Fakebook

by Dave Cicirelli

  So much of New York was roped off. I mean, I’d never even been in a skyscraper. Office buildings aren’t for suburban tourists. They only let you in if you have a legitimate reason to be there. Or in my case, an illegitimate reason.

  I was nineteen years old when I first walked into the lobby of the Viacom Building, on a mission to falsely convince MTV that I was a Limp Bizkit super-fan.

  I had no desire to be an MTV personality—hell, I didn’t even have cable. And as far as I could tell, I wasn’t pregnant or sixteen enough to qualify for most of their shows. But because I’d sign anything for a free T-shirt, I was on the “MTV casting” mailing list.

  I usually just let their emails pile up in my inbox, but the opportunity to star in a fan-hosted Limp Bizkit special jumped out at me. I didn’t really know Limp Bizkit, but I knew plenty of their fans. The thought of depriving one of those mouth-breathers a slot on the show really appealed to me.

  So I fired up Photoshop and turned a picture of my bedroom into a shrine to Limp Bizkit’s poorly played Partycore, then sent it to casting. It caught their eye.

  “I’m here for my audition,” I told the guard at the security desk. I pensively waited as he looked up my name. He checked my ID and took my picture. It all seemed so serious—so official.

  “Fortieth floor,” he said as he handed me my guest pass, barely looking up. This was routine to him, but it was epic for me. As with Fakebook years later, I’d made a bit of nonsense and thrown it out into the world—compelled to see where it would take me. It took me all the way to the fortieth floor. I was behind the velvet rope—a suburban intruder who had broken into New York’s skyline.

  I’ll never forget the feeling of stepping into that elevator. I was excited, nervous, amused, and a little outside of myself but also totally engaged. It was a feeling I can’t quite name.

  Seven years later, I was once again riding an elevator up a Manhattan high-rise. By then, however, I wasn’t an intruder. I was a New Yorker, and going up skyscrapers was routine. I had a security card. The doormen knew my name. I was supposed to be there.

  Except I wasn’t supposed to be there.

  The night before, I’d told the world that I was on the move—going anywhere but here. Once again, I didn’t belong. And that feeling I’d felt all those years ago when I invaded MTV…boy, I sure did feel it again.

  “Dude!” I heard as I exited the elevator. “I thought you quit!”

  Joe Moscone, one of the account leads and a drinking buddy, was walking toward me, sporting an ear-to-ear grin and wide eyes. He’s a big guy with a linebacker build—the type of guy that wouldn’t look right without a beard.

  “Oh shit…” I instantly snapped out of my prankster euphoria as the reality of Fakebook started to sink in. “People here saw that, huh?”

  When I’d faked Limp Bizkit super-fandom, I’d had a less complicated life. My “profession” was cleaning the municipal pool. Expectations were decidedly lower.

  I looked at the clock and saw that it was well past nine. “Oh shit.”

  As I hurried down the hallway, I explained to Joe what I was up to. He was a receptive audience and no stranger to making up elaborate and funny lies. In fact, a bar in Hoboken stopped serving test tube shots on the grounds that “Test Tube Joe,” the first test tube baby, found them demeaning.

  “That’s tremendous! What do you have planned for this?”

  “It’ll be a parody—the hike isn’t going to go well. I didn’t pack a winter coat, shit like that. If you want to play along, leave some comments. Feel free to criticize. I want it to be a farce—the plan is to make my online self kind of an idiot.”

  Joe’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, I definitely think I can pretend you didn’t think this through. By the way, good luck telling the office you still work here.” He laughed with his full body.

  “Now seems as good a time as any to post my next update.” I shrugged and smiled.

  Dave Cicirelli

  Goodbye Delancey Street.

  This is taking hella long, my back hurts, and listening to music has drained my battery…But I’m officially on the Jersey side of the GW bridge. I’m starting to wish I hadn’t given my keys to a homeless guy.

  Like · Comment · Share

  Ara Arnn Dude! Where are you going??

  55 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Wherever the road takes me.

  54 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Ara Arnn So wait, Amish country? Safe travels dude.

  52 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Anthony Brent Word, either way, whatever the move, you might not wanna watch the Devils this year, cause it might be a long season for us buddy.

  32 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli I know…before I dropped everything I bought the internet hockey package. It blocks out local games, so if I hurry I can be out of market by the All Star break…

  28 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Joe Moscone If you’re heading down the turnpike, last weekend I tossed a half full bottle of diet coke from my car just south of the Vince Lombardi Rest Area, on the southbound side. It should serve as a nice energy boost. Enjoy!

  12 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli I’ll miss you too.

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  “To a lot of people,” I told Joe, “that just happened.”

  He just walked away, shaking his head.

  “That just happened,” I said again, this time to myself. It sort of gave me a chill to realize I was now in two places at once. I felt like I was at the center of one of those philosophy questions about perception. How do I know China exists if I’ve never been there? People have told me it exists, and I’ve seen pictures—but I’ve simply taken it on faith. In my own world, China isn’t a place; it’s simply a composite of secondhand knowledge. My Facebook friends had no idea that the version of me they saw wasn’t me anymore.

  I was greeted at my desk by a blinking light on my office phone. As my computer powered up, I took a deep breath and checked Facebook on my phone.

  In the handful of minutes since I’d posted the photo of my apartment, I’d gotten three new likes and one new comment. I’d also received a personal message:

  Anne DuMont → Dave Cicirelli

  Subject: Good Luck

  Hi Dave. All I can say is wow.

  I totally understand how it is to be stuck in a rut and it seems like life is just passing you by. I want you to know if you need any support I am here, and I mean if you need a ride, new shoes, food, money, MapQuest research…anything. I have family and friends all over Pennsylvania and Ohio. Let me know if they can be of help on your travels. Maybe I can visit and bring you whatever you need. I hope you got yourself some decent walking shoes, keep hydrated, rest when you need to, and write everything down. Wish you the best on this journey and that it may be awesome and safe.

  I know you don’t know me that well but honestly I really want to help.

  Huh.

  I’d planned on creating something harmless—something that, at most, would poke fun at the superficiality Facebook encouraged. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might also exploit people’s longings and elicit their empathy and support. I wasn’t really prepared for that, and I wasn’t ready to confront it. So I ignored it and put my phone away.

  When I opened my inbox I saw a dozen emails from coworkers, all with subject lines to the tune of “WTF?”

  Crap. I really hadn’t thought this through. I immediately started typing an all-staff email, one that would explain, in as professional a way as possible, that my employment was now a secret.

  A few days later, my computer screen caught the eye of another customer at the coffee shop.

  Both the girl and the Cake Shop reflected the atmosphere of the Lower East Side—curated gr
it. That’s not to say either lacked authenticity, just that there was obviously a fair amount of deliberation behind how they presented themselves—unpretentious, if not a little too hip. It was definitely a contrast to the Starbucks-like “business casual” ensemble I was still sporting from my work day.

  “Can I ask,” she said, flipping back her long black bangs with a tattooed arm (in a way that was totally working for me), “what you’re doing?”

  I should have been able to answer her, but instead I gave her a blank stare. In the week since Fakebook started, I’d had plenty of practice explaining myself at work, but the reactions always threw me for a loop. Some people, like Joe, got it and loved it. To others, the idea of willfully detonating my own reputation was mystifying. It wore me out, like rolling the dice every time I answered.

  I looked down at my table, suddenly self-conscious of my weekly planner with scribbled in plot points, all corresponding to a Google Maps printout, and the laptop screen split between Photoshop and a five-day forecast. One of the ironies of pretending to live as a bohemian, I’d quickly learned, was all the planning it required.

  Overall, the week had been an emotional roller coaster. I was shell-shocked by the genuine support I was receiving from Fakebook’s unwitting audience, and Anne’s note was only the beginning. My Facebook inbox filled up with notes I couldn’t even bring myself to read—messages with subject lines like “You’re So Brave” and “Thank You.”

  I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I mean, the whole thing was designed to make me look like a fool. Hadn’t these people played Oregon Trail? You never start in October, like I had. I was living in fear that I’d inspire some fool to follow in my fake footsteps.

  Even worse, the word “fraud” hadn’t occurred to me when I’d conceived of the idea, but if people’s opinions of me were improving solely because of a lie I was telling, what else could I call it? Whenever I gave it some thought, I felt like I was a terrible person—so I tried not to think about it.

  But while the support from everyone outside the joke was crippling, the support from the insiders was intoxicating. Most of the people who knew what I was actually doing—Ted, Steve, Joe—loved it. They celebrated it. They admired it. And when I asked them to pitch in, they jumped at the chance. I needed critics to counteract all the good vibes people were sending me, and giving my oldest friends permission to make fun of me—without consequence—was an opportunity they relished.2

  Even my bizarre all-staff email to a largely confused office bore some fruit. One senior staff member really got into the hoax. In fact, her fake Facebook reprimand added a certain credibility to the project:

  Claire Burke → Dave Cicirelli

  I thought this whole trek thing was a joke, but I called into the senior staff meeting today and they told me you’re really gone. What the hell?!

  So unprofessional. I have FIVE projects I was waiting on you for. Now I find out that the rest of the team are scrambling to make up for the work you just dropped. Not cool, Dave. You know we appreciate the whole artistic and creative mojo stuff—that’s why we hired you—but you can’t just decide to leave one day and…really leave!

  Come back to NY ASAP and we’ll figure something out. I’ll work with the partners to present a case of stress-related something-or-other and you’ll get your job back. Maybe we can work out a sabbatical next summer or something. I mean, really. You should have told me about this before you just flew the coop. Call me!!

  Gina Lopez → Mary Carroll

  I just realized Dave seriously just packed his crap and left. I thought he was joking. My favorite post was the lady he worked with yelling at him on his wall lol. Get him on Nancy Grace or something already!

  My audience’s respect for what I’d claimed to do was crashing into my collaborators’ respect for my claiming to have done it. I was barely able to contain the weird mixture of excitement, amusement, guilt, fear, embarrassment, and uncertainty I felt, and I found it difficult to explain myself to anyone, let alone a complete stranger in a coffee shop.

  “Oh, this…” I stammered. “I’m photoshopping a drunk girl passed out at the feet of Ben Franklin.”

  She looked totally baffled.

  “…Why?”

  “Because it’s funny?”

  She didn’t quite give me the fawning reaction I’d hoped for, so I tried again. “I’m doing this thing on Facebook—like, I’m pretending to live another life, and I have people believing it’s true, and…” I was talking faster and faster, simultaneously manic and meek, unable to communicate the emotional and intellectual depth of this half-finished photo of an inebriated barfly at the feet of a founding father. I could see her eyes start to shift from curiosity to discomfort, as each attempt at clarity made me sound more and more mentally unstable.

  Fortunately, my phone rang.

  “I have to take this…” I didn’t have to. “Do you mind just keeping an eye on my stuff while I step outside? I don’t want to be ‘that guy on his cell phone,’ you know?”

  “Sure, no problem.” As I walked out onto Ludlow Street, she went back to her table and sat down with the latest issue of BUST Magazine, facing my table full of nonsense. I leaned up against the Cake Shop’s large storefront window, sandwiched between the door and a freestanding ATM.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Nah…just blowing my shot with a girl Mom wouldn’t approve of. What’s up?”

  “So I’m delivering you meatballs every night?”

  Dave Cicirelli

  My dad found me, and he’s not happy. “Get in the car, get in the car!” haha. Sorry Ralph. Gotta see this through.

  Ps. Thanks for bringing me meatballs from mom.

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  Matt Riggio I’m going to really look forward to these updates. This is great. Makes me want to do it too.

  14 minutes ago · Like

  Joe Moscone Those meatballs likely have a high bartering value with street people. You can probably score a lightly urine-stained bed cushion for two or three.

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli I know you’re just being an ass but I’d kill for a mattress.

  just now via mobile · Like

  I started to laugh uncontrollably. When I turned around to check on my stuff, I saw the raised eyebrow of the girl watching my stuff. I responded with a poorly advised wink and faced forward again.

  “It’s all right that I used your picture, right?” I asked my dad.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m too old to get Facebook…but if you’re going to involve me, I want you to stop rejecting my friend requests.”

  “Dad, we’ve been over this. It’s like you used to tell me, ‘I’m your father, not your friend.’”

  “Hey, Phil!” Ralph screamed to my mother, Phyllis. “Your son is using my words against me!” Judging by the time (7:45 p.m. on a Thursday), she was almost definitely in the family room in her pajamas, watching Wheel of Fortune with a cup of decaffeinated tea. Judging by the yell, my dad was upstairs on the family computer, forwarding jokes written in multicolored Comic Sans font. If you’d read the thread of forwarded addresses, you’d have found your 1998 AOL account.

  But I was actually touched that he wanted to be involved, and saw potential in adding a family dynamic to a story all about flaking out on responsibilities. After all, the antagonism of my coworker Joe and company had already turned into a perfect improv theater built around each new post.

  Dave Cicirelli

  Today is crazy crazy windy. It’s as if the power of my Sicilian mother knows no bounds and she’s commanding nature to send me home.

  On that note, Taco Bell was a horrible choice for lunch and I’m 7 miles to the next rest stop/exit…

  Not loving my options here…

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  Te
rrance J Riley it’s still crazy windy!!!

  6 minutes ago · Like

  Deana Rubin never mess with the sicilian mama

  6 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Joe Moscone Maybe you should’ve checked out the AccuWeather forecast before hitting the streets.

  3 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Give me a break, Joe. This isn’t easy. Did you know it’s illegal to set up a tent outside a highway exit? Well, I found that out last night. Did you know that if you don’t have it staked into the ground really well, and it’s windy out, it collapses on you, and you’re stuck trying to escape your own tent, completely blind and terrified that you’ve wandered into an intersection? Show a little empathy.

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Joe Moscone That attitude will get you nowhere.

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli That attitude liberated me. I’m a citizen of the road now. I live for the possibilities that await me around the next bend…which aren’t rest stops often enough.

  just now via mobile · Like

  It was one thing to have my friends stir up trouble, but my father? The opportunity was too good to refuse. And fortunately, I come from a long line of ballbusters and envelope pushers—from my grandfather, who never used a front door in his life, to my father, whose Catholic school career lasted for all of one morning. Whether it’s part of our wiring or something we teach every new generation, Cicirellis have an innate skepticism about authority and structure. We take it as a challenge when we’re told not to do something.

  “All right, Ralph. You can be a part of this, but you’ve got to play it a certain way. I want you to react as if this were actually happening.”