Back in high school show choir, Andy got to sing a solo on "Uptown Girl" instead of Terry Sims, and since he heard later that Terry Sims ended up being the star tenor of the Princess Cruises Hispanorama show after college, that makes Andy pret-ty much the king of all things B-Joel. In his opinion, the best Billy Joel album, without question, is definitely An Innocent Man, and Andy has as many reasons for this as he has fingers. Maybe both fingers and toes, even, but definitely fingers. Once, back in Stamford, Big Tuna made the mistake of getting int an argument with Andy about this, with Tuna claiming that B-Joel's best stuff was from his miserable periods after divorces and whatever. He almost had a point-- Piano Man is obviously a classic-- but then Tuna made the mistake of trying to use River of Dreams as a poster child for happy = bad, and even if the rest of the album sucked (which, yeah, okay, even the great ones make mistakes sometimes), how could anyone fault the genius of that single? Sadly, in spite of Tuna's willingness to share his vocal stylings while under the influence of alcohol, it turns out that he totally lacks choir cred-- not even high school, which is just insane-- so Andy was forced to realize that it's not that Tuna is an idiot, he just doesn't know any better. Andy has since been doing his best to enlighten him. He's got an iPod Shuffle full of enlightenment right here, just waiting for the a chance to share, and the whole doo-wop groove of An Innocent Man is front and center. Tuna won't know what hit him.
Andy's singing along with "Tell Her About It" as he drives into the Dunder-Mifflin parking lot for his second day at the most honorable Scranton Branch, doing a neat little descant line over the chorus that he made up all on his own on the spur of the moment a few years back and has since made sure to sing every time. Good day so far: not too chilly, so he just needs a sports coat; nice and sunny, so he has an excuse for wearing his awesome sunglasses that make him look like Tom Cruise. There's less traffic in Scranton than there was in Stamford, which he hadn't expected, but which is great. Of course it's because Scranton is a hick town in the middle of frickin' nowhere, but Andy likes to look at the sunny side of life, accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative and all that jazz.
The Stamford branch is dead. Long live Scranton.
There's a lot of H.R. B.S. (HERBS, ha ha ha) to take care of that Andy didn't get to yesterday, what with all the meeting new people and getting settled in and hanging out in the wacky glory of one Mr. Michael Scott. The H.R. guy, Flenderson, had given Andy a stack of papers to fill out last night, but there'd been a lot on Andy's plate last night, like figuring out how to get Pizza Hut to deliver to room 255 at the Mosey Inn (explicit directions are key, as is standing outside waving at the idiot doing circles in the parking lot), calling his mom (totally a basket case without him at home), finding out where all the cool bars are in Scranton (rock on, CitySearch; he'll try those on the weekend), and checking the phone book to see if Layla Rogers from sixth-period biology, junior year, was still in Scranton like his mom told him (yes, as it turned out) and still married (also yes, which made the phone conversation a leeeeettle bit awkward). Andy has no worries. He'll deal with the paperwork when he has a chance. He's heard that the skinny blonde chick hands the paychecks out in person (awesome conversation starter right there), instead of doing direct deposit, so, hey, it's not like he won't get paid.
Apparently the skinny blonde chick has other ideas about that, though, and somehow she and that Dwight guy convince Michael that Andy's time this morning would be best spent sitting in Flenderson's cube back in the dungeon, filling out paperwork under supervision like he's in frickin' homeroom all over again. Flenderson is quiet the whole time, which confirms Andy's initial impression of the guy as the kind of creepy dude who'll end up being on the news someday when they find a load of sawed-off human body parts in his deep-freeze. He doesn't look at Andy, which is also wiggy, because a lack of eye contact is a definite sign of an incipient personality disorder, or something.
It's a big relief when the hot Indian chick (whether this is sari-type Indian or teepee-type Indian, Andy is not quite sure) comes back about half an hour after work starts. She hangs up her purse and jacket in the next cubicle and then comes back over to chat with possible-serial-killer-guy Flenderson about some dork named Ryan and their date at the movies last night where she hadn't wanted to go to this movie, but he promised he'd take her to Dreamgirls the minute it came to Scranton, so okay, but it turned out that this movie was awesome, although she's not going to tell her dork boyfriend that because she doesn't want him to forget about Dreamgirls. Which seems fair, because Andy's looking forward to Dreamgirls himself. Who wouldn't?
"Seriously, Toby, you have got to see Casino Royale. It's totally the best Bond movie ever."
Flenderson blinks those lizardlike eyes and tips his head at the Indian chick. "Kelly--" Kelly, aha; Andy makes a note of this-- "I thought you said that you hadn't seen any of the other Bond movies."
Kelly dismisses this with a wave of her little hand. "I've seen the previews for all the Pierce Brosnan ones, and commercials when they play those old Sean Connery ones from before he got grey hair and a beard. The point is, I've seen all the James Bonds, and I'm pretty sure that Daniel Craig is totally the hottest. And, omigod, he falls in love with this girl who's also a spy, kinda, and they're both orphans or something, and they had this whole incredibly sweet vacation in Italy and then she drowned and stuff, and he was all heartbroken and it's like a prequel, I think, 'cause you can totally see how he turns into Mr. Killing-and-Sex Machine with no emotions because he's so sad, and so it's like his hotness is a metaphor for what he used to be before he turned into the boring Sean Connery guy, or something."
Andy hasn't seen the new Bond movie yet, but he makes a mental note to check it out; if it's a hit with women, it may turn into his default date movie for this season. "That sounds awesome," he offers. It doesn't, really, but agreeing with someone always makes a good impression.
Indian-chick-whose-name-is-apparently-Kelly gives him a look, like she hadn't noticed he was there, and then a big ol' smile breaks out all over her face. It's like she's surprised to see him, but it's a pretty good surprise. "Yeah, it is," she says. "You're Andy, right?"
"That I am," Andy agrees in his most gallant voice, pretending to doff a Musketeer's hat. "Andrew Bernard, at your service."
"Okaaaay," she says, and the good-surprise part of the look sort of peeters out a little, but she's still smiling, so, score. "I'm Kelly."
"Ah, like Kelly Clarkson," Andy says, very suave, "only cuter."
She giggles. "Thanks!"
Flenderson gives a little cough. "Uh, Kelly, Andy really needs to get some stuff done here, so..."
"Oh, right," she sighs. Andy believes he sees some disappointment there. This is going very well indeed. "Well, Andy, I'd better let you get back to your... whatever." She gestures at the papers.
"Lovely lady," Andy intones, "it is a pleasure to formally meet you."
Kelly gives a little wave and goes back into her cubicle. Andy watches her go, and he can hear Billy Joel singing in the back of his mind-- when she's walkin', she's lookin' so fine, oh my, definitely-- and it occurs to him that Kelly is the kind of girl who's never had a back-street guy, either. Andy's closer to a backstreet boy than a back-street guy, but that's not the point. B-Joel is universal.
It is definitely a good day so far.
As it turns out, Ryan-the-dork-boyfriend is right here in Dunder-Mifflin, the little scrub of a guy in Sales who doesn't talk much and looks like he's waiting for imminent death. Andy seriously does not get the appeal, but, whatever. There are totally other fish in the sea, and he's a damn good fisherman, if he does say so himself-- which he does.
Even if Kelly's taste in guys in inexplicable, though, he has to admit that her taste in movies is excellent. Casino Royale does turn out to be the best damn Bond movie he's ever seen.