Kelly, feeling irritable. If there's anyone in this office who annoys people with her inappropriate commentary, it's Kelly Kapur.
"What?" demands Michael.
"Uh," says Kelly, dropping the stack of papers on Michael's visitor's chair, "Dwight's walking around with, like, a space-mask on?"
Michael sighs. He vaguely recalls Dwight hiding a weird mask in the ceiling of the men's restroom. But, seriously? Everyone in this office knows that Dwight is an idiot.
"And?" asks Michael, wondering why people keep bothering him with this ridiculous nonsense. If he's going to grill Mahi Mahi for his party, he's going to have to tell Jan to go to the store again pretty soon.
Kelly frowns. "And it's weird?" she answers.
"Look," says Michael, "If I were to investigate every weird thing that goes on in this office--" He pauses, unsure of where he's going with this, and finishes, "then, uh, I would be spending my days... investigating weird things. And that would be an ineffective use of my time, don't you think?"
"I don't know," answers Kelly. She shrugs, an impossibly blank look on her face. "What do you normally do all day?"
Michael frowns. He has...never been asked that question before. Or, at least, not by someone who wasn't really hot. Like Jan. Or Ryan. And both of them have always had the right to ask, if only because of their hotness. And, uh, because of the boss thing. Although, honestly? Michael is never sure how to answer that question anyway, except to say, "Incidentally..." which always sounds really good when Jan says it, even if he's not sure what it means. Michael clears his throat. "So, uh, will you be attending tonight's Dunder Mifflin Christmas Siesta?"
Kelly frowns. "You mean Fiesta?"
"No," says Michael, "Siesta is the spanish word for party. You are confusing it with Lunesta, which is the Portugese word for relaxation."
"I'm pretty sure Lunesta is a sleeping pill."
"Kelly," interrupts Michael, "I really don't have a lot of time today."
Kelly sighs. "Well, I would totally go," she says, "But I was like, sick this morning? And I totally thought it was laryngitis, but when I cleared my throat and drank some tea, it got totally better." She takes a deep breath.
"Great!" says Michael, pleased to hear the good news. "Then I'll see you at--"
"But my boyfriend--you know Darryl, right?" Kelly smiles and gestures wildly. "See, Darryl was all like, Kelly, we need to spend some time together away from your work friends! So of course, I was all, 'Darryl, that's so totally sweet!' Because that's so totally sweet, right? But then I remembered how Grey's Anatomy is new tonight, and I'm sorry, but if Meredith and McDreamy get back together and I miss it because of some stupid real-life thing? I will, like... die."
"Uh..." Michael's face is blank. Kelly's brain somehow makes Jan's brain look like an afternoon of crayons and fingerpuppets. "What..." He frowns, "What is a McDreamy?" His brow furrows. "Is that like a McFlurry? Because I don't know how to make those."
"--And it's so weird," Kelly's still saying, "Because for the longest time? I was soooo all about The Hills." She pauses, nods to herself, and smiles. "So, I think it's like, a total sign of evolution on my part, you know? Like...growing into a higher state of being? But, like, when I told Darryl how I had grown so much this past year and become so much more awesome? He was all, 'really? You should try raising a kid sometime.' And I was all, 'Whaaaat? I don't even like dogs!' So then--"
"Okay!" Michael interrupts desperately, "So, uh, I hope to see you there, and please close the door on your way out-- Maybe... lock it?"
Kelly frowns. "But what about Dwight?"
"Thanks!" says Michael, waving her out. He gets up from his desk and grabs the door handle from Kelly, shutting it just as she stumbles backwards into the hallway.
---
4:45pm
In Jan's miserable recurring dream, it is still last year, and David Wallace's cocktail party is never-ending, like something from Dante's Inferno, or the Tenth Circle of Hell, or that Weekend at Bernies movie Michael loves so much.
"Some of the documentary footage goes into editing this week," David told Jan, ushering her into the comfort of his study. He offered her a drink, but she waved him off. "Anyway," he went on, "we get a check for the rights at the editing stage. And then when it's done, we'll get another check. It's actually...really profitable. Maybe the most profit the Scranton branch has ever brought us." He took a breath, and finished, "That’s really all there is to it. So why don't we get back to the party and just discuss whatever else on Monday." He nodded at her and turned to leave.
"David," said Jan. "There's more you're not telling me."
"Like what?" he asked.
"Well," said Jan, "For starters, this thing should not be profitable at all. Far as I know, we never negotiated any residuals after that employee video fiasco, because none of the footage is ever going to air anyway." Jan clasped her hands in front of her. “That was the deal, so...”
David was silent.
“That was the deal,” Jan repeated, waiting for a response. When there was none, she felt her pulse quicken. "David?” she asked.
David averted his eyes.
"Oh my god,” said Jan, “you’re kidding me.”
"Look," said David, "Apparently, they screened it for some local festival, which generated interest from outside parties... And as it turns out, the investors are interested in bringing it to Bravo. So now the plan is to go national, which will be great publicity for us.” David leaned heavily against the door. “You know what our numbers look like, Jan. We need whatever we can get, however we can get it."
“National,” Jan repeated. Every muscle in her body went tense. All of her fingers and toes tingled unpleasantly. "That,” she said, “would be a disaster, David.”
“Jan-“
“No.” Jan sliced the air with her hand. “Disaster,” she repeated. “Just...disaster.” Trying to keep her thoughts in order, she asked, “How long have you known about this?”
David folded his arms. “Why is that important?”
"Maybe because I run that branch, David," said Jan. “And I have the right to know.”
David sighed. Jan set her hands on her hips. The silence between them carried throughout the room like some deafening, crashing sound.
“End of last year,” admitted David. “That’s, uh...that’s when the board told us.”
Jan felt her stomach twist into a knot.
“A year?” Adrenaline filled her ears, and she advanced upon David as David tripped backwards towards his desk. “You’ve known for a year?”
“Jan. Come on. Don't look at me like that, like...I've been hiding some enormous secret,” David said, hiding behind his desk chair. "We all knew this was a possibility."
Jan pursed her lips. "Right."
"It wasn't up to me, Jan."
Jan nodded. "No," she said, her back teeth grinding, "Of course not."
"Then you understand the company's position," said David.
Jan stared blankly at David; her words had momentarily gone missing. Everything in her body felt weighted down.
Jan thought of Michael, of how he accidentally destroyed the warehouse last year. And after that, how he invited a stripper to the office and let her give him a lap dance. And the time he kissed Oscar in the name of "sexual equality," which had led to Jan giving Oscar an extended paid vacation, and then going home to smoke seven cigarettes and half a joint. She thought of how ridiculous this would all look in front of millions of people--she, Jan Levinson, the head of this speeding locomotive of crazy.
“It was a closed board meeting,” explained David, backing further into his desk chair, and then into his desk. “Bravo insisted on discretion.”
Jan pictured the board of directors--that bizarre bunch of blue haired geriatrics and drunks--making this terrible decision that would inevitably ruin her life. Everything in her body deflated. “This has to be a joke,” she muttered, “Please tell me I’ve just been punk’d.”
David's brow pinched. "I'm sorry?"
“Punk’d?" Jan stared vaguely off into space, her brain suddenly empty. "Ashton Kutcher? MTV?"
David blinked. "Jan, do you need to lie down?"
"Michael likes it," Jan continued, a weird kind of nervous energy thrumming in her stomach, "I--I don’t watch it, he--” She shifted uncomfortably, fell back into herself. “Look, don’t change the subject.”
“I didn’t change-“
“Do you even have signed consent for any of this?” Jan asked, “Otherwise, it’s completely unethical."
“Well, clearly,” said David, "But there was always a clause in the Scranton contracts for public consumption. You approved and signed the same contract I did, remember?”
Jan frowned. She did remember. "Well, yes,” she said, “but that's not--"
"It is," said David. "I assure you."
Jan desperately tried to digest this information and it gave her brain terrible heartburn. “David, I...they can’t air that footage,” she finally managed. As if that would undo the horror show unfolding in her brain.
“Jan,” said David, “I think you’re making this out to be much harder than it is.”
“Right,” Jan mumbled, “That’s what she said.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Jan paused in front of the couch, stared blankly at it, then sunk down onto the leather cushions. “You keep changing the subject,” she accused, and pressed her fingers to her temples. “Just...let’s focus, here.”
There was that time she'd gone to Scranton to shrug off work for Jacuzzi Sex at Michael's place. Whichever time that had been--the fifth or sixth, she had no idea anymore. Just how much of their verbal exchange had been caught on camera? She shuddered to think. And then there was the time she'd surprised Michael in his office after-hours and stripped nude on his desk. Which, she recalled, with a strange spurt of fondness, was the time Michael had dubbed her, "the most beautiful woman ever seen naked on a keyboard." Granted, he didn't have a wide frame of reference for such a thing, but still.
"Hey," David was suddenly standing over her. He waved a hand in front of her face. "Hey, Jan...do you... need...something?" He watched her peculiarly, as if he worried she’d take a nose-dive into the leather. "Water, maybe?"
Jan shook her head. “When is this trainwreck is set to air?"
David shrugged. "I don't know, a few years from now?" He crept slightly closer, waved a hand in explanation. "Look," he said, "Both the board and the producers are agreed. An announcement to everyone would be incredibly disruptive and ultimately a mistake, so...we really need your discretion. The plan is to continue editing and filming the Scranton branch, really as just a simple, comic --"
"Comic?”
All the blood in Jan's body rushed to someone else.
“Uh,” David turned a faint shade of radish. “It’s really not how it sounds.”
“Oh?” asked Jan. “Then how is it?”
David squinted as if trying to think. “Can I get back to you on that?” he asked. “Um, Monday...maybe? After four-thirty...” He frowned. “Or later?” He shrugged. "I have a ton of meetings, a trip to Utica, and a dinner."
Jan nodded vacantly. She rubbed her hand over her face. “Fine,” she said. “Monday.” She crossed her legs. "In the meantime, just tell me when the floor opens up and swallows the couch.”
"That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think? The Scranton Branch is not that bad.” Then, after a long pause, David added, “Is it?”
Jan grimaced and balled her fists in her lap. “I’ll be sure to let you know the next time I get a call about one employee trapping a bat in a garbage bag over the head of another employee." She folded her arms across her chest. “I had to take a meeting with finance to explain away three-hundred and fifty dollars in expenses for a bat funeral." She pursed her lips. "And a bat tombstone." She blinked. "Michael thought the closure would boost morale."
“Really?” asked David.
Jan nodded, closing her eyes.
“Wow.” David let out a whistle. “What kind of bat? A vampire bat?”
Jan opened her eyes.
“I've never even seen a bat.” David chuckled. “Did you get to see it?" He folded his arms and lounged back against his bookshelf. “Who ended up catching it? Dwight?”
“Stop changing the goddamned subject!” Jan snapped.
David sighed. “Okay,” he said, “Look. Bottom-line? Everyone on the board agrees that whatever comes from the Scranton branch documentary can only be beneficial for this company." He sat down on the couch next to her. “You know how these things go, Jan. Business is business. A seven year series run, if Bravo plays their cards right, could apparently bring in close to four million dollars." He paused, smiled faintly, and added, "Which would make Michael Scott famous, right? And isn't that what the guy wants anyway?" David leveled his gaze at her. "You would know," he said. "You are sleeping with him...” David shot her an indecipherable look. “Uh...aren’t you?”
Jan's eyes narrowed. A white-hot ribbon of anger flashed through her. "How about I pretend you didn’t just say that," she said. Then, as an afterthought, “I cleaned your goddamned puke off the hood of my car, you know.”
David nodded, staring at the floor. “I know.”
Jan closed her eyes again. She wished she knew how to meditate.
"So what are they planning to call this thing?" she asked.
"I don't think you --"
"Just tell me the name.”
David shifted away from her, looking slightly embarrassed. "Bad Boss," he answered.
Jan’s eyes filled with horror. She twisted to face David, her mouth agape. Somewhere, deep below her lungs, at the very core of her ribcage, it hurt to breathe.
"Jan," David tried, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, "This is precisely why we didn't tell--"
"That," interrupted Jan, "That will kill him."
David did not answer.
"I just...I can't believe..." Jan spread her hands to the ceiling. "They have to change that title, David. Michael, he --"
She gestured helplessly, and thought of the Michael who’d sat with her on the beach in Jamaica; the Michael who’d brushed her hair away from her face and told her she was pretty; the Michael who’d wanted to name the constellations after her; the Michael who’d lain with her in bed all day, hitting both her and himself in the face with M&Ms because he’d insisted he could catch 300 in a row in his mouth.
“Michael may be a lot of things,” said Jan, “but he doesn’t...nobody deserves that.”
"The final decision belonged to the network," said David. "And they've already begun drawing up proposals to advertisers." He sighed. "For what it’s worth...I'm sorry.”
"Okay..." Jan shook her head. "Fine," she said. “Just...please tell me Dunder Mifflin had no part in coming up with something so...” she fought for the right phrase, “Painful, yet... appropriate.”
David did not answer her.
"Oh, of course," muttered Jan. She touched her palm to her forehead. “I think I need a drink.”
David nodded, seemingly anxious for a reason to get up and walk away. He motioned towards his desk, and an assortment of bottles. “Merlot?”
"No," said Jan. “Something stronger."
“Brandy?”
She shook her head.
“I have some whiskey in the cabinet.”
Jan sighed. “How about embalming fluid?”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said David.
The door creaked open and Michael popped his head in. He looked from Jan to David and then to Jan again, and grinned. “What’s up, buttercup?” he asked Jan, smiling. “Am I interrupting anything?” He turned his gaze towards David. “I sure hope not, cause...that’s my girlfriend you’re sitting next to. I don’t want to have to duel you for her.” Michael chuckled at his own joke, and added, “You know, with...swords, probably? I think that’s how they do it.”
Jan sank further into the couch until it was clear there was no hole she would fall into. “Michael,” she said, taking a deep breath. “David’s married. And, it’s...We were actually, we were just talking about--”
“No, Jan, it’s okay,” said David, quickly. “Everything’s fine, Michael. I was actually just about to offer Jan a drink. Do you want anything?”
Michael shook his head. “Nothing for me,” he said. “But do you know where I can find the hour dourves table? I was really looking forward to those...uh, the hot dogs in comforters?”
“Pigs in blankets,” Jan snapped.
“Yes,” said Michael, “That.” He chucked his thumb in the direction of the party. “Anyway. I didn’t see any at the buffet, so I thought maybe I just wasn’t looking in the right place. But I checked everywhere...And they’re definitely not in the fridge, either, although I found some pudding cups that were out of this world-say, did your wife make those? They were really awesome.”
Jan gazed helplessly at Michael. Her heart raced. She honestly couldn’t tell if she was repulsed or turned on, and in trying to figure it out, something in her physically cracked open, like an egg. For a moment, she was sure her brain had trickled out the top of her head. She turned to David, and touched his arm. “Whiskey, you said?”
Jan jolts awake, a sharp pain cramping up her leg. She gasps, mutters, "fuck," under her breath. She gets up from the chair, stretches, and stalks back over to the foyer table.
"I've got the perfect place for you," says Jan to the card, and she wanders into the bathroom to rest it on top of the toilet tank. "There," she says, "That looks about right."
On her way out, Jan notices a pink post-it taped to the mirror: "A kiss for m'lady!" it says. Jan smiles, pulls the post-it off the glass, and lets her gaze rest upon it for a moment.
“One of these days we'll call it a tie," she mumbles to herself, running her fingers over Michael's impossibly girly handwriting; he's scribbled a heart over the "i."
Jan stuffs the post-it into her pocket, and wanders back into the kitchen to check on Michael's hot dogs in comforters.
---
4:46pm
Jim loiters at reception with Pam, who's been munching on M&Ms and letting her calls roll over to voicemail. She's tied a Christmas curling ribbon to her hair clip, and Jim flicks the ribbon back and forth, thinking of how her hair smells like peaches and pineapple. This, of course, makes Jim think of those fruit cups from the vending machine, and how, on Jim's first day at work, Pam showed him how to cheat the vending machine by rapping first on the window, then on the left side, then on the right side, with the flat of his palm. She watched him make six or seven rounds of that before revealing that the vending machine had actually shorted out weeks earlier. "Welcome to Dunder Mifflin," she'd said. "We bore easily."
Jim twirls the curling ribbon around his finger. Pam wordlessly offers him a handful of M&Ms. Jim snatches them up and nods his thanks.
Dwight, now sporting the gas mask he won on eBay, and armed with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and Andy's plastic bucket, wanders up to the annex. Paul, using an old desk-chair for better leverage, swivels his camera to face Dwight. Dwight flips up his helmet.
"I can take it from here," Dwight says, with one hand on Paul's shoulder. "I have the knowledge and the skills that you do not."
Paul nods intently.
Dwight flips his gas mask back down.
Jim can't help but think that this is all somehow very Patriot Games meets Air Force One-- had Harrison Ford not been a hero, but instead, a moron with a gas mask.
Jim turns lazily to Pam. "You don't think Dwight'll actually kill Michael, do you?"
Pam shakes her head no. "At least, I don't think so." She frowns. "Maybe a seventy percent chance?"
Jim considers this. "Toby confiscated the throwing stars, right?"
Pam nods. "Oh," she adds, "And the sword."
"And the eight pack of carving knives?"
Pam nods again. "I think the only thing Dwight has left is that pitiful pair of pliers."
Jim leans against the desk. The air feels somehow lighter and more pleasant this afternoon. "So you think our work here is done?"
"You heard Dwight," says Pam, grinning, "He can handle it from here."
Jim pops another M&M into his mouth. "When you're right, you're right," he says.
Dwight strides across the office to a symphony of ringing phones and clicking mouses. He pauses at the door to Michael's office, takes a deep breath that sounds like Darth Vader exhaling, and bangs on Michael's door, calling, "Michael!"
"No more interruptions!" yells Michael from inside. The faint strains of Mariah Carey grow considerably louder and trickle out into the hallway. "I'm very busy!"
"Michael," says Dwight, "for the good of this office, all of mankind, Dunder Mifflin, the city of Scranton, and Christmas, I need you to exit slowly and relinquish your tie."
Pam covers her mouth with her hands and makes several unattractive snorting sounds. Jim bites his lip and touches several fingers to his chin.
Crouched next to Dwight, Andy has taped a plastic bag around his head (a decontamination suit? Jim wonders) and is holding Dwight's plastic bucket.
"This is the most amazing Christmas ever," says Jim. "They look like the two-man cast of Stomp."
"Should someone take that bag away from Andy?" asks Pam.
"Nah," says Jim, "See the breathing holes?" He points at several ragged holes in the plastic by Andy's ear lobes.
"Oh yeah," says Pam, popping a few more M&Ms into her mouth. "Look at that. Clever."
Jim shoots a quick glance over at Toby, who--with a set of industrial-sized headphones over his ears--sits quietly at his computer, a plate of Halloween cookies on the desk beside him. The back of Toby's head bobs back and forth, and he actually looks relaxed, for once. Jim supposes he's probably not missing anything new anyway.
"Michael!" yells Dwight. "This is of utmost importance!"
"Paramount Importance!" adds Andy.
"Andrew," snaps Dwight, "What did I tell you about speaking?"
Pam tosses a few more M&Ms into her mouth. "So I have exactly forty-seven voicemails," she says, and reaches out a handful of candy to Jim. "What do you wanna do for dinner?"
"Oh!" Jim turns to her and waves his hands in explanation. "I think we're all headed to Poor Richard's," he says, "Unless you're not in the mood for bar food."
Pam shrugs. "I could go for some wings," she says. She pops another M&M into her mouth. "But what about Michael's party?"
"Michael!" yells Dwight again, "Please do not make me have the U.S. Navy drag you out!"
"We'll just be fashionably late," says Jim. "But I figured...the only way we could ever get anyone else to go to a party hosted by Michael and Jan was if we tricked them first with alcohol." Jim shrugs, motions towards Dwight. "Or hit them over the head with a pair of pliers."
Suddenly, Michael emerges from his office--coat, briefcase, and a stack of papers in hand. With a quick, disgusted glance at Dwight, he rushes across the sales pit to reception.
"Michael," breathes Dwight, a look of relief flashing across his gas mask. He stands in front of Michael as if he's about to catch Michael like an outfielder at a baseball game. "I need you to listen carefully," says Dwight. "I need your tie."
Michael scrunches his nose. "You need my what?" he asks. "Look, Dwight, this office does not need an idiot. If we did, we'd have to call it a village."
"But--" Dwight stammers in Darth Vader-speak, "But I---I intercepted a transmission." He pulls up the helmet. "Your tie, I need it, it's--"
"Okay, that's it," snaps Michael. "Attention!" He waves his free arm, "Attention, everyone!"
Jim glances around as everyone in the office looks warily up at Michael; it's the way one might watch for jelly fish while wading in the ocean.
"Okay. I really didn't want to have to give this speech today, but..." Michael clears his throat. "Contrary to popular belief, Christmas is not about material things," he says, clasping his hands in front of him. "Like awesome light-up ties." He pauses to scan his audience, continuing, "Christmas is about.." he lunges suddenly and points at Stanley, "YOU!" and this time at Meredith, "YOU!" and this time at Creed, "YOU!" and turns, finishing, "and Jim and Pam finally having sex--"
"Michael," manages Pam.
Jim begins to cough, his face weirdly warm.
Michael smiles at Pam, somehow thinking she is so pleased at this attention that she's begun to hyperventilate.
Michael pivots and turns to the sales pit. "But not you," he finishes, this time pointing at Dwight," Because you are annoying and you look like a moron." Michael takes a deep breath, seemingly almost finished. "Also, remember that Christmas is about the generosity of your cool boss throwing an awesome party at his condo. So." Michael pauses and smiles. "I am officially leaving to go enjoy the true meaning of Christmas--a really bitchin' party."
"But--" Dwight motions frantically at Michael. "You don't--"
Michael raises his palm to Dwight. "Talk to the hand," he says, pushing past, "Talk...to the hand."
Dwight watches Michael walk away and deflates like a broken air mattress. "Damn it," he mutters, sinking into his desk chair.
"I know," says Andy, pulling the bag off his head. He sits down next to Dwight. "We'll have to come up with an even better strategy if we're dealing with Michael's hand." Andy whistles. "I've dealt with the hand before. Last March. Finger puppet day. Paid dearly."
Michael squeezes past Jim and taps on the reception counter.
"Pamdingo," says Michael, "Do you have Jan's present?"
Jim turns in surprise, gazing with one raised eyebrow at Pam, who lets out an amused chuckle. She reaches under her desk and hands over a textbook-sized, brown-paper package to Michael. Michael breaks out into a smile and hands Pam a candy-cane. "Thanks," he says, winking.
"Oh, no problem," says Pam, winking back.
Dwight watches all of this with rapt interest, and wheels over in his desk chair. "Okay," he says to Michael, "I'm going to need to inspect that."
"Shut up, Dwight," says Michael, who rushes out and slams the door behind him. Jim is pretty sure Michael will be at least ten minutes out of the parking lot before Dwight realizes Jim lined the inner ring of Dwight's gas mask with black shoe polish.
Jim glances at the clock: 5:50pm.
Hallelujah.
It's a Christmas miracle:
Quitting time.