Damien Galeone

The prank call seemed like such a good idea at the time.

But then, so does almost anything when you’re sixteen years old and being mischievous. I was playing the part of Ron Rivera, mild-mannered Toyota salesman. Mr. Schorpp, a neighbor who was having a problem with his newly bought Toyota, was on the other line eating up my apologies and phony offers of compensation. I offered full remuneration and cocktails and dinner with us and “the wives.” In hindsight, Mr. Schorpp must have thought it odd when Ron Rivera offered a night out at the movies. But I was sixteen, and that seemed like a perfect way to make up for a faulty gas gauge.

Making the situation more illicit was the fact that I was standing in the Schorpp’s kitchen and Mrs. Schorrp was chuckling away in the corner. She had been the instigator of the joke, though Mr. Schorpp would never believe this line of defence.

As my lark continued, something began to dawn on me with growing horror – Oh my God, it’s working.The Schorpps were my second family when I was growing up. Eddie was my best friend and partner in crime and Mrs. Schorpp served me my second dinner every night – I now partially thank her for my current Hobbit-like habits and physique. Mr. Schorpp was my baseball coach and the only man in the world capable of being more intimidating than Bigfoot and Nosferatu combined, so when he was hooked like a fish onto my prank, I knew there’d be hell to pay. When it all ended I hung up the phone, sweating. The Schorpp’s kitchen phone rang almost instantly, as no doubt Mr. Schorpp wanted to tell his wife about his very odd conversation. Mrs. Schorpp answered it, giggling like an intoxicated hyena.

With all the counter-intelligence instincts of a McDonald’s Big Mac, she burst into laughter and sold me out in under three seconds. So much for that.

This was twenty years ago and my first – and only – successful prank call to date. Still, the damage had been done, and Ron Rivera has since then been my Langhorne alter ego. When I come home from anywhere – college, Prague or travelling, the Schorpps ask me how Ron is doing.

“Good,” I’ll say, he’s been travelling around Italy this year. I think he’s going to Korea next year for a month.”

As alter egos go, Ron Rivera, Toyota salesman in Langhorne, PA, isn’t as exciting as say Superman, Batman or Robin Williams. The one and only photo I have seen of the man perfectly portrayed a man named Ron Rivera, Toyota salesman in Langhorne, PA.

When I saw the Schorpps last week, we talked in detail about Ron’s latest adventures. Since then, I’ve been thinking about Ron and his total ignorance of how much discussion he’s been involved in over the last twenty years. He’s been on grand adventures, has travelled around The Middle East and India, driven around Ireland and Italy.

Ron’s having a hell of a time out there.

This thought made me depressed and paranoid – depressed because I wondered if Ron’s alter ego, me, is having more fun as him than he is. Paranoid at the thought that perhaps all of our alter egos are out there having a hell of a lot more fun than we are.

My alter ego probably has two girlfriends – mine and his. He probably has an exciting job – bush pilot, snake charmer or pizza man. Maybe he’s a glove model, the son of a bitch.

If he is tall, I am going to kill him.

Maybe I’ll call Ron while I’m in Langhorne and fill him in on our twenty year, one-sided history. Then I’ll invite him to use my name as his alter ego for the next twenty years. It seems only fair.

Who knows, he’d probably hate being me.

Who is your alter ego?