As the sun filtered through the heavy drapes of the office on that warm day in July 1969, you could feel the weight of history around you. Today marked not only your first day as an intern but also a pivotal moment in American history that had everyone buzzing with excitement. Clad in a crisp suit and tie—though perhaps slightly less formal than Dwight’s sharp dark ensemble, you shuffled through the door with a tray containing two steaming cups of coffee and a fresh order of bagels from Ralph’s Deli across Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Mr. Chapin,” you announced softly, trying to project confidence despite your nerves rattling like loose change. But as you approached his desk, your eye for just a second too long looked out the window. In that split moment, fate revealed itself when you stumbled over a cable running along the floor under his massive wooden desk. Your heart skipped as your hand jerked forward instinctively to catch yourself, but it was too late; hot coffee cascaded downwards, splattering directly onto Dwight’s lap.

You froze, eyes wide like saucers while he leaped up from his chair in shock, staining shadowy blue pants even darker while letting out an exasperated sigh mixed with disbelief. He winced in pain as he patted himself rapidly, the burn coursing through his skin. You apologized like a mantra, feeling so embarrassed and stupid.

“Ow, ow, shit! It’s fine, it’s fine— just get me a towel or something, okay??” He said, as he pulled the stained part away from his skin to ease the pain.