Exceptional Person
Julie Joy was already running late when she pulled into the drugstore just outside of Venture Forth, the True Community where she moved two weeks ago. Venture Forth boasted a pool bar, a bocce court, and 24/7 security at the gated entrance. “We keep the right people in,” read one advertisement. She hoped that living in a family development would inspire a family of her own, that her endorsement of appropriate values would yield results without her having to go on another blind date, that from now on she would only meet suitors through mutual friends, that is, once she made friends.
She stayed in her Lexus, thinking about her life, watching with some jealousy as other people went into the drugstore, how simple it was for them, the act of moving one’s own body. But Julie Joy’s body didn’t move like that. Julie Joy’s body, more specifically her mind, was like a movie trailer that only played going attractions, that dramatized flashbacks, that tortured her present with her past.
Like the day she got her keys to the house at Venture Forth.
She no sooner carried herself over the threshold, which she achieved through a courageous act of hug-leaping, than her phone pinged and she learned via terse email that she had lost her job.
With the termination came the crushing blow that her life lacked value, meaning, and purpose. Her thoughts became a vision board in reverse: you have no value, you have no meaning, you have no purpose, a morning mantra that would defeat even the most mindful thinker.
“Think positive, think positive,” she corrected herself, as she did everything but smear lipstick slurs on her bathroom mirror (which was, she learned the first time, a pain to clean and therefore not worth it).
Positive? She lost the only thing in her life that mattered.
Okay, positive, positive. Well, she didn’t have to mourn the loss of her work friends, because she realized she didn’t have any work friends.
Now, in the two weeks since, she was trying to make her extended family, particularly her Great Aunt Sue (GAS) into something more, which was how she snagged today’s invite. Really, she begged for it, pleading with Charmaine, GAS’s best friend, a leather-skinned lesbian with purple hair.
“Don’t be late or I’ll kill you,” Charmaine had warned. “Everything has to be perfect today.”
Julie’s mind was a jumble of desperate jibes and negative thinking and also the more prescient “maybe I think about myself too much” when the passenger side door flew open and a man with a gun jumped inside the car.
No, life hadn’t been going well for Julie Joy.
“Drive, bitch,” he said.
Except Julie Joy didn’t drive. She sat in the parking lot and screamed.
“Cut that out,” he said.
Her scream politely subsided.
“It’s just that nothing ever happens to me,” she blurted, more to herself, more to her scrambling mind than to the assailant in the passenger seat. “Usually these are my dreading hours, which is really any time from 11:45 in the morning until 6:30, which is a good enough time for wine, don’t you think? Oh but you’re too young for wine.”
“I said drive the fucking car.”
“Usually I ask myself, ‘Have I reached my daily limit before I even get to my dreading hours, this is during my productive period: 9 to 9:15.”
Still, she had not left the parking lot.
“I’m always begging for something extraordinary to happen. Like what if a tsunami obliterates my house? No, sorry, I meant home. I’m trying to break the habit of saying house. So crass. A house could be anywhere. A home is Venture Forth. That’s what they say. Have you seen the advertisements? Of course you have, although I’ll tell you it’s mortgaged to the gods, to some gods anyway, just not necessarily my god, which I’m not sure I have anymore.”
“Listen, you fucking psycho.”
“Sometimes I beg for the sky to blow everyone away, for the universe to simply crumble, but I don’t want you thinking I support shootings or acts of terror because I don’t. And I only have the one gun, for emergencies, which is useless to me right about now, don’t you think?”
“Please drive… bitch,” he said again, somewhat exasperated.
The thoughts poured out of her mouth, and she seemed powerless to stop them. But she had such an abundance of thoughts, none of them good, like what would happen if a TikTok video got too many likes, would the world eventually blow up?
It would not have bothered Julie Joy if TikTok caused the end of the world in a non-existential way.
Julie spent most of her time trying to put her overactive thoughts in little boxes that her therapist recommended, the therapist she stopped seeing because she was mean sometimes, and because Julie didn’t really believe in therapy so much as she believed in therapy podcasts, which were less judgmental. But she had also heard talk of these little boxes on a podcast, so she took the advice of her therapist, knowing that the little exercise, the little madness troubleshoot, had been vetted by higher authorities.
Unfortunately, putting all her thoughts in little thought boxes made Julie consistently late, which she was when she pulled into the drugstore, her life finally about to happen to her.
She needed to get a birthday card for GAS, a somewhat doomed task, as GAS looked down on drugstore cards, calling them “the dividend of distracted, lazy minds.” But Julie Joy, thirty-four-something Julie Joy, her hair curls of chaos, her bathing suit scratching underneath her jean shorts, accepted, not only the untimely veracity of her aunt’s words, but also the reality that a generic, lazy store-bought something was better than showing up to the party boat empty handed, the party boat where GAS was celebrating her 85th.
“I will kill you if you don’t start this car,” he said.
“You must be no more than twenty-one,” she said.
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“And such a short king,” said Julie, who, immediately embarrassed, added, “Sorry I’m trying that on.”
He gestured with the Glock to the ignition, waiting for her to turn the car back on. But she did not turn the car back on.
She said, “Aren’t you too young for this?”
“So I’m gonna blow your brains out.”
“I can’t tell if it’s better for me if you’re younger,” she said.
“Like you have a fucking choice.”
“I’m just thinking about how I’ll sound when I tell this story later,” she said.
“If I let you live,” he said.
“I’m going to be the best victim,” she half-whispered.
He groaned. “Then drive the fucking car.”
Julie Joy wanted to establish sympathy immediately, so she said, “It’s my Great Aunt Sue’s birthday.
He put the gun to her head.
“One more word,” he said.
“I just want to make this as streamlined as possible!”
“Drive the fucking car.”
“But where to? Have you really thought about this? I’ve never been kidnapped before, but it’s definitely something I’ve thought about, haven’t you?”
“I’m not fucking kidnapping you.”
“Do you have to swear so much?”
“It gives me time to think.”
Then Julie Joy said, “I suppose that adds authenticity to the experience,” and he fired a warning shot.
* * *
They had been on the road for twenty minutes, Julie’s hair blowing in the wind coming from the shot-out window, the AC humming uselessly in the hot air.
“Where am I driving to?”
The young man pouted, rubbing his deafened ears.
“I thought you would have gotten out,” he said.
“But you told me to drive.”
“Usually they freak, get out, run.”
“You’ve done this before?” asked Julie, disappointed-like.
She wanted to be his first.
But she was different, she didn’t get out, she was —
“So I’m special,” said Julie Joy.
“Sure.”
Julie Joy looked at the cars as they passed, looked inside shop windows, at people on front patios. There was so much life happening around her, but none of them knew, not yet anyway, that what was happening to her was more spectacular than what was happening to them. Not that she was bragging.
“I knew today was going to be special, and not just because it’s Great Aunt Sue’s birthday.”
“You’re obsessed or something.”
“I just want her to like me,” said Julie. “You’re supposed to get your family to like you.”
“Meh.”
She pushed her hair back, she paused, she took a breath, then said, “Everything I do is pathetic to her. My whole life is a joke.”
The young man held up his gun.
“Pull the fuck over.”
“Where?”
“There. Now.”
She pulled into a parking complex for adult karate, a Mexican restaurant called Mexican Restaurant #3, and Java Jimbo’s Jolly Coffee.
Julie was terrified he would chuck her out of the car before she had the opportunity for a high-speed police chase, before the threat of death could be captured by the local news, or fingers crossed, the national affiliate.
“You need to have some respect for yourself,” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
“I literally am. You want a coffee?”
“I’m trying not to drink coffee..”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Maybe an iced tea.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Do you need some money?” asked Julie.
“Yeah, sure.”
“What’s your name?”
He looked at her for a moment, deciding if he wanted to tell her or kill her, then accepting that someone this desperate deserved at least his real name, said, “Dennis.”
“Dennis,” savored Julie as he went inside Java Jimbo’s with her wallet.
* * *
By the time Julie Joy and her short king arrived at the party boat, GAS was drunk, and not just drunk: she was caftan drunk (“It’s different,” Julie told Dennis).
“There’s my wet blanket,” called GAS. She waved jubilantly and long, also she was livid, as the crowd of partygoers glared at Julie, caftans blowing in the wind, everyone standing before the large boat in bedazzled wedge sandals, waiting to set sail.
Julie recognized Charmaine in the crowd, glaring the loudest, drawing a single finger across her throat.
“We almost left you,” said Great Aunt Sue. “There was a vote.”
“Hi Sue, sorry we’re so late,” said Julie. She desperately wanted to know the vote’s final count, but was too afraid to ask.
GAS hugged Julie rough and uncomfortably.
“Happy Birthday!” Julie said.
She had to hold back the million details she wanted to share with GAS: the unsuspecting drugstore, the armed assailant standing right behind her, the unlikely love story between a kidnapper and the woman he stole.
But she promised not to say any of that.
“And I’ll let you escape with your life,” Dennis had said.
“Oh my god,” Julie responded, full smile.
“I knew you’d like that. But seriously, don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“And who do we have here?” asked GAS.
“Yo, I’m Dennis. HBD.”
“Salutations, my little prince.”
Dennis, who was not that short, grimaced.
“And how long have you been…?” GAS waited.
“Three months,” said Dennis. “We’re getting serious.”
Julie risked a kiss, which was something she felt the perfect victim would do.
He let her.
She pulled away first. He lingered.
“You lingered,” said Julie Joy.
“Let’s board,” said GAS. “We can finally leave now, and I’m too sober for your happiness.”
That was when the men in balaclavas appeared, touting automatic pistols and saying somewhat in unison, “Everybody down on the ground now.”
They fired into the sky as Julie, Dennis, and a dozen caftan-clad women fell to their knees on the hard docks. All except one woman, tall with purple hair, wearing leopard print.
“Charmaine, get down!!!!” GAS yelled.
“Well, well, well,” said Charmaine as she stepped forward. “On the ground where you belong.”
Julie Joy whispered to Dennis, “Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Fuck no,” said Dennis. He kept his head down.
The men in balaclavas flanked either side of Charmaine.
“Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt,” she said.
“I’m a bit uncomfortable on the docks here,” said Julie Joy.
“Shut the fuck up,” whispered Dennis.
“It’s the bathing suit fabric,” Julie Joy explained to Charmaine. “I hate bathing suits, probably because I’m never invited to the beach, so I’ve never gotten used to them.”
Charmaine held out a hand, and GAS took it.
“Get up,” said Charmaine. “I’m straining my neck to look at you.”
She helped GAS to her feet, the two women sizing each other up as a nothing breeze blew whispers on their necks. The sun was bright; the day objectively perfect. Every angle was the stunning backdrop to a future grid post. The presents were stacked at the end of the dock, a mixture of gag and gallows humor. The boat even glistened in the sun. In fact, everyone glistened a little.
Charmaine said to GAS, “You always knew this day would come.”
That was when Julie Joy stood up.
“It’s my fault we’re in this mess,” she said. “Take me instead. Do your worst.”
“So we’ve got ourselves a hero,” said Charmaine.
“I guess you could say that,” said Julie Joy.
“Fucking hell,” said Dennis.
Julie Joy was unsteady on her feet, her hands raised in the air, her manner imploring.
“I recently lost my job, and it’s been one misfortune after another,” said Julie Joy. Then: “I don’t say this to get your pity.”
“You didn’t,” said Charmaine.
Julie Joy continued, “My bank account has been hacked so many times they’ve banned me from having a debit card.”
“Pathetic,” hissed Dennis.
“I’m the only person I know who’s had her identity stolen then given back. Sorry, a little deprecating humor for you. But yes, they did steal my identity. Twice.”
“We talked about this,” said Dennis.
“Is he your life coach?” asked Charmaine.
“My kidnapper.”
“And on my birthday,” said GAS, spitting at Dennis. “Fucking one uppers everywhere you look.”
“Is this true?” Charmaine asked Dennis.
“Oh, it’s true,” said Julie Joy, kneeling down, slapping Dennis on the back.
But she didn’t just slap him on the back the one time. She slapped him with a playful exuberance three or even four times as Charmaine and her men looked on, bored. That was when Julie stood, standing tall and proud, holding Dennis’s gun in the air. She started firing.
No, she wasn’t a good shot, but the men in balaclavas dove out of the way, just in case, right into the warm water below. They swam away as Charmaine watched, ashamed of them.
GAS picked splinters out of her caftan. She moved slowly to Charmaine, who did not quiver.
“If that’s the best you’ve got,” said GAS.
“Look,” said Charmaine, “you’re a rotted old bitch, but you don’t look a day over 69.”
The two women hugged.
“We’ve been through too much to let things bother us now,” said GAS.
“Your great niece is a psycho, huh?”
“I didn’t know she had it in her.”
“Give me my gun back,” Dennis said to Julie Joy.
“That was freaking awesome,” she said.
And whether it was from the caftans on the dock or a product of her mind, Julie didn’t know for sure, just that she could hear applause.
* * *
Julie Joy was the hero of the party boat. She and Dennis and the caftans danced well into the night (after Julie secretly paid the captain to extend the voyage). Dennis even let GAS hold his gun. She whispered to Julie Joy that “she better not fuck it up with husband material over here.” There was talk of guns and balaclavas, of death, joy, and life’s zany randomness. Julie was asked to reenact her star turn for the ship’s bartender, the forgetful caftans, and the maintenance staff. She was more than happy to reprise her role when not coming to the defense of Dennis, who had to reassure everyone that he was not a kidnapper.
“I could literally kill you for this,” Dennis said.
“I know,” said Julie proudly. “I know.”
Julie appeared in eighty-three photos that night. She counted.
The party burned glory into Julie’s memory, displacing the unrelenting thought machine’s forever attack on her. The thoughts became powerless wisps of nothing negativity as she entered into what she liked to call her “thrival era.”
If it was a certain fear of her or genuine interest, Julie never knew, but her calendar was henceforth always full.
And Julie and Dennis?
“You need a partner,” she begged, after the boat docked.
“I do not,” he said.
“Someone needs to drop you at the car jackings.”
“Okay, maybe, but we’re not partners.”
“Babe, come on…”
“Sorry,” Dennis said. “That came out wrong.”
He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned away.
“Don’t be like that,” he said.
“Can’t we do crimes together?” she asked.
Months later, they were in bed together at Julie’s place, that three-bedroom paradise in Venture Forth. A floral bedspread, essential oils diffusing everywhere, and central air conditioning. The walls were eggshell white, the bathroom had a steam room.
Dennis leaned over half-eaten breakfast trays to wrap Julie in a hug.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Dennis, “of going straight.”
Julie frowned.
“I thought I knew you,” she said.
“I’ll always be your kidnapper,” he said.
“It is funny when I tell people we met at a drugstore, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely it is.”
“We’d better get dressed,” said Julie. “We don’t want to be late for Sue’s funeral.”
“RIP,” he said.
It wasn’t long before they welcomed home little Susie, for Dennis to start his own security business, and for Julie to host the long-running podcast Exceptional People, produced by the New York Times, where each week she interviewed a regular person, finding out just what made them special.
“Our life is living,” said Julie with a small smile, her thoughts quiet.
“Preach, babe.”
Justin McDevitt is a writer from New York City. His plays Haunt Me and Honey Fitz have been presented Off Broadway for readings and workshop productions. His writing has appeared in Rue Morgue, Fangoria, and the Cobalt Review. Stream his six-part monologue series Severed Heads on Youtube. @justinwritesplays