Boring Johnny

Short story. What makes a man boring, and why we might want to know.

Boring. Johnny is simply boring. Not in the “nothing-ever-happens-to-him” type of boring because believe me, Johnny gets into all types of s**t. Johnny’s boring in the introspective way. He has almost no personality. He couldn’t tell you his thoughts or feelings on any topic, because he has no deep thoughts about them at all.

Johnny is not dumb, though. On the contrary, he’s quite brilliant. Numbers are his gambit, but his brilliance goes relatively unnoticed. He makes a decent wage, goes home to his apartment, pays his bills, and is completely self sufficient. At work, his bosses praise his efforts and accomplishments, but Johnny simply thanks them and goes on his way.

One might assume Johnny is depressed, sad, or embodies a certain melancholy internal monologue. They would be wrong. Johnny is content, but happy might be too strong a word for how he feels. Sadness, too strong a word as it presumes a level of self awareness and ego that Johnny simply either possesses and rejects, or does not have.

Johnny’s dress is plain. White button down shirt and black pants comprise his daily couture, but ties are out of the question. They would say too much about his personality, and as we have observed, he has little in that department. His shoes are a gift from his mother. Every year he receives a new pair of black dress shoes and white tennis shoes in the mail, brown paper packaging, clear tape, and simple printed writing - even that is boring. Some might claim it's a family trait, but we’d never know since Johnny doesn’t talk about his family. That might be too interesting, and Johnny seems to have a reputation to uphold, intentional or not.

Johnny doesn’t have a beauty mark, a facial scar, a gap in his teeth, balding hair, or even a lazy eye. No gangly or pompous gait, no shifty or sleepy eyes, no smile or frown or any disposition that might make Johnny more recognizable and separate from other people. Johnny isn’t jacked or thin, maybe a little bit pudgy around the midsection, but that seems to be par for the course in the world we all seem to traverse. Hair parted on the right, no glasses to speak of (but if he did, they’d be indistinguishable from any other ordinary pair.) Johnny couldn’t look more ordinary if he tried, and trying seems to by counter to his m.o. 

Johnny speaks when spoken to, but never initiates conversation unless out of necessity. There was this one time when we needed to take the train to the capital city and the woman at the ticket booth was so engaged with his book that she didn’t notice us. I had gone to the bathroom and Johnny was purchasing his ticket (no need to do it together…) Johnny wouldn’t create an awkward situation by standing in line silently, so he said, “Excuse me ma’am,” and proceeded to purchase his ticket. Thinking about it now, Johnny has no accent to speak of. His language is perfect, almost as if he were a dictionary unto himself. I suppose I never really noticed considering not having an accent would ingratiate him in too interesting a way with the tribe he shared it with.

As mentioned before, Johnny might be boring, but his life at times is anything but. Johnny’s might work as a complacent employee for a financial firm, but that firm was at the heart of a major investment scandal a few years ago. Johnny’s role at the company during that time is unknown to me, but his testimony at the trial that seemed to exonerate him as just another cog in the great financial machine. The fate of Johnny’s bosses was a different story, as most either secluded themselves within their families estates, or committed suicide. Even some of Johnny’s coworkers found themselves at the bottom of a well, but Johnny stayed above water, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem of the fallout that surrounded him.

Johnny also needed to pick up some amenities out of town one day last year so he asked for a ride, which of course he offered to financially compensate me for. The beginning of the trip was relatively uneventful, the car ride being silent, but not too awkward. That is until we were sideswiped by another vehicle and careened off the side of the road. The damage to the car was completely on Johnny’s side, but he emerged unscathed and when I came to, he was on the phone with the police giving directions to the crash site and a dreadfully monotonous account of what happened. He repeated that story to the police four times to four different officers without a hint of annoyance. I’m pretty sure every detail was given in the exact way every time. I remember that day vividly and still don’t know how he came away without injury. I passed out hitting my head on the driver-side window getting a mild concussion and a nice scar along the side of my head. It makes for a good opener at dinner parties.

Now that I think about it, Johnny has no friends. I might be the closest thing Johnny has to a friend, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t see it that way. I’d wager he sees me as more of a convenience than a friend. That’s ok thought, because Johnny never uses me as a means to his ends. His ends don’t really exist. Johnny lives his life day by day, he has no real goals, at least none that he speaks of or eludes to in his mannerisms or decisions. He has immediate needs, but no long term ones.

Speaking of needs, Johnny must have no real emotional or romantic needs to speak of. I’ve never seen him with a boyfriend or girlfriend, no brothers or sisters, and I’ve never seen him talk to or meet with his mother. I’m unsure if his father exists, but if he does he’s likely to hold a similar standing to Johnny’s mother. I’m not sure the people in our housing complex would ever see Johnny on the regular unless they traverse our halls and lobby during the six minutes it takes for him to get from the public transit port to his room. I just happen to be someone who shares a somewhat similar commuting schedule as we work comparable days and hours in the same building, but for different companies.

There was this one time when I came home early from work with a friend to see Johnny coming in from the transit block, groceries in hand. It’s good to know that Johnny eats, though I’ve never seen him do so. The groceries were as simple as one would expect from our boring Johnny. Rice, bread, cheese, eggs, lettuce, and a variety of other simple to prepare and consume foods. No condiments, sauces, seasonings, or exotic fruits, meats or vegetables to speak of.

Per usual, I introduced my friend to Johnny who placed his bags down and extended a hand to shake. He gave a simple nod, picked up his bags, and went on his way. Before reaching the elevator the door to the staircase busted open, a tall, heavy masked man knocked Johnny over, spilling the contents of his groceries on the floor. Clearly attempting to escape some criminal high jinks, the big man ran down the hallway and stopped short before realizing he was faced with a dead end. He quickly turned around and ran back in Johnny’s direction. Johnny’s expression, never changing from mute observation, simply stepped towards the wall to make way for the intruder’s escape. The man glowered at me to do the same and came storming down the hallway, eyes glaring through me and focused on the doors to the outside behind me. Just as he passed Johnny, his feet shot out from underneath him, slipping on Johnny’s store bought eggs which had splattered on the hallway floor. The big man’s head audibly cracked on the ground bouncing a few times in quick succession, and as I looked up, there was Johnny, on the phone with the authorities explaining the situation in his calm detached demeanor.

These are only a few of the extraordinary events that have circled the life of boring Johnny. He’s been hostage in a bank robbery and emerged with everyone unscathed, been stranded on a broken down bus in the middle of a blizzard finding himself trapped for four days without food or water, crash landed in an airplane in the middle of the ocean to be picked up by pirates and sold into human slavery only to be rescued by accident by authorities breaking up a crime syndicate. He found his way to the top of a building during a fire and was airlifted to safety by a random heli pilot who happened to be his cousin, wrote a financial report that has been used in court cases as a philosophical precedent to redistribute wealth, and even chanced upon a presidential inauguration while taking a walk during a business trip to the capital. That last one landed him on television, but I doubt he’s ever seen it, or cared. Come to think of it, I’m not sure he owns a television at all.

Maybe Johnny isn’t that ordinary. Or, rather, maybe it’s his boring, ordinary nature that sets him apart from everyone else. No one is like Johnny. Everyone tries to find a label or persona that they can fit into. A group to identify with. Sometimes people choose more than one, but it’s the ordinary they run from. They think the bland will make them irrelevant. The simple won’t garner attention. People don’t like that. Attention gives their lives meaning, but Johnny seems to see no value in it. Maybe he derives value elsewhere. Maybe his purpose is somewhere else, with someone else. It’s hard to say.

Johnny doesn’t want to be seen but doesn’t hide from people. He doesn’t revel in attention, but seems to plan to avoid it. Maybe Johnny actually sticks out like a sore thumb. Maybe his purpose is to show us how the attempts to focus the spotlight on ourselves doesn’t require the “scream-from-the-rafters” approach that everyone seems to embody. Maybe Johnny is the antithesis of societal norms. Maybe it’s his way of being the same as us, fighting against the grain of individuality and embracing the solemnity of antiquated conformity, but I might be reading too much into Johnny. Sounds like bullshit now that I say it.

If Johnny didn’t have fingerprints, it would NOT surprise me. I haven’t measured it, but I bet his shoe size is your average ten and a half. I’ve never seen him go to the barbers, so maybe he cuts it himself. If he had a tattoo it would probably be some sort of simple thing. One that commemorated a loved one, but that seems too risque even for good ole’ Johnny.

I’ve been his neighbor for the past ten years and I’ve aged. My skin is looser around the neck and I’ve put on some weight. My clothes are worn down more that I’d like to admit, but I keep up appearances. I’m pretty sure Johnny looks exactly the same as when I first moved in. Might have been almost two whole years before I even knew who he was. No one talked about him. It was like he was invisible. No gossip. Nothing. Just Johnny. Boring Johnny.

You’re right to suspect something amiss though. He’s never gone missing. The same routine. Day after day. Am I the only one you’re talking to about this?

No family or friends to speak of. You’re it.

What was it like? I never got to see.

The crime scene in his apartment is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’ll save you the details, but in thirty years on the force I’ve been able to forget much of the horror this job has shown me... I won’t, or rather can’t seem to forget Johnny’s apartment.

It’s that bad?

Yes, son, it’s that bad.

...poor Johnny. Did you find his body?

We’ll never know. The bodies weren’t human.

Author's Note

Feel free to comment. It's a very early entry - 1st draft - likely a final draft.