Abby Howells had her career in theatre all planned out but sometimes life hands you different things.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler or read on.
So this story ends with me getting handed a glove that a woman has just shat in and me saying “thank you.”
And this story begins when I was a kid. From a very early age I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I was going to be a performer. And I had it all planned out.
As soon as I turned 18, I was going to move to London and go to musical theatre school. I would go there for three years, then INSTANTLY get cast in the West End production of Chicago. It’s a revival. I’m playing Velma Kelly. Who’s playing Billy Flynn? It’s Clay Aiken. We have mad chemistry, he loves the way I sing ‘All That Jazz’. We get married and I have a long and successful career in the musical theatre world, transitioning seamlessly into film.
So that was the plan. And any deviation or knock to this plan would put me into a tailspin. I would lie awake at night worrying. “What if I never got into musical theatre school?” “What if I don’t make it?” “Who will I be, what will I do?”
I was so worried because I loved performing, it was my favourite thing to do. At school camp I would regale my classmates with my impressions. I only had two impressions, the first was Jerry Seinfeld and the second was Macy Gray and that was it. The Jerry Seinfeld did not go so well, I chose to do a bit about the difference between men and women, humour that was utterly lost to my audience of nine-year-olds. I sang the ‘Sorting Hat Song’ from the Harry Potter books to my class, much to their delight I’m sure.
And this dream kept me going through all the tough times, because no matter what happened I knew that one day I would be a fabulous musical theatre queen and I would be happy.
But that stuff never really happened.
So I had to enter the workforce. And I decided to get the most glamorous job I could think of, I became an administrator at a pathology clinic.
I never went to London, instead I studied theatre at Otago. And that was great! I got to do what I loved every day! And when people would ask me “what are you doing at the moment?” I’d be like “I’m studying theatre!” and they would be like “that’s great!” And then I came up to Wellington to do my Masters in Creative Writing, and that was great. I got to write every single day! And when people would ask me what I was doing I would say “I’m doing a Masters in Creative Writing!” and they would be like “that’s great!”
And all my life I’d managed to float along and never really get a proper job. I’d start to think “oh I should probably get a proper job...” but something would always come up. I’d get a phone call or an email and I was saved.
So last year I finished my degree and I managed to float along for a little while, got a couple of emails and a couple of phone calls. And then I reached a point and I thought “oh I should probably get a proper job…” and NOTHING came up. So I had to enter the workforce. And I decided to get the most glamorous job I could think of, I became an administrator at a pathology clinic.
Now, a pathology clinic is a place where you get blood tests done and your urine and faeces analysed…basically if it excretes from you, we’ll take it. That’s not their actual motto. It’s not a super great job, it’s definitely not what I really want to do. I say “do you have a form for that?” about a million times a day. Now when people ask me “what are you doing at the moment?” and I say “I’m working as an administrator for a pathology clinic”, they say “uhhhh.”
And the worst thing about it, which I didn’t really foresee as being the worst part, is the fact that I have to wear a uniform. It’s a pretty dumb uniform - it’s a blue tunic and blue pants and blue cardigan and black shoes that I got from The Warehouse. There’s no possible way to look good in it. Even if you were wearing nothing but the tunic it would still be like “whoa! That’s a lot of tunic” It’s hard to get past that.
And when I first got it I was really ashamed. I hated people seeing me in my uniform and I walked home as quick as possible and hid my head under the desk if anyone I knew came into work. The uniform was a very visual reminder of my failure. If I was wearing it, it was very clear that I was not doing what I want to do. Every morning, I wake up and I dress myself in my failure. I don’t dress myself in the way I want to.
And the job is dumb, it’s a dumb job. I know so much stuff now that I wish I didn’t know. Like the fact that semen expires really quickly. It’s a hot ticket, you’ve got to process it really fast! When semen comes in you have to ring this bell because it’s semen! Urgent semen!! And because of the strict time limit, it means that when people drop it off you have to ask them “and what time was this collected?” And some people freak out but some people look you dead in the eyes and say “10 minutes ago.”
I have my own justice system though. Anyone who’s spectacularly rude to me, or a repeat offender gets put on “The List.” Which is an envelope that I keep in my desk.
And because there is an element of customer service to my job, it is horrible. I’m not very tough so anytime anyone is rude to me, I just get really upset about it. I think about it for days, you know, what I should have said, how unfair it is that people who are rude can just go around and there’s no justice.
I have my own justice system though. Anyone who’s spectacularly rude to me, or a repeat offender gets put on “The List.” Which is an envelope that I keep in my desk. I don’t really know what it means, but it makes me feel better. I dread someone finding it, because it’s so creepy. They would find a piece of paper that has “The List” written on the top and then a line of their colleagues names. And there are some notes too, such as “the most despicable one yet.”
Finding “The List” would only cement the reputation I have as the office weirdo. I never seem to pitch the social interaction just right. Once a girl came up to me and said “I heard you are a comedian” and then I said “Oh I guess so, got a show in the comedy festival HAHAHAHA.” And then she said “I never would have said that.” And then walked away.
Since then I have become obsessed with her thinking I was really funny, but it’s always just been swings and misses. Like the other day, she handed me form to check and said it was for “Mrs Packman.” I saw my chance. I said “Mrs Packman…boy when her husband gets home she must be like “stop chasing ghosts.”” It was an utter fail.
I had one successful social interaction the other day though. There’s a South African receptionist who calls me Mary Poppins. One day someone said “why do you call her Mary Poppins?” and she said “she just looks like Mary Poppins” and then I said “I am practically perfect in every way.” Social interaction, nailed.
So this brings me to the glove. I was on reception and a woman came in to drop off a faeces sample and she couldn’t fit it in the container, so she did it in a glove. And this was a real low point, because it was so far away from what I wanted to do when I was a kid.
But it’s ok, it’s the dumb job phase of my life and that’s fine. I guess if this story had a moral it would be that sometimes life hands you a shitty glove and you just have to take it and say “do you have a form for that?”
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Tessa Stubbing
This content is brought to you with funding support from NZ On Air.