Work Text:
The day Pam Beesly met Michael Scott had been the day she entered Dunder Mifflin's claustrophobic little office on Scranton Business Park's second floor for the very first time, resume in one hand, car keys in the other, eyes darting nervously to the imposing front desk she'd set out to commandeer through what she hoped would be a flawless interview - God knew she'd spent enough time terrorising her poor mother to help her practise - and while the subdued drone of the office intimidated her a bit, what with the relentless clacking of computer keyboards and the polished pitches of salesmen murmured into ugly black receivers, not to mention the buzzing glare of the fluorescents, she took solace in the fact that Roy was just a couple of floors, a minute long elevator ride and one flight of stairs away - stowed safely beneath this office in the warehouse with its gigantic metal shelving and ceiling-high stacks of paper reams.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she hesitantly proceeded to make her way towards reception, eyes flitting over the sad grey sofa placed strategically beneath poorly framed, mass-produced corporate art which could have hung on the foyer wall of any one of thousands of identical mid-sized offices dotting the East Coast, fingers tugging nervously at the sleeves of her pink cardigan, stretching the cuffs down till her knuckles and totally ruining any elastic integrity the fabric may have had left. Pam liked cardigans. It was a little lame, she knew - her own mother wouldn't be caught dead wearing one - but Pam liked the way they felt, soft and warm like a good hug without restricting her movement like the baggy jackets Roy preferred to wear. She stole his jackets, sometimes, just to see him laugh when he saw her drowning in it, fond and a little incredulous, but on the whole they made her feel like she'd wrapped herself in the window drapes and promptly got rid of them as soon as possible, usually along with the rest of her clothing - Roy was nothing if not an attentive lover - and more often than not she'd end up back in her trusty cardigans before the day was out.
"Are you Roy's fiancée?" The man behind the desk blurted out, and Pam took stock of him for the first time, shaking her head to bring herself back to earth as she smiled apprehensively at chubby, meaty guy hamfistedly clutching the clunky telephone. "Yep, that's me. My name's Pam. Pam Beesly." Soon to be Anderson, she thought giddily, I'm going to get married -
Well. There was still plenty of time for that. They'd only just got engaged, after all. She and Roy hadn't even talked about setting a date yet. The last thing Pam wanted to do was to rush it, lock each other down and squeeze all the magic out of their romance by virtue of her own impatience. She wanted her wedding to be perfect. And if that meant she had to wait just a little bit longer than most, she'd do it.
"Oh, thank God." The man breathed out heavily, beady eyes shutting in what seemed to be heartfelt relief before slowly emerging from beneath their lids once again, like beetles from behind a curtain. Looking furtively out at the rest of the office, he leaned closer. "The candy is nice," He confided solemnly, "But remembering all those extension numbers?" She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his sentence, but all he did was shake his head slowly from side to side. Left. Right. Left, then right.
After about ten seconds of the man acting like a wind-up toy and Pam politely goggling at him in case he had something more to say, she smiled awkwardly and lowered her gaze to the half-filled M&M dispenser on the counter, a neat little touch that would admittedly be an excellent perk - if she got the job, of course.
A natural lull in their none-too-illuminating exchange. Someone coughed wetly in the background. Pages rustled as a salesman tried his level best to get a Mr. Sharma to change his paper provider. Mr. Sharma did not seem too amenable. Someone coughed again, ostensibly the same culprit as last time. The fat man was now staring at her in silence.
"I'm here for the interview?" She prodded gently, glancing over her shoulder at what she assumed to be the manager's office, although the blinds were closed and it could have been a store room for all she knew. (Though why anyone would put windows - with blinds - in a store room was beyond her.) "With the boss? Michael Scott?"
His eyes widened almost comically. "Oh, right. Shoot." He added as an afterthought, jumping up from his seat and lumbering around to her side of the front desk. "Follow me."
Peering back every few seconds like she was a five year old who'd get lost if he didn't pay her constant attention, he led her past cluttered desks, through a door with a pane of glass obscured with floppy white blinds (again with the blinds - what was with this place?), past what appeared to be a kitchenette, a fridge and a small round picnic table; through a second, similarly adorned door and into the back of the office (she couldn't help but spy a number of brightly coloured vending machines glowing off to the side - God, she'd kill for some onion chips right about now) before pausing at a thin, kindly looking man with balding ginger hair and droopy eyes that seemed liable to put her to sleep. Was this the infamous Michael?
She eyed him dubiously. He didn't look like much of an idiot, atleast. She was going to murder Roy.
"But how are you so sure he's going to hire me?" She asked, exasperated. "I mean, we're engaged, Roy. Wouldn't he prefer to hire someone else, someone totally unrelated? Conflict of interest and all that?"
He frowned, laughing a little. "Baby, you're gonna work at reception, in the main office. I'm gonna be all the way down in the warehouse. Conflict of interest, my ass."
"It's true!" She insisted. "Maybe I'll start forwarding all calls to Darryl. Or maybe you'll corrupt me into adding you on the line so you can listen in to everyone's private conversations -"
Guffawing, he took a right turn, hands sliding across the vinyl steering with practised ease. "Why the hell would Darryl want to deal with that shrew from corporate? Flat, money-grubbing bitch."
"Hey!" She glared at him reproachfully. "Uncool. That is not how I raised you, Roy Anderson."
"Ooh." Making a silly little show of shuddering. "I'm scared, mum."
Settling back in her seat, she crossed her arms in mock triumph. "Yeah, well, you better be. Or I'll put you in timeout, young man."
"Timeout?" Shaking his head, perplexed, indicator deployed with one casual flick of the finger. "What am I, two?"
She smiled slightly, glancing out the window at the office blocks rushing by. They were almost there. He continued. "Believe me, Pammy, you got this. There's only one thing you need to know about Michael -" Turning violently into the building's parking lot. "- he's a loon, and he can be a jerk, but he's harmless. Trust me. Just laugh at his stupid jokes like they're the funniest thing you've ever heard and he'll hire you on the spot. You won't even need that." Gesturing absently at the resume clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
"Good, because there isn't much in it." She remarked snarkily, making him laugh.
"C'mon." Killing the engine and tossing her the keys. "Go get that paycheck."
"Toby?" The chubby man said tentatively. "It's Pam." Like her name was some sort of invocation. She stifled a laugh. The ginger man - Toby - swivelled towards her, hands folding on his stomach. "Oh, yeah." He said. He had a nice voice, she noted abstractly, soft and even and calm like a monk's. "You're here for the interview, right?"
"Yes." She said quickly, perhaps too quickly, mentally shaking herself at the error - she didn't want to sound too eager, like she desperately needed this job - which, of course, she did.
"Alright." Rising from his chair, he extended a hand. "Toby Flenderson, Human Resources. Nice to meet you."
Hastily transferring her keys to the other hand, she gripped it firmly, trying to maintain eye contact. That's an interviewer's wet dream, right? A solid handshake and eye contact?
"Ow." He said softly, and Pam realised she'd been crushing his knuckles together like his hand was the only thing keeping her from dropping off the face of the earth. "Shit, sorry." She apologised, letting go of the hand like it'd burned her, and he let it drop back to his side, bemused. "No problem." He said, grinning a little - even his grins looked lazy, listless and somnolent. "Thanks, Kevin." Speaking to the rotund man who'd been watching this exchange like a tennis volley. Pretty slow volley. "I'll take it from here."
Kevin blinked and nodded in dim-witted accession. "Okay." Turning, he started off back the way they'd come, casting the occasional mournful glance backward. Toby waited for him to cross the threshold into the hall with the kitchenette before speaking again. "I'll be taking your interview in the conference room, along with our manager, Michael Scott."
She nodded, trying to appear attentive. "Okay."
"So if you'll just..." Hands flapping halfheartedly. "Follow me." He finished under his breath, awkwardly taking a few steps away from his messy desk and shyly peeking back for confirmation. "Great."
She trailed after him dutifully, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor and trying to maintain stable, even breaths. God, she was nervous. Toby stopped abruptly in front of the door she'd instinctively assumed led into the manager's office - not a store room after all, then - and knocked gently on the door. "Michael? May we come in?"
Her lips involuntarily quirked upwards. What was this, school?
No response.
"Sorry, he's probably sleeping again." He muttered apologetically. Pam tried not to let the surprise show on her face. Knocking louder, Toby repeated his query. "Michael? Ugh." Turning on his heel, he addressed his next doubt to the man seated nearest to the door. "Do I just go for it, you think?"
The shaggy brown head of hair nodded decisively. "Yep."
"Aw, shucks." Toby grumbled, gingerly grasping the metal handle with the doomed air of a man about to enter his own execution chamber. "Wish me luck."
"Oh, you're gonna need it." The brunet agreed, expertly rifling through a sheaf of papers before depositing them in a desk drawer. "Yeah, maybe today's the day you finally get fired." A second man chimed in, this one with short, curly, honey-coloured hair, metal rimmed aviator glasses and a neurotic, slightly unhinged expression. Pam disliked him instantly.
"C'mon, guys." Toby sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed. "You know he can't fire me. I'm corporate."
Pivoting to face Toby, the brown haired man spread his hands and spoke, deadpan. "Then I guess you have nothing to worry about."
Suppressing a smile at Toby's mildly stricken face, she looked away, intending to conceal her amusement from her interviewer, and caught the brunet's eyes instead. He had pretty eyes - brown and twinkling and warm and maybe a little mischievous - and she couldn't help but grin slightly at the little smirk he shot her like she was in on the joke and not just some innocent outsider caught in the crossfire. "I'm Jim. Jim Halpert." Shaking Jim's extended hand (albeit not as firmly as she'd shook Toby's - she'd learnt her lesson there), she maintained eye contact as she imitated his rather cliched method of introduction. "I'm Pam. Pam Beesly." Soon to be Anderson, she thought distractedly, feeling a familiar wave of happiness rising up to catch her on the swell. Was she acting like a love-struck thirteen year old who'd just seen her favourite actor shirtless in some shitty tabloid? Sure. But honestly, how many times in her life could a girl confidently say hey, mom, I'm engaged! Or, hey, dad, I'm about to get married! Not very often, that's how many.
Anyway, she'd probably have her wedding before the year was out and finally be able to put this whole marriage fever thing behind her. God, she couldn't wait.
"My name's Dwight." The second man butted in matter-of-factly. "Dwight Kurt Schrute." Each syllable enunciated with the sharpness of her elementary school English teacher. "Born on the twentieth of January, 1970, at precisely 12:01 A.M., delivered by my father's own hand." He continued, oblivious to the simultaneous raising of eyebrows executed by everyone in the vicinity. Jim, in particular, appeared delighted. "Secondary occupation: beet farmer." Sticking out his arm, he arched a brow impatiently. "Well?"
Biting her lip, she tentatively shook his hand. It was cold. "Nice to meet you, Dwight. I'm Pam." Her voice shook with the effort of keeping it steady.
"Yes, I heard." He looked her up and down severely. "Hmph. Adequate. I hope you'll do a better job than our last receptionist."
Pam wasn't sure whether to be offended or confused. "Excuse me?"
"Hey, Dwight?" Toby intervened quietly. "She actually hasn't been hired yet, so if you could just -"
"Oh, please." Dwight scoffed disbelievingly. "Are you kidding me? Michael takes one look at her and it'll be her ass parked in Kevin's seat."
"Classy." Jim remarked under his breath.
"Oh, I'm sorry, did you have something you wanted to say to me, Jim?" Dwight's eyes glinted angrily. "Because if you do, man up and say it to my face, like a Schrute."
Jim shook his head, seemingly perplexed. "Why would I man up and repeat what I said like a little girl? Your instructions are a little contradictory, Dwight."
Helpless, Pam giggled. Jim somehow kept up a straight face. Dwight, on the other hand, seemed to be plotting murder.
"Okay!" Toby said loudly, clapping his hands. "Okay, alright." Instantly wincing as if the sound of his own voice louder than the decibels normally attributed to, say, a field mouse was more than his tender ears could handle. "Here's what we're going to do. I am going to go inside, wake Michael, and get Pam her interview. The rest of you can go back to work, or - or whatever it is that you were doing before this." Gradually reverting to his original pitch. "Thank you." He finished, almost timidly.
"Y'know, you -" Thoughtfully pointing a finger at Toby. "- are not actually our boss." Jim finished nonchalantly.
"Yeah, just 'cause Michael can't fire you doesn't mean you can tell us what to do, Toby." Kevin chimed in darkly, staring daggers at Toby from over an M&M bowl Pam was sure was significantly more depleted than it had been just fifteen minutes ago.
So cruelly attacked by his own men, the makeshift commander opted to ignore the troops and soldier on to the next task he'd set for himself. No sooner had he turned the handle than the masses voiced their dissent. A chorus of resounding no's issued from each and every corner of the office, with about nine people gazing worriedly at the door with varying levels of dread, apprehension and fear, just as if it opened into Smaug's lair instead of a mere regional manager's office. Leaving the handle, Toby turned around, apparently at the end of his tether. "What?" He hissed.
"Oh, Toby, don't." This from the middle-aged, slightly dumpy, chunky necklace sporting woman who sat behind Dwight. "This is the first time we've managed to get work done all week."
A flat, robust drawl sliced through her soft, uncertain simper. "Have you lost your goddamn mind? Since when do we bother Michael when he isn't bothering us?"
"Guys -" Toby glanced around, at a complete loss. "Pam still has to give her interview. We've been postponing it for like a week."
The possessor of aforementioned drawl scowled impressively, watery red eyes pinned on Toby's willowy figure. "And whose fault is that?"
"Michael's?"
"No, it's yours, numbnuts! You should've taken it on Monday no matter what excuses Michael made, and instead you let him push it all the way to Friday -"
A small blonde woman with a pinched, sour face peering over the reception divider shook her head disgustedly. "Disgraceful. Letting him walk all over you like that."
A clear, clipped voice sliced through the commotion. "Guys, I think Toby's just trying to do his job, so I don't see why we have to gang up on him -"
"Shut up, Oscar!" Kevin bellowed, manoeuvring his chair with some difficulty to glare at the earnest-looking man stationed next to the blonde and half hidden behind the divider, coffee mug in hand. "Oh, crap -" His voice was promptly muffled by a mouthful of beige tie as the chair's squeaky wheels abruptly decided that they'd suffered enough in the name of excellent heavy duty ratings and snapped off with a crack, causing poor Kevin to tumble to the floor like a yoyo dropped from a child's tiny hand. The blonde woman clapped a hand to her mouth, Oscar gasped, and Dwight leapt up from his chair with - was that a throwing star? - inexplicably poised in his hand.
Shockingly enough, Toby was the first to break, covering his face with a knobbly hand as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. Pam thought she understood. The fall must have been pretty cathartic for someone getting bullied merely for trying to bag her an interview, and she made a mental note to thank him later even if she didn't get the job. The rest of the office concealed their own hastily stifled squeals and giggles behind desktop screens and strategically raised folders and Pam stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to keep from cackling out loud. She wondered if the warehouse was half as funny. No wonder Roy liked his job so much.
Perhaps due to the fact that she wasn't as invested in Kevin's humiliation seeing as she didn't actually work here (yet), or simply because she happened to be closest to the manager's office, barring Toby, who seemed to be in no condition to open eyes screwed up in helpless laughter any time soon, Pam was the only one to notice the door they'd been arguing about for the past ten minutes swing open of its own accord to reveal -
"What the hell is going on here?" The man yelled, balefully squinting red-rimmed eyes against the blinding fluorescents. Pam studied him in mild fascination. So this was the boss who'd made all the warehouse workers wear orange prison jumpsuits and stage an escape from the building while all the office workers posed as security guards for a team building exercise last year. Interesting.
Kevin scrambled to extricate himself from the wreckage of his chair, sticking his head out around the right side of reception. There was a dusty M&M stuck to his cheek. No one pointed it out to him. "Michael, I fell." He said slowly, churlishly, as if Michael was the insane one for asking what an employee of his was doing sprawled out on the carpet, fishing for candy.
"Yes, Kevin." Michael nodded, forehead wrinkled, bloodshot eyes drilling holes into Kevin's forehead. "I can see that. I'm not blind." He shook his head, speechless. Pam bit her lip. "Honestly, just - what part of power nap do you people not understand? Tell me. Is it the pow? The er? The - is it some other - erm, syllabus?" He finished angrily, swinging his gaze from one end of the office to another as if searching for someone who'd commiserate with his unfairly interrupted slumber.
"Er, Michael, I -" Glancing around for support. "I think maybe you mean syllable?" Toby ended weakly. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jim shaking his head in resignation. Nope. Michael turned the full force of his gaze on Toby. Pam was genuinely surprised there wasn't steam coming out his ears with how furious he looked. "Oh, yeah? That's what you think? And you're so sure of yourself, aren't you, you smug bastard?"
"Woah, Michael." Jim intervened, looking slightly bemused. "Maybe we should all just take a moment, calm down. Relax."
Michael switched his attention to Jim so quickly that Pam couldn't help but suspect he'd just been waiting for him to speak up all this while. "Relax? You think we should relax, huh, Jim? Well, what do you think I was trying to do in there?" Jabbing a thumb in the general direction of his darkened office, eyes widening ever so slightly as if beseeching Jim to take a stand in the name of all things just and holy. "D'you know how great a dream I was having?" Gaze darting accusingly from one befuddled worker to the other. "No! No, you don't! None of you have my brain." Flinging an arm out wildly and accidentally smacking Toby in the chest. "Sorry, Toby." He said charitably, before exaggeratedly muttering sideways to Jim, "Not!"
Dwight brayed with laughter, nodding appreciatively. "That's pretty funny."
Michael's whole face lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning. "Right?! Know what you'll find even funnier? The dream I was talking about! So there I was, on the sidewalk, dressed like Santa, and this chick comes up -"
"I thought we weren't allowed to sleep on company time." The blonde cut in, face hard as stone. "It's wastage of company resources, right, Toby?"
Toby hummed awkwardly. "Well, technically, corporate says -"
"Corporate?" Michael guffawed. "Who cares about 'em? Listen to my dream, it's funnier. So, as I was saying -"
"Toby, I think you should report this."
"Angela, I don't -" Toby began, just as Michael rounded on the diminutive woman. "What is your problem? God, what are you, allergic to fun? Gah!" Rapidly shaking his head in a manner heavily reminiscent of a wet dog.
"Toby, if you don't report him, then maybe I'll talk to Jan next time she comes visit."
"That really won't be necessary -"
Michael narrowed his eyes at the blonde. Angela stared back, unperturbed. "Listen up, pipsqueak. You get within two metres of Jan and I'm squealing about how you spend company time."
Angela arched a brow. "Working?"
"No. No-o." He made a face, milking the last syllable (sorry, syllabus, Pam corrected mentally, lips twitching at the memory) for all it was worth before declaring triumphantly. "Watching those stupid cats on your computer all day on that nanny cam of yours."
Angela's mouth fell open slightly. "What?" She exclaimed, a little shrilly.
"It's true." Oscar shrugged.
"Sleeping during work hours is a serious offence!" She declared, crossing her arms and wagging her head disapprovingly.
"Yeah, well, you know what? Tell that to Creed."
She watched in confusion as everyone swung their heads to the farthest corner of the office in unison. Nonplussed, Pam followed suit, only for her eyes to alight on a very old man snoring at his desk without a care in the world, mouth agape and drooling on his keyboard. "That man is a hero, Angela." Michael appealed earnestly. "He is ancient, probably a widower, and a veteran. Are you going to snatch his well-deserved rest away from him like some heartless.. mafia.." He paused, struggling to find the words to appropriately convey his emotions. "..Thug?" He finished, brow furrowed worriedly.
Jim was the first to speak, squinting reproachfully at his boss. "I don't think he's a widower, Michael."
"Yeah, and he definitely wasn't in the army." Dwight snorted, exchanging amused glances with his coworkers. "They don't let just anybody in." Shaking his head like the prospect of any one of his coworkers being allowed to enlist in the military was the most ludicrous bit of this whole bonkers scenario.
Toby, perhaps unwilling to let this ridiculous exchange go any further, hastily interrupted. "Michael, this is Pam. She's here to interview for receptionist."
Michael fixed his eyes on her. "Oh, yeah. Roy's fiancée, right?" He let out a low whistle as she nodded. "Warehouse guys do alright, huh? Maybe I should go work in the warehouse and Roy can have my old job. Well, no -" Screwing his eyes up and shuddering. "On second thought, he'd probably just - bungle everything up." He muttered, shaking an arm to adjust his jacket sleeve. Without warning, she was forced to bear the full brunt of his attention once again as he turned and leaned on Jim's desk. "So, when can you start?"
"Michael -"
"Today." She said eagerly, smiling angelically as she cut off Toby's half-hearted objections. "Right now, in fact."
He grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Great! I'll give you a little tour of the place, let you cop a feel - metaphorically, of course." He added quickly, raising his hands in a placating manner. "Although I'm sure most people wouldn't mind if you took it literally -"
Kevin nodded solemnly in the background. Jim gave him a funny look.
"Michael, you can't just hire her." Toby spoke tiredly. "You haven't even asked her any questions, or looked at her resume, or -"
He broke off, looking mildly alarmed as Michael let out a string of incoherent, mashed up sounds like a fourth grader trying to get out of having to listen to his mother. "No! Nuh uh. This is my office, Toby, and I say we hire her."
"I concur." She declared, nodding in what she hoped was a wise, sage manner.
"See!" He pointed wildly at her, looking overjoyed. "She concurs! She wants to be hired, and you can just go back to rotting alone in the annex, where you belong. C'mon, Pam. Oh, actually -" He pivoted, staring at her in mild consternation. "I do have one question to ask."
Toby flung up his hands in vindication. Heedless, Michael continued, grimly ignoring his HR rep with every fibre of his being. "When's your birthday? 'Cause I refuse to share mine with anyone else in this office."
"Oh, for God's sake, Michael -"
"25th March." She supplemented, crossing her fingers.
"Oh, good! Well -" He frowned. "It is a little too close for comfort."
Her heart sank, but she kept her tone light. "When's yours?"
"15th March." Dwight chimed in, smiling adoringly at his boss. Pam struggled not to laugh. "Okay, well -" She began a little squeakily, pausing to clear her throat. "I'm not really big on celebrating anyway, so..."
"What?" He gasped, seeming genuinely floored by this statement. Pam blinked, taken aback. "You don't like your birthday? But it only comes once a year!"
"Ah, really?" Jim mumbled. "Darn it."
Michael sighed. Pam gazed at him in nerve-wracking anticipation. He hummed. He hawed. He rocked on his heels. He rolled his shoulders and blew out thoughtful little puffs of air. In short, he took his own sweet time.
"Well, I -" Exhaling like this was the hardest thing he'd ever done. "I guess I wouldn't mind sharing my birthday month with you."
"Really?" Pam blurted, gripping her resume a little tighter. "You mean it?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes." Staring at his shoes for a moment before glancing up again. "Besides, everyone deserves to enjoy their birthday. And no one does birthdays better than our Party Planning Committee. Right, Angela?" He grinned at the blonde, all past transgressions apparently forgotten.
"It could be arranged." She spoke, tight-lipped, surveying Pam from head to toe. "But don't expect any special treatment."
Pam shook her head rapidly. "Er, I won't. Don't worry."
"In that case, Pamela -" Beaming, Michael stuck a hand out for her to shake. Flustered, she took it, setting her stuff down on Jim's desk for lack of a better place to put it. She hoped he didn't mind. "- let us eat cake."
Jim coughed.
Pam opted for a smile. "So -" She spoke tactfully. "I'm hired?"
Michael inhaled, continuing to shake her hand. "Yes."
In the end, with burning eyes fixed on the plane wheeling around on the airstrip and a stuffy nose pressed to the glass, Pam didn't think of the many, many times over the years she'd found herself wishing that she'd never applied for a job under a man as moronic, insensitive and dim-witted as Michael Scott. She didn't think about the time he'd made her cry when he'd pretended to fire her or the time he'd made her mom cry when he'd had the gall to break up with her on her birthday. She didn't think about all the times he'd made her blood boil or the innumerable lunch breaks she and Jim had spent uncharitably wishing ignoble death on their bumbling baboon of an office manager.
She thought instead of a girl who didn't know what she wanted and who'd somehow found it in herself to put her shitty, dishonest, generic motel art out there and the man who'd been the only one to show up with a smile and a laugh and genuine, awestruck appreciation of art whose value he'd found not in its objective awfulness or mind-numbing banality but in the person who'd bothered to try to make it, lack of courage be damned. She thought of the man who took down his own award to hang up her stupid painting of their office in a spell of kindness so angelic that it'd left Pam crying on different shoulders on more than one occasion.
She thought of all the dumb shit she'd had to talk Michael out of and all the idiotic shenanigans she'd entertained just to break the mundane routine of a 9-to-5. She thought of a funeral they'd held in the parking lot and the weirdly emotional eulogy she'd given for a random bird that she'd really meant for Michael, in her own way. She thought of how the colours had seemed brighter and how the world had seemed open and full of promise when she'd been out of her stable job and working with a pair of complete duffers in a glorified broom cupboard for a half made-up company that seemed liable to go bankrupt any second. She thought of the man who'd finally rescued her from the recesses of being an underpaid receptionist and managed to get her promoted to sales in a surprisingly successful Hail Mary she was sure would have been a hell of a lot easier to accomplish if he'd just thrown her under the bus.
She thought of their nonsense parties with his impossible, over-the-top demands and all the ridiculous trips he'd made them take in the name of company policy - ice rinks and the beach and a booze cruise, not to mention that lecture circuit (Pam didn't think she'd ever driven that much in her life). She thought of the letter she'd read and the hopes she'd kept alive and the marriage she'd inadvertently facilitated by telling Michael that Holly still loved him, somehow, somewhere. She thought of the silly murder mystery game he'd got them so invested in and all the time she'd wasted acting in Threat Level Midnight. She thought of all the conference room meetings there definitely hadn't been any requirement for and the way Jan's nostrils used to flare when she'd show her the minutes of those wonderful conclaves. She thought of all the stupid Dundies she'd been embarrassingly proud to receive and all the dinners in Chili's she'd had to suffer through every awards night.
Mostly, though, she thought of how he'd made her laugh. God, had he made her laugh.
She wondered if the rose-tinted lenses of nostalgia made it so that all one remembered of the person saying goodbye was fuzzy warmth and bittersweet melancholy - memories of better times, uncomplicated times.
Happier times.
Strangely enough, she thought goodbyes only affected one so deeply if they'd truly loved the person leaving all along.
And had she? She could imagine the cameraman asking eagerly. Had she loved Michael?
The plane finally took off, engines roaring, the sleek white contraption soaring away into the atmosphere without so much as a backwards glance. She could just about picture Michael peering out of the tiny window and wildly waving goodbye to Scranton with a goofy grin on his face. She snorted wetly.
That's a silly question. She envisioned herself answering. Of course I did.