A New Day for Improv

Howard often daydreamed about becoming an actor, especially during work hours but his job as a file clerk demanded otherwise. The thought of pursuing his acting dream was downright terrifying, and would often be countered with made-up scenarios of ridicule and degradation from his peers, who laughed at him unendingly. You want to be a what? An actor? You're a riot Howard, they often replied dismissively. It was best to keep it a secret, he thought.

Looking at the work clock had become a habitual routine, a painful one to be clear. It’s almost time to leave this dreaded place. 4:45 P.M. Oh God, there’s Carl.

“Howard where are you going?” Carl wondered out loud, eyeing the bureaucratic clock, looking at Howard sternly. “Why are you in such a hurry? It’s only 4:45 P.M. And why are you wearing a scarf? It’s 19 degrees outside! I need you to edit these reports before you run off.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow Carl. I have a dentist’s appointment. I can’t be late.” Howard lied to his boss, shifting his head to the side trying to avoid Carl’s penetrating glare, his oversized teeth clamping down rigidly to avoid shouting something rude and unearthly. He then quickly shut down his computer, and made sure that the address and information was wiped out from view from those pesky, got-to-have-it eyes. But nobody cared about Howard’s whereabouts, except maybe his nosy boss, Carl.

If anybody in the office catches wind of this, I’ll be a pariah for life. Howard would surely have to find a new job, he thought, somewhere in Alaska. On second thought, maybe a new life wouldn’t be the worst thing. And besides, I don’t think Carl has any known relatives in Alaska.

I have never disliked a human being so much in my life. I can somehow, through the art of hyperesthesia, feel him nearing from every corner. I can smell his halitosis breathing from a mile away, his gums reek of sour pickles and anchovies. What do you eat at night Carl? And why on earth are you standing so close to me man? Jesus! I can’t breathe! Am I being dramatic? No. I think not.

Outside the office, Madison Avenue was shifting hurriedly with the late afternoon bustle, people walking about stiffly shoulder-to-shoulder, packed in like sardines. Everyone seemed to be in the same headspace, trying to filter away from the commotion, to return home after a long day of work.

Howard seemed like a fish out of water, flapping about nervously, his footsteps shifting uneasily while walking through the hurried crowd. If a stranger were to look at Howard, his appearance might seem questionable. His mouth was covered by a thick, wool scarf like a bandit, and his ruby red eyes were hidden in shadow by a New York Mets baseball cap, all in the purpose to conceal his identity. He was sweating profusely; both armpits stained with regret and cheap, stagnated deodorant. A mid-afternoon, May sun darted down onto the exaggerated amount of clothing he bore, but at least he felt protected from judgement.

Howard felt embarrassed and guilt-ridden, but nobody was around to tell him that he was just another human being going about his business. Nobody cared what he was up to. However, in his mind he felt like the whole world was watching his every move scrupulously, as if under a microscope, wondering about him. They were onto him, he thought. What was this shadowy thespian doing? Up to no good I bet. But nobody thought that, only Howard.

He finally found the building, and a deep sigh emptied out from his exasperated lungs. This has to be it. At least I think it is? The complex looked shady, and rundown from years of seasonal hardship but he knew this was the place. He had hastily written down the address inside a newly bought black notebook, right before work. Howard rummaged around his pocket to retrieve it. Looking at the little notebook, its leathery edges were crisp and smelled brand new. The first page had only one line written down. 1787 Madison Avenue. Upper floor, 901... This is it.

Howard reluctantly entered the towering front door. You can do it Howard. The complex smelled like burnt coffee and mildewed wallpaper. This is definitely the place. He took the opportunity to unravel his overbearing, wool scarf, and let it hang casually onto his square shoulders, to appear less hostile and up-to-no-good.

Walking up the rickety steps, he felt a pulsating urge to turn back and flee into the ever-present scurry of the street. At least he would remain anonymous and free from ridicule, he thought. No. I would be doing myself a disservice. You have to press on Howard. Be bold. Be brave.

A woman suddenly appeared, rounding a jagged corner holding onto her son’s arm like a vice, both eyeing Howard curiously while walking down the steps. “Good afternoon” the woman chanted politely. “Yes, same to you ma’am.” Howard mumbled awkwardly, trying to press a reluctant smile, almost chocking on his words. The boy grimaced at Howard insultingly, noticing his bleak disposition as if to say I know exactly what you’re up to, and you’re going to fail you silly, foolish man. No, I won’t fail, not this time. Keep going Howard.

He then continued his journey up, both legs trying much harder than they naturally would in comparison to less stressful circumstances. He noticed his breathing was laboured, struggling to grasp the immediate air surrounding him, which made him feel ill and overtly self-conscious.

Finally, Howard made it to the top floor. Beads of sweat dripped down boldly from his forehead onto his shoulders. He stared blankly at the wooden door, 901. He looked at the numbers for what felt like an eternity, his mind unable to determine his next move, unable to comprehend a decision, or a positive outcome. Entering this place might change me forever. The thought provoked him, and sent chills down his rigid spine.

His hand made a fist as he swallowed a gulp of saliva and wrapped them onto the wooden frame twice, knock-knock, the second time more pronounced and eager.

From inside the hall, footsteps could be heard nearing the door. Howard’s eyes bulged from their respective sockets trying to stay firmly attached to his head. Leave! Now! A voice shouted in the back of his mind, pleading him to abandon all hope and hurry down the steps, back into the known world, or towards the office where Carl waited impatiently for those stupid reports.

Before Howard could run off, the door opened smoothly. An old woman stared at the bone-stiff man, who appeared to be lost according to his expression.

“Yes? Hello? How might I help you young man?” The old woman pronounced, eyeing the curious Howard through thin bifocals.

Howard looked at the woman with wonder, unable to bring himself to utter anything for a couple of seconds, an explosion of doubt and uninhibited worry shocking his over stimulated brain, his tongue hanging loosely from his dried lips.

He finally managed to speak. “Is this the…” Howard fumbled for a moment, then rummaged through his pocket to retrieve his little black notebook. He opened the first page and read out loud. “1787 Madison Avenue. Upper floor, 901…”

“Yes. Yes. That is the correct address.” The old woman spat hurriedly.

Howard continued to read, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. “… Improv Classroom. Mrs Hopkins.”

“Yes, precisely. That’s me. You found me. You’re in the right place. This is the beginning of a long journey for you, isn’t it?” Mrs Hopkins asked confidently.

“Yes, I believe so.” Howard retorted shyly.

“This is where dreams and fortunes are made. Come in! What’s your name?”

“Howard Ma’am.”

“Excellent Howard. Call me Judy. Welcome.” She smiled warmly.

--

Howard stood stone-faced inside his living room, staring blankly out the window. He couldn’t believe his luck, his life was about to change.

He held firmly onto his cell phone, having just finished a phone call with his agent. He had landed a minor role for an upcoming indie film, and the job paid 20,000$.

He then quickly shifted around his room, looking for the little black notebook. It stood on the coffee table. Howard grabbed it, its leathery exterior now wilted at the edges, and aged. He shifted through the first page and found the address, 1787 Madison Avenue. Upper floor, 901. Improv classroom. Mrs Hopkins. Right next to it, her phone number was written and underlined. Howard kissed it.

A thank you message was in order. Or maybe I should call Carl to quit my job. That’s what I’ll do.