Ro Erg

  By

  Robert Weinberg

  The clock in the hallway was striking eight o'clock as Ronald Rosenberg opened

  the door to his house. With a wan smile he nodded to himself. On time as usual.

  Slowly, he removed his coat and hat, unwound the wool scarf from his neck, and

  hung them up neatly in the nearby closet. By then his wife Marge's voice was drifting

  out of the kitchen.

  "Is that you, honey?" she asked. Always the same question, night after night,

  month after month, year after year. Asked without thinking, without considering the

  foolishness of the remark. As if a burglar might answer otherwise. It was part of their

  daily routine. Their unchanging, uninspiring, dull, and predictable life together. "Yes,

  dear," he said, mentally sighing, "it's me." Once, just once, he wanted to say, "No,

  it's a fuckin' crook, come to steal your money and smash your skull, you dumb

  bitch." But he knew better. The harsh words would upset Marge, and then he'd be

  forced to spend the entire evening apologizing, repeating over and over again how he

  shouldn't make such cruel remarks. Listening to her tell him how hard she slaved

  keeping his life running smoothly and how he didn't appreciate her efforts.

  Experience had taught him to keep such errant thoughts to himself.

  "Dinner will be ready in five minutes," Marge called. "It's one of your favorites,

  beef stew and potatoes."

  Ron nodded, a resigned expression on his face. Thursday was always beef stew

  night. Just like Tuesday was always spaghetti and Friday was always chicken. Marge

  did everything strictly by routine. Organization was her life. Once she settled on a

  menu, she stuck to it for months at a time. The only variety in their meals was

  Sunday, when they went out for dinner. And even then, no matter what restaurant

  they visited, Marge consistently ordered the roast turkey dinner. With dressing,

  sweet potatoes, and salad. One glass of white wine. And apple pie for dessert.

  Everything in Marge's life was planned, programmed, and perfect. She knew what

  she liked and how she liked it. Deviation from the norm was wrong, observing a

  schedule was right. Even their sex life was governed by a complicated series of rules

  and regulations, designed, Ron was secretly convinced, to make sure he did not

  receive more than a moment's worth of satisfaction from the act. More than once he

  had asked himself if he had married a woman or a robot.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, he picked up the mail Marge had left on the lamp

  table in the hall. As per usual, she had sliced open all the letters but then placed them

  there for him to sort through. The mail was his job. Business for men, household

  duties for women. Marge was definitely not a feminist.

  Most of the letters—advertisements, junk mail, and sincerely worded pleas asking

  for donations to one charity or another—went into the nearby garbage can. A short

  note from his brother complaining about his latest money problems Ron read twice,

  frowning as he did so. Chris was an inept businessman and a spendthrift. That he

  was in a deep financial hole was no surprise. That he also expected Ron to help him

  out of the jam was equally no surprise. Ron tucked the letter in his shirt pocket,

  vowing to call his brother after dinner.

  The gas bill and electric bill followed into the same pocket. They would go on his

  dresser, to be paid tomorrow morning. Though Ron hated to admit it, in many ways

  he was just as much a creature of habit and routine as his wife.

  One letter remained. He looked at it curiously. It was from a credit card company.

  Something about receiving a new charge card without having to do anything more

  than sign the enclosed application. Ron already had Visa and MasterCard and

  American Express. He saw no reason for another piece of plastic. Why would they

  even bother to ask?

  Searching the front of the envelope for an explanation, he noted in annoyance that

  the application wasn't even addressed to him. It was for a Mr. RO ERG. His eyes

  narrowed as he stared at the letter. The address was right. It was his. But the name

  was definitely wrong. No one named RO ERG lived in this house. Then, in a sudden

  flash of insight, he understood.

  He was RO ERG. The computer at the credit card company offices had

  somehow taken the front two letters of his first name and final three letters of his last

  name to form this new person. Quite out of character, he grinned. The name RO

  ERG had a certain wild, untamed ring to it. He liked it. He liked it a lot. Uncertain of

  exactly why, Ron Rosenberg slipped the application to Ro Erg into his pocket

  behind the bills.

  "Dinner's ready," declared his wife, interrupting his wandering thoughts. "Come

  and get it while it's hot."

  The form remained untouched the rest of the evening. Until, late at night, when

  Marge's steady, deep breathing indicated she was fast asleep. Quietly, Ron slipped

  out of their bed. Not that it mattered. He was the one who was a light sleeper. A

  million minor annoyances and worries kept him awake for hours. Marge dismissed

  as unimportant anything that wasn't an immediate threat. An earthquake wouldn't

  disturb her slumber.

  Sitting in the bathroom, Ron carefully opened the envelope and studied the

  application within. It was exactly as he had suspected. The request was a mail-merge

  letter, generated by an unthinking computer program. In three different places he was

  referred to as "Mr. Erg." Ron found the missive unintentionally hilarious when they

  commended Ro Erg on his outstanding credit record. Though he prided himself on

  never retaining a balance on any of his charge cards, Ron had never expected his

  frugality would entitle an imaginary entity to a $10,000 line of credit.

  "Ten thousand bucks," he whispered aloud, the numbers suddenly dancing

  through his head. That was a lot of money, a real lot of money. He closed his eyes,

  feeling strange. Feeling… excited. "Ten thousand bucks."

  Ron was extremely cautious with his finances. After all, he had to support his

  wife, pay the mortgage on their house, and make the payments on their two cars. As

  well as save for the future. There usually wasn't much money left from his paycheck

  at the end of the month. Not that Marge believed in going out on the town anyway.

  Renting a movie on videotape was her notion of an exciting evening.

  His face burning with suppressed excitement, Ron headed for the kitchen. All his

  life he had done what was right, what was proper. Now, for a change, he could do

  something crazy and no one else would know. The plastic card meant nothing. He

  would never use it. But just sending away for it was a small but still important act of

  rebellion. That was what mattered.

  Grabbing a magnetic pen off the refrigerator, Ron scribbled "Ro Erg" on the

  signature line of the document. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he placed

  the acceptance card into the postage-paid envelope and put it with the rest of the

  mail.

  "Can't do any harm," he murmured to himself as he settled back into bed. "I'm

  just sending it in to see if they're stupid enough to follow through with the offer.

  That's the reason. The only reason."

  And though he continued to whisper that line until he finally drifted off into

  slumber, deep inside he knew all the while he was lying.

  The card arrived two weeks later. It came complete with a ten-thousand-dollar

  credit limit and a promise of a PIN number to follow within a few days so that he

  could draw cash advances from ATMs. Casually, Ron tucked the charge card in his

  wallet and hid the page of terms beneath a stack of old bills in his files. He had never

  considered the possibility of a PIN number. And cash advances. Suddenly, his

  minor act of rebellion took on a whole new life of its own.

  The identification number came three days later. Three long days, one of which

  made infinitely longer by his brother's monthly visit. Tall and handsome, with broad

  shoulders and a winning smile, Chris always made Ron extremely uncomfortable

  when he was around. His sibling was everything that Ron was not. Chris was wild

  and carefree and extremely charming. He was also as dumb as a rock and proud of

  it.

  Chris treated money as something to be spent as quickly as possible. It was an

  attitude that drove Ron crazy. Though they were brothers, Ron found his brother

  insufferable.

  Annoyingly enough, Marge thought Chris was cute and only needed some time to

  "mature." It was Marge who continually insisted that Ron lend Chris money—money

  that disappeared without a trace a nd never a word about repayment. His wife, Ron

  had concluded long ago, was an easy mark.

  Fortunately, Chris always arrived in the afternoon when Ron was still at work and

  departed right after dinner. Taking along with him another $100 of his brother's

  hard-earned cash.

  "Damned bloodsucker," said Ron as his brother drove off in a much nicer car

  than the one Ron owned.

  "Ronald," said Marge, her voice sharp. "He's your brother. Give Chris a chance.

  Be patient. I'm sure he'll pay you back someday."

  Sure. When hell freezes over, thought Ron. But he knew better than to say the

  words aloud. That would only start them arguing. Ron hated fights. They gave

  Marge headaches and then they didn't have sex that night. And to Ron sex was one

  of the few things that made life bearable.

  All was quickly forgotten the next night when Ron found the latest letter

  addressed to RO ERG waiting for him in the evening mail. Ripping open the

  envelope, he quickly scanned the enclosed letter and accompanying card. It was his

  Personal Identification Number and instructions for its use.

  He chuckled with a combination of joy and relief. His brothers visit had been the

  final straw. There was a limit to how much badgering he could take. Before, RO

  ERG had been nothing more than a test of the credit card company's intelligence.

  The PIN card put a whole new spin on the game. For once Ron could outdo Chris

  at his own game. And he intended to do exactly that.

  "Good news, honey?" asked Marge from the kitchen.

  "Yes, dear," answered Ron, "very good news."

  The next afternoon, he called Marge and sadly informed her that he would be late

  for dinner. Extra work at the office, he explained, that had to be cleared up before he

  could leave for home. Ron was confident his wife wouldn't suspect a thing. In the

  past he often had stayed late at work. There was no reason she would suspect today

  it wasn't the truth. She didn't.

  Informing his supervisor he needed the afternoon off to visit a friend in the

  hospital, Ron headed straight for the nearest cash station. Nervously, he inserted the

  RO ERG card and punched in the correct numbers for a thousand-dollar cash

  advance. The entire transaction took less than a minute. Feeling slightly dazed, Ron

  stumbled away from the ATM with ten hundred-dollar bills crammed into his

  pockets.

  "A thousand smackers," he muttered to himself, walking down the street. "All

  mine, just by pushing some buttons!"

  It was then that he had his first revelation about modern life. Society no longer

  cared about your background. People moved from one location to another so often

  that no one had real roots in their community. Relatives, schools, old friends, meant

  nothing. You were no longer defined by your past. Instead, the only thing that really

  mattered was the name of your credit cards. Those little pieces of plastic provided

  you with all the history you needed.

  Dozens of people at work and in his neighborhood knew him as Ron Rosenberg.

  But the bank teller processing his charge receipt, the credit card employee handling

  his account, the postal worker sorting the mail, they knew him as Ro Erg. He was no

  longer merely one person. He was two separate entities sharing the same body—Ron

  Rosenberg and Ro Erg.

  Shaken by his new grasp of reality, Ron tried to focus his thoughts on more

  immediate concerns. He had to consider what to do with the cash. If he brought the

  money home, Marge was sure to discover it. And thus learn about Ro Erg.

  Ron couldn't let that happen. Ro Erg was his secret. And he meant to keep it that

  way. Anxiously, he hailed a cab. He needed a drink. But not in this neighborhood,

  close to his office where someone he knew might spot him.

  "Take me to the airport," he commanded the cabdriver, his voice shaking slightly.

  "There's a bar up there. I forget the name. You know the one I mean. It's a quiet

  place. Where a guy can get a drink and be alone with his thoughts."

  "Sure, buddy," said the cabbie with a laugh. "I know the place. Max's joint.

  Right?"

  "Right," said Ron, settling back in the seat. "That's the one."

  Max's place was The Red Garter and it was a dump. Dimly lit, with a dozen

  wooden booths hugging the far wall, its only saving grace was that it lacked a

  jukebox. Except for an old man whispering to a much younger woman at the end of

  the bar, there were no other customers. It was exactly the type of place Ron wanted.

  "Scotch, on the rocks," he told the lone bartender. "Make it a double."

  Without thinking, Ron paid for the drink with a crumpled hundred pulled out of

  his pocket. The bartender stared at the bill for a moment, then with a loud cough and

  a shrug of his shoulders made change. It was as if he was trying to attract someone's

  attention to the money.

  Lost in his thoughts about the meaning of identity, Ron hardly noticed when, a

  few minutes later, the old man at the end of the bar half fell off his chair and

  staggered out of the tavern, muttering obscenities the whole time under his breath.

  Nor did he give much thought to the man's female companion. Until she sat down in

  the chair next to him.

  "Buy a girl a drink?" she asked in a soft voice.

  "Sure," he said with a shrug. The scotch had made him somewhat dizzy and a

  little light-headed. "Whatever you want."

  "Gin," said the woman to the bartender. "Straight up."

  "Another scotch for me," said Ron, gesturing to the cash still on the bar. "Take it

  out of there."

  "My name's Ginger," said the woman, sipping her drink. "What's yours?"

  Suspiciously, Ron turned and stared at the woman. There was little question as to

  her profession. Ginger was dressed in a tight red dress that left nothing to the

  imagination. She wore black fishnet stockings and a pair of high-heeled black boots.

  The edge of her dress had ridden up to nearly the top of her thighs, but she made no

  effort to pull it down.

  Her face was fairly attractive, though too much lipstick, blush, and eyeliner made

  her look cheap. And nothing could hide the hardness in her eyes.

  Ron Rosenberg would have told her to stop bothering him. He was a married man

  and had no time for hookers. Ron never took chances, especially with women like

  Ginger. But it wasn't Ron who answered.

  "I'm Ro," he said hesitantly. "Ro Erg."

  "Glad to meet you, Ro," Ginger giggled, trying to sound seductive but not

  succeeding. She accepted his name without question. "You look lonely. Need

  somebody to talk to?"

  "I'm trying to…" began Ron, then paused, his words catching in his throat.

  Holding her drink in her right hand, Ginger had casually reached over with her left

  and placed it directly on his thigh. Smiling, she winked and gently squeezed her

  fingers.

  Ron Rosenberg would have been panic-stricken. Aggressive women frightened

  him. But Ginger's hand wasn't resting on Ron's leg. Desperately, he clung to that

  thought. To the hooker he was Ro, not Ron. Ro Erg.

  "My, my," she murmured a few seconds later as her wandering fingers

  encountered his growing erection, "you are a big one. How about if we retire to one

  of the booths in the back. We can enjoy our conversation without interruption back

  there."

  Licking his lips, Ro nodded. He knew he was acting crazy, but he didn't care.

  Besides, no one would ever know. This wasn't happening to Ron Rosenberg. He

  was Ro Erg.

  Leaving a five for the bartender, Ro scooped up the rest of the money and

  followed Ginger to the farthest booth. She gestured him in, so their backs were to

  the bar. "Nobody can see a thing from here," she whispered, sliding in next to him.

  "We're completely alone."

  "But—but," protested Ron, a measure of sanity emerging from his befuddled

  brain, "the two of us are right out in the open. The bartender could come back here

  at any time."

  "Harry?" laughed Ginger. "He knows what's going on. And he'll get his cut."

 

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