Random Ronald

A short story by Tobias Malm

My name is Ronald S. Moss. I’m a forty-five-year-old senior accountant working for a large corporation in Washington, D.C. I never had a midlife crisis because my life never really shifted. The years blended together without distinct phases. My hair began falling out right after graduation, and once my internship became a full-time job, I started putting on weight. Before long, I had become a faded version of myself, trapped in a sweaty casual business suit. The saddest part is that I didn’t actually mind. I enjoyed my life. I liked chatting with colleagues in the bistro, which counted as my only social interaction, and I felt comfortable inside my little cubicle. Nobody bothered me, and I didn’t bother anyone else. At home, in my modest apartment in a decent neighborhood, I would usually eat fast food in front of the television before going to bed. It was simple, predictable, and not the sort of life that was going to change. A small part of me kept imagining that I might get in shape or even get married. But after I turned forty, I let go of those daydreams and stopped expecting them to happen.

I didn’t think much of the first strange incident; it barely registered at the time. A young man came up to me while I was eating at Burger King. He looked perfectly ordinary for someone his age, so I didn’t feel threatened.

“Hi,” he said with a kind smile on his face. “Have a nice day!”

Although it was unusual for anyone to do this, particularly toward someone as unremarkable as me, I didn’t mind the gesture and replied, “You too.” He walked past, and I was about to take a bite of my burger when suddenly he leaned in from behind and held his smartphone right in front of my face.

“Just a quick selfie.”

I caught my own startled expression behind my thick glasses on his display, burger frozen halfway to my mouth, while his smiling face appeared beside mine. There was no time to react. He snapped the picture and left with a quick thank you. When I turned around, he was already gone. I brushed it off as some new fad among young people. Maybe it was a meme, maybe a prank, or maybe just one of those things they come up with these days. I carried on with my day as if nothing had happened, and the rest of that month slipped by without another incident.

It wasn’t until a month and a half later, sometime in December, that the next incident occurred. I was at the drive-through, placing my order, when the cashier, a man about my age, suddenly addressed me by name:

“Have a nice day, Ronald!”

I was too taken aback to ask how he knew my name. Instead, I just said thank you and drove off. Later, after turning it over in my mind, I decided we must have crossed paths somewhere, perhaps at university, and I had simply forgotten. Still, I rarely forgot a face; my gut told me I had never seen that man before. The thought unsettled me for the rest of the evening. By the next day, however, it barely crossed my mind.

A few weeks later, around Christmas, I began noticing that people, usually young, were staring at me. At first, I thought maybe I’d spilled something on my shirt or forgotten to zip my pants, but nothing about my appearance was out of the ordinary. I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why they kept looking at me. While buying food at the grocery store, for example, a married couple with a cart in front of them kept following me around—whispering as they watched me pick up a bag of hot dogs. The moment I turned to look back, they quickly shied away and disappeared down another aisle. There was also a rise in strangers wishing me Merry Christmas, some even mysteriously knew my name. These incidents happened often enough to make me question them, yet rarely enough to seem like they might just be coincidences.

It stopped for a while. During that pause, something else happened that shifted my routines. It was our office’s New Year’s Eve party, and as usual at these kinds of ballyhoos, I didn’t enjoy myself much. I wandered around making small talk and wishing people a happy New Year, trying to blend in as I waited for midnight. Once the countdown was over, I could slip out without drawing attention to myself.

Everything went as expected until close to midnight. We had moved up to the roof to watch the fireworks when a woman suddenly appeared and asked me to light her cigarette. I hadn’t seen her before, but that wasn’t surprising; plenty of people had brought friends along. I didn’t have a lighter, since I didn’t smoke, so I told her sorry and suggested she ask someone else. She disappeared, and I assumed that was the last I’d see of her. But a few moments later she returned, her cigarette lit. She handed me a glass of champagne she had picked up from a tray and struck up a conversation with me. She must be drunk. I didn’t think that as an insult. I didn’t hold her potential intoxication against her. It was simply the only explanation I could think of for why she would bother speaking to someone as insignificant as me. I did my best to keep up with the conversation. She introduced herself as O.

“O?” I asked, a little surprised.

“Yes, O.”

“Oh . . .”

We both laughed. I adjusted my glasses, trying to hide how nervous she made me, and asked who she knew at the party. She explained she was a friend of a friend of someone who worked at my company. That relieved me, since I had feared she might be one of my colleague’s girlfriends. She was in her late twenties. Maybe a little too young for me, but the attention she gave me made me forget any such qualms.

She stood beside me as we counted down to the new year. To my bewildered surprise, she kissed me on the cheek. I didn’t know how to react; I fumbled for words and blushed like a schoolboy. The conversation that followed felt awkward for a while, but it soon eased back into something more natural. I ended up staying at the party, chatting with her far longer than I had planned. Before we said our goodbyes, she asked if she could have my number.

The following weekend, we went on our first date. It was my first since a disastrous blind date my mother had once arranged, back before she gave up on the idea of grandchildren. That same evening we ended up making love at my place. I wasn’t a virgin, but nearly twenty years had passed since the last time, so it almost felt like losing my virginity all over again. I didn’t last long, and she could tell I was embarrassed. She was kind about it, though, and told me not to worry with a genuine smile that eased my shame and restored my confidence.

We kept seeing each other regularly, and after a few more dates we became boyfriend and girlfriend. I couldn’t believe my luck. O was, as they say, way out of my league. It baffled me that I had ever been content with my life; before her, I wasn’t really alive at all. I was just a corporate zombie repeating the same dull routine every day. O visited me a few times a week, and we spent most weekends together at my place. She told me she still lived with her parents and didn’t want me to meet them until maybe after a year. She explained she wanted to be sure we’d work out as a couple before involving them. I sympathized with that, and truthfully, I wasn’t eager to meet her parents too soon anyway. Considering the age gap between their daughter and me, I would have felt out of place in their presence.

A few months slipped by, during which I floated on clouds. I barely noticed the occasional stares, or the people who tried to snap photos of me with their phones. It all became nothing more than background noise, easy to ignore. Summer was on its way, and I believed it would be the happiest summer of my life. But in early spring, an incident occurred that I simply couldn’t overlook. A girl with blue hair, black lipstick, and a leather jacket spoke to me at the gas station.

“Hey, Ronald!”

“Y-yes?”

I was just about to get into my car when she called out.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you!”

Given the earlier incidents, her reaction immediately made me suspicious.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Are you a friend of O?”

“I was just wondering.” She dug through her purse and pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen. “Could I get your autograph, please?”

“My autograph?” I repeated. “What for?” The unwanted attention irritated me, and I didn’t bother hiding it. “Do I even know you?”

“No, of course not.” She laughed lightly. “So you don’t want to—”

“No!” I snapped. “Why are you doing this? Who are you people?”

“You’re right,” she said, looking taken aback. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

She walked away, shoulders slumped, seemingly ashamed of herself.

“Hey, lady!” I still wanted answers. “How do you know my name!”

She didn’t respond. I climbed into my car, angry, and drove home. I called O and told her what had happened, along with the other strange things. She calmed me down, the way she always did when I was stressed, and assured me it was all just coincidences. According to her, the woman must have been crazy or playing some prank.

“But how did she know my name?”

“Listen, Ron,” she said. “People pull pranks like this all the time. They grab your name from social media. There was probably some jerk filming from a distance. I once saw a clip on YouTube where a guy looked up people nearby on social media, and then pretended to guess everything about them. It’s really creepy, I know. They use people’s open Facebook and Instagram profiles against them. Honestly, people should care more about their privacy, you know?”

“Well, I’m deactivating my Facebook account tonight. Who do these kids think they are?”

Things returned to normal, or at least to the version of normal I had recently grown used to. My relationship with O had transformed more than just my mood; it reshaped my appearance too. She wanted me to be at my best and encouraged me to buy new hair products, clothes, and even a car. I had never spent much on myself, so my savings were untouched. It felt good to finally have a reason to use them. As expected, my habits shifted as well. We ate out more often, and even went to a bar for drinks a few times. Beyond that, my life didn’t change much, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been reborn.

I was having lunch, thinking about suggesting a trip to Europe with O, when I overheard someone behind me say my name. It was a group of teenagers talking. I didn’t turn to face them, but they had my full attention.

“I agree,” one of them said. “I think O should leave him alone. I mean, I get that he’s in a better place now, and I’m happy for him, I really am, but a small part of me misses the old Ronald.”

“Yeah, totally, but…”

I stopped listening. What the fuck? Confusion only sharpened my rage, made it burn hotter.

“Hey!” I shot up and pointed at them. “What is going on?”

“Oh, shit, it’s Ronald!”

One of them pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

“Stop that!” I barked. “I demand to know—”

They scrambled from their seats, desperate to get away.

“No!” I lunged forward and grabbed the one with the phone. “You’re not going to escape this time.”

Everyone in the restaurant turned to stare at me.

“Leave them alone!” someone shouted.

“It’s not what it looks like. They’re—”

“Let me go, man,” the boy cut in.

I forced myself to stay calm. “Please, just tell me what this is all about. Why does everyone know who I am?”

The boy glanced nervously at his friends near the entrance. They stood there with their phones up, filming us.

“Look,” he whispered, “you’re big on the dark web.”

I blinked in confusion. The what? I was about to press him when one of the employees placed her hands firmly on my arm.

“Let him go,” she said. “Sir, you have to let the boy go, or we’ll call the police.”

I released him at once, and he bolted for the door.

“I’m the one who’ll call the police,” I said.

I talked to O about it when I got home, and she agreed it was time to go to the authorities. The problem was, I didn’t know what to tell them. I tried googling the dark web, but it made little sense to me. Apparently, I needed something called Tor, but I wasn’t tech-savvy enough to figure out how to use it. O didn’t know either. I searched every combination of words I could think of, including my own name, but nothing came up. O kept suggesting it was all some kind of elaborate prank, but I couldn’t shake the feeling it was something bigger than that.

“These people are stalking me,” I said. “Doesn’t it bother you that they know about our relationship, about you? I mean, they were talking about us, about you and me!”

“Yeah?” she said, surprised. “What did they say about me?”

“They implied that you’d changed me somehow. One of the boys even said something about liking the old me.”

“Those people are sick,” she said, sounding a little more upset.

“No kidding!” I spread my hands. “But seriously, what did he mean when he said ‘You’re big on the dark web’? It makes me furious.”

“Relax, baby. They’re annoying, for sure, but at least they’re not threatening you. They actually seem to like you. Do you know what I think?”

“No, what?” I asked, hoping for a theory that made sense.

“I think you might have a secret fan club.”

A secret fan club? I couldn’t believe that. I was a nobody, and still, the idea did make sense of the incidents.

I tried to explain my situation to a police officer at the station, but as expected, it didn’t go well. I had no evidence, only a handful of anecdotes.

“Do you feel threatened?” the officer asked.

I hesitated. “N-no, not exactly threatened, but they’re violating my privacy. They’re violating my integrity. That can’t be legal, right?”

I asked them to search for my name on the dark web, but in the end, I sensed they would place more urgent cases ahead of my strange story.

I avoided people and public places as much as I could. The moment someone looked at me, I lashed out, flipping my finger or snapping at them. Some of them were probably innocent, but how was I supposed to know? This went on for a while. I considered myself lucky to have O at my side, since she kept me sane. We’d lie awake late at night, joking about me, of all people, having a fan club. It felt good to laugh about it, yet the anxiety always crept back in just before sleep. I could still hear that boy’s words echoing in my mind. A small part of me misses the old Ronald.

In the months that followed, the incidents decreased. This should have made me happy, but instead it made my anxiety worse. Didn’t they like me anymore? It was a ridiculous thought, yet it entered my mind more and more often. Each time a stranger did glance at me or take my picture, I found myself less and less angry. Over time, I began to see myself differently in the mirror. I studied my reflection, wondering whether I had changed too much or too little. I joked about it with O, hiding how much it bothered me that no one had asked for my autograph in weeks, and she told me I should try going to the gym. She was joking, but a week later I bought a membership. I had never felt so motivated to lose weight in my life. And yet, it didn’t seem to matter. No matter how much weight I lost or muscle I built, my fans, as I had begun calling them in my head, did not increase.

“I don’t think they like this new me,” I told O over dinner. “I think that boy at Burger King was right. They miss the old Ronald, the man they fell for in the first place.”

“My God,” O said, “listen to yourself!”

“I-I know,” I muttered, shaking my head at my own vanity.

“You’re letting these people get to you! You’re doing fine. This is the healthiest you’ve been in your entire life. If they want you to stop eating healthy and working out, then they don’t really care about you.”

“I guess,” I said. “I just wish I could access the dark web and see what they’re saying about me. If I only knew what to do—”

“No, baby, you’re doing great! Maybe they just want you to stop caring about them. Maybe that’s the answer.”

I told O I would stop paying attention to them, but within days I was back in my old suit. She didn’t take it well, and it led to our first serious fight. It felt like everything around me was falling apart. I tried living like my old self for a month, but that didn’t help either.

Then, one day, I spotted the blue-haired lady who had once approached me at the gas station. I ran up to her.

“Hey!” I called.

“Oh, Ronald,” she said. “I’m sorry for that time I—”

I could tell she wasn’t happy to see me.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I just want to ask you something.”

“I really have to go,” she replied. “I’m late for an interview.”

“It’ll just take a second,” I pleaded.

“Sorry,” she said, and walked away.

“Wait!” I yelled. “I just want to know! Hello! What do you want me to do? Why don’t you like me anymore!”

She disappeared around a corner. I stayed there for a while in the middle of the sidewalk, hating myself for being rejected like that. For a week or two, I became obsessed with winning back the attention of my so-called fan club. I tried everything I could think of. I even bought an Aloha shirt, but nothing worked. O was unhappy about all of it, and fearing I might lose her, I put the fancy suit back on and promised I wouldn’t pull any more ridiculous stunts to attract those crazy people online.

My anger toward the fan club slowly returned, and I thought things were settling back to normal with O. Yet, for some reason, she still wasn’t happy with me. I couldn’t figure it out. Maybe the damage from my earlier behavior was too deep to repair. But then, one night in bed, she said something that unsettled me.

“Maybe you did change too much.” Her tone wasn’t angry. It sounded more like a stray thought that slipped out by accident.

“What do you mean, baby?”

“I think they just want you to be yourself. Before, you tried too hard to act like your old self, and it never felt genuine, you know?”

“What are you talking about, baby? I thought you said I shouldn’t care about those people anymore.”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. That’s what they want!”

“But baby,” I said, “I don’t know how to be that guy anymore. Whatever I do, it feels like I’m acting.”

“Just be yourself, Ron.”

“But I don’t know who I am anymore!”

It was a nightmare. Every day felt like stepping onto a stage without a script. The audience could be anyone. My relationship with O kept unraveling; she stopped visiting as often, made excuses to cancel plans, and picked fights over things she once ignored. It all came to a head one late night at my place, after we had been to a karaoke bar. In a last, desperate attempt to win back my fans, I drunkenly launched into “Mamma Mia.” The crowd booed me off the stage. At least one person knew my name.

“Go home, Ronald,” someone shouted. “You’re drunk!”

Back at home, O told me how unhappy she was with my behavior. I tried to apologize, but that only made things worse. In the end, she broke up with me.

“You used to be so much better than this,” she said.

She stormed out of my apartment. I sat on my bed, about to cry my eyes out, ready at last to release all the emotions I had bottled up, when I noticed O had left her laptop on my desk. I don’t know exactly what compelled me to look; maybe it was just a gut feeling. What I found made my blood run cold. A Tor window was open in the background. The page title read Random Ronald’s Fan Club. Random Ronald? The site was filled with pictures and videos of me, stretching back two years.

O came back into the room. She didn’t say a word. She slammed the computer shut and headed for the door again.

“You were one of them?” I asked. “Please tell me you found that page after you…”

She froze mid-step and looked at me without speaking.

“B-baby?”

“Does it really matter?” she asked. Then she left.

I called in sick the next day and stayed home for over a week. When I finally went outside, I felt like a broken man. My life had been turned upside down. I had gone from being a happy nobody to an unhappy nobody, from merely contemplating suicide to actively planning it. I never thought I could reach that point, but I suppose everyone has their limit. O had broken my heart, yet she had also given me something I had never felt before: a thirst for love that would never be satisfied. I drove through the city, mindless and adrift. A mental numbness, some kind of brain fog, clouded my thoughts. The world didn’t just feel different; it looked different too. It was somehow grayer, tinged with a bluish nuance I had never noticed before.

I stepped out of my car at the top of a parking garage. A couple of kids were skating on the roof. I considered waiting until they left, but in the end it didn’t matter. The sky was flawless, not a single cloud. I walked to the edge of the roof. The city hummed and buzzed beneath me. I took one step forward and stared down. Soon, I thought, I would be lying dead down there.

“Ronald, is that you?”

I froze, turning around. Behind me stood one of the kids, an African American teenage girl, holding a piece of paper in her hand. She looked nervous.

“What?” I said.

“C-could I have your autograph? Oh, and one for my brother too?”

I stepped away from the edge and signed my name twice on the paper.

“Cool,” she said. “I’ve been following you with my big brother.” She folded the paper carefully and tucked it into her pocket. “We were always on team New Ronald.”

She looked quickly at her friends, then back at me. “Um, anyway . . .” She fumbled for the right words. “You always inspired me to be a better person.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said, “or… well, I mean, I’m glad to hear that.”

“What are you doing up here, anyway?”

“Just watching the view,” I replied with a smile. “I’ll head back to my car now.”

Maybe it hadn’t all been for nothing. That was the thought I carried with me as I drove home.