When Ryan wakes up, fuzzy-tongued and head split open in at least fifteen different places, he thinks, "Oh, God, not again" before throwing up over the edge of the bed (and onto what he really hopes is just a hallucination of a George Foreman grill covered in days-old bacon grease). He rolls over and falls back asleep.
*
Ryan is naked, hungover, and 99.99% sure he slept with Michael Scott last night. His mouth tastes like ass. Michael, or whoever it really is (it's Michael, who does he think he's kidding?), is snoring away obliviously. Ryan climbs out of bed, carefully holding his head to keep his brains from dribbling out his ears, and steps over the stupid grill on the floor. His clothes are on the top of a pile of dirty laundry, and he dresses as he stumbles for-- an exit, any exit, where's the fucking-- door.
His car isn't in the driveway, so Ryan walks until he can no longer see Michael's place. He stops for Advil and water, and he calls for a cab. He sits on the curb, and some Eminem-wannabe kid runs a shopping cart into his shin. The taxi, when it finally arrives, smells like a mix of Michael's bedroom and those stupid tree car freshener things and cheap incense.
"Pull over, pull the fuck, I'm going to," he yells. "Just, please." The cabbie obeys after Ryan starts making gagging noises, and Ryan throws the door open just in time to barf on the side of the road. This is the worst morning after he's ever had. Ever. Ever.
When he gets home, he showers until long after the hot water runs out. He crawls into bed, and he buries himself under the covers. When he wakes up, hallelujah, it's Sunday.
[monday]
Monday is awkward, but, then, what day isn't?
(Monday actually started Sunday night, when Ryan realized that his car was still in the Dunder Mifflin parking lot, and he had to call another cab (which turned out to be the exact same cab, funky smells and all) to take him to pick it up. Michael was there, picking up his car (and at least they didn't drive home drunk?), and he winked and made some sort of undecipherable gesture before driving away.)
Ryan is confused. He also hates his life. There's a coffee stain on his tie.
"La dah dah, dah dah FIRE!" Dwight has taken to humming at him again, ever since Ryan caught him making out with Angela in the Chili's parking lot the other night. Ryan really wishes he could bleach the image from his brain. He also wishes Dwight would get a life.
Ryan pulls his tie off and puts it down on his desk. "There's a stain on that, did you know?" Dwight asks.
"Yes, I'm-"
"I make it a point to always carry some stain remover with me. I'd offer to share, but you probably haven't gotten to that class yet in business school."
Which, okay, Ryan really wishes Dwight would stop with the stupid business school comments already. "It's fine," he says. "I've got a tissue and some water. Thanks, though." Translation: fuck off, freak, and leave me the hell alone.
"Hey, Dwight," Jim says, giving Ryan a thumbs up. "I think something's wrong with-"
Ryan exhales, slowly, and dabs at the stain on his tie. It doesn't come out. Fucking Mondays fucking suck.
[tuesday]
"Hey, Ry-An, my man," Michael says, holding his hand up for a high-five.
"Michael," Ryan says. He keeps his hands in his pockets until, finally, Michael puts his arm down with a sort of improvised fake wave. It's actually sort of hilarious, and Jim is obviously laughing behind his hand. So's Pam, though she's pretending to cough as she holds out Michael's faxes and messages.
"Michael," she says, "Jan called three times this morning, and she wants a call back as soon as possible. Oh, and there's a fax from her in there as well. She seemed pretty anxious to speak with you."
Michael winks. "I knew it, one taste of the patented Michael Scott milkshake, and the fine lady's hooked."
"Actually," Pam says, "I think she-"
"Woman's a wildcat in the sack, too. You should see my back; it's covered in scratches. Mrrrow, you know? I mean, really, I think one of these might be infected." He starts to turn, to unbutton his shirt, and Pam coughs. "Oh, right, not in front of Pam-a-lama."
Ryan winces. Walks away. Trips over Dwight's foot-- "Oops, sorry, I was just stretching my calf muscles, as recommended by my Sensei"-- and grabs onto Kelly, who squeals and giggles, to keep from falling to the ground.
"Hey Ryan, I think your voicemail's broken again because I called you, like, six times Friday night and then, you know, a couple of times on Saturday to make sure you were okay, and you never got back to me. Are you okay? Do you need a new cellphone? I just got a new one, did I tell you? It's, look, isn't it adorable? It was a little more expensive than my old one, but I thought it was worth it because it's cute and I can check my e-mail on it and take pictures and listen to music and everything."
It's pink, with rhinestones or something, and Ryan thinks it's hideous. He says, "Nice," and "Look, I gotta, there's, I'll call you tonight, okay?"
Kelly smiles. "My number's the same, it's still 570-555-2439, so you can just call that and I'll still get it and I'll talk to you later, great!"
Ryan doesn't run away, but it's a close thing. The thing is, Ryan actually likes Kelly. She's cute, and she's got a good body, and she's pretty great in bed. So it's not that he's avoiding her, exactly, it's just that he really wishes she'd just shut up once in a while.
[wednesday]
"Yo, Ry-man, you're with me," Michael says. "Special hump day lunch, just me and you and the," he traces a Pamela Anderson-shaped figure in front of him, "Hooters' girls."
"I," Ryan starts.
"C'mon, boss's prerogative. Besides, it gives me an excuse to whip out the ol' company Amex."
Ryan could argue, could try to get out of it, but it's really not worth the trouble. Besides, the Hot Pocket he thought he'd grabbed this morning turned out to be a Lean Pocket upon closer inspection, and those things are just below cardboard on Ryan's list of things he never wants to eat. Hooters, even with Michael, is definitely an improvement.
Michael insists on driving, and Ryan keeps his eyes closed the entire trip. It keeps him from shouting, "We're going to die!" or "I can't believe I slept with you!" or even "You don't actually believe that crap about Jan, do you?"; it also keeps him from jumping out of the car at the first red light they hit.
"Wakey, wakey," Michael says, and Ryan's eyes pop open. "No napping on the Dunder Mifflin's dime."
Lunch is a fiasco, of course. One of the cameramen, Bob or Rob or Don, comes along, and Michael keeps making embarrassing comments to the waitress. Ryan barely gets an word in edgewise, and he promises himself that he'll leave her a huge tip for not killing them on the spot. They end up having far too much to drink, and Ryan gets up to take a leak. Michael follows.
"You know how chicks always go to the bathroom in packs? Ever imagine, like, Pam and Angela getting it on all Girls Go Wild in the office bathroom? Hot, right?"
Ryan has, in fact, imagined just that very thing, not that he's about to admit it.
"Um, Michael?" he says. "I'd, that is, um."
Michael tastes like Coors Lite and chicken wings and coffee, and the sink digs into Ryan's back. Michael slides to the floor, his knees crack and pop, and he unzips Ryans pants. He's sloppy, a little too careless with his teeth, but Ryan comes almost embarassingly fast anyway. He reaches down, and pulls Michael off with one stroke.
They've just managed to zip up, and they're washing their hands when Bob (or Rob or Don or whatever) walks in, camera in hand.
[thursday]
Thursday, Ryan calls out sick. "Tell Michael I've got the plague," he tells Pam. "Hell, tell him I'm dead, I don't care, tell him I dropped dead but I'll be reanimated tomorrow, just tell him I won't be in today."
Later, he thinks he spots Dwight hiding in his bushes.
[friday]
"So you're one of those, wait, whaddyacallit, those two beer queers, then?" Michael asks, flapping his hand and lisping for emphasis.
Poor Richard's isn't exactly the hot spot of the century, but it's still pretty busy on a Friday night. Ryan almost chokes to death on his beer. "It's, you know, never mind. Personally, I like to say I have an 'alcohol-enhanced non-discrimination policy.' Sounds more, I don't know, something. Anyway, it's not like you can really talk."
"That's what she sa-, wait. What?"
Ryan smiles and tries to look enigmatic (or at least less drunk). He thinks, Fuck it, I'm quitting on Monday, I don't care. It's Friday night, so the cameramen have all gone home to their wives or girlfriends or whatever it is cameramen go home to, and Ryan tells himself he's got nothing at all to lose. "I said, 'it's not like you can talk,' Michael. You Likey Me Sucky ring any bells?"
"I," Michael says. He's stammering, alternating made-up words with curses, and Ryan laughs. He can't help it. Michael turns red, then purple, and he yells, "Motherfucker!"
Ryan stands, he's not even tipsy, and he walks away. A few seconds later, Michael follows. They meet up in the parking lot, and Ryan blows Michael in the backseat of his stupid car.
[saturday]
Ryan closes his eyes and counts to ten. The room smells like bacon.
"I quit," he says. "I fucking quit."
*fin.
[once more into the fray]