Fakebook

by Dave Cicirelli

  “What did you do then?”

  “I put it in my boot to take it home. I had a phone number written down at home that I saw on the news. If I called this number, the police would take the gun and I would get a reward.”

  His lawyer squeezed his forearm and nodded in a comforting, encouraging way.

  “What did you do when the police officer approached you?”

  “I was scared, and I ran away.”

  “Why did you run away if you had nothing to hide?”

  “I was scared and I ran away.”

  “What were you scared of?”

  It’s uncomfortable watching a kid get grilled. Your emotional response is to protect him. The whole dynamic was fucked. The kid was weak, uneducated, poor. He felt like the victim.

  “Have you ever heard of NYZ?”

  “No, I do not know who they are.”

  “You were not delivering a gun for NYZ?”

  “I saw something on the ground, next to a Dumpster. I thought to myself, ‘Whoa, I think that is a gun.’”

  It was hard not to notice these lines he kept repeating—verbatim. It almost sounded rehearsed, but at the same time…If I were in his position, I would rehearse what I’d say too, even if it was the truth. And I was an adult—an adult from a good family with an education. This kid could barely afford the two-dollar MetroCard to get to the dance. If he was, in fact, in the wrong place at the wrong time, this is how I think he’d act. Everything he said was possible, and his words were convincing, particularly when his whole life made me feel guilty.

  When the deliberations began, the experience was tense and draining in a way none of us had felt before. It was heavy. It was so less abstract than any of our other cases.

  The thing is, there was no overt victim that day. We weren’t certain that what happened that day was even a crime. If we voted one way, Amadi was just a kid in the middle of a big misunderstanding.

  If we voted another, Amadi was a criminal…or our victim.

  We were an arm of the same society that allowed him to fall through its cracks. It didn’t feel like duty to send this kid to trial, and it damn sure didn’t feel like we were doing good work.

  There was a handful of adamant factions on either side, but by and large, no one knew what to do, what to think. There was a very soft middle of weak votes, and the handful of absentees ensured that we couldn’t reach the necessary eleven votes for either conviction or dismissal. The case would have to be continued another day when more evidence could be gathered.

  We assigned the case the code name “Tin Man” for no particular reason. We walked out of the courthouse and exchanged some quiet and awkward good-byes.

  A weird mix of vulnerability, exhaustion, and emotion made me impulsively text Dhara.

  “Hey, just wanted to say I’m looking forward to Saturday. It means a lot to me.”

  I knew the text was a mistake even before I sent it. We’d only been on a few dates. It was a dumb thing to say because it made Valentine’s Day serious instead of frivolous—adding an expectation into our early courtship.

  I distracted myself with a long meandering walk home through Chinatown. Eventually I made it to my street. It was barely seven, but it was pitch black and the wind was cutting. I wanted to just go to bed, but I couldn’t. I had work to do, at least for a few hours. No more breaks, and I could be in bed by ten.

  I grabbed my mail as I entered my building. There was a red envelope with a heart drawn on the back with the initials “KF.” I smiled in recognition of my secret foil’s handiwork and proudly read “Katie Fisher’s” card to me. “All the roads I’ve taken have led me to you. Happy Valentine’s Day.” I tossed the card onto my coffee table and sat at the desk.

  While my laptop was booting, I get the call I was expecting.

  “Hey,” Dhara said. “So…I got your text.”

  “Yeah…about that. I realized right after…”

  “I just want to be clear, because sometimes I worry that I give the wrong signals. It’s something I’m working on, but sometimes I make people think I like them more than…That’s not right.”

  “I understand what you’re getting at,” I said. “You are worried we have uneven expectations.”

  “Yeah…the text you sent made me worry. Like, I haven’t seen any reason to run away from you or anything. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Totally,” I said. “I just had a really emotional case…it wasn’t…I don’t know.”

  “All right,” she said. “Good.”

  “We’re still on for Saturday, right? The Valentine’s Day date? I promise you an event appropriate to your moderate affection toward me.”

  She politely laughed. “Yeah, that’s the other thing. I was invited to go and visit some friends down in D.C. this weekend…Can we move it to Friday?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I said. “Works out better for me, actually. Saturday I have to work all day. You know, the Toy Fair. Got to get there early before all the good toys are taken.”

  “Okay, great,” she said. “I have to leave early Saturday morning, so let’s just keep it low key and have an early night.”

  “Sure.”

  Valentine’s Day. I could feel the words unpack a series of complications I was not equipped to handle with this new dynamic. By establishing uneven expectations, I had trapped myself. Any effort I showed would be mounting evidence that I was a situation she’d eventually need to handle. A lack of effort, on the other hand, would just compound her waning interest.

  What was I thinking? She was an Ivy League–educated stunner in a lucrative industry. I was a publicly educated graphic designer with inconsistent gym habits. Emotional day or not, it was just hubris for me to push this forward.

  I looked over at my card from my other “girlfriend.” Dipping into my other life seemed appealing at the moment, so I logged on to Facebook.

  Jamie McAllister → Dave Cicirelli

  Subject: Thanks :)

  Hey Dave,

  So I’ve been one of your silent dedicated followers (Connie and I constantly share “Did you see what’s going on with Free The Eggs Dave” exchanges). I have been going through a bit of an existential crisis myself lately with the commodities floor making me hate my life and I wasn’t sure I was gutsy enough to quit.

  I am certainly not as gutsy as you, but reading about your adventures and the risks you’re taking and stuff definitely made me feel like why the hell not. So many people have been giving me advice and telling me the smart sensible things to do and it was just nice to read about someone saying “F you” to the sensible people.

  Anyway I quit my job and I’m really happy about it. Like I said I’m not quite as adventurous as you so I won’t be hitting the road (although I too have strongly been considering getting a tattoo, just not such a ridiculous one), but just wanted to say thanks for telling the Steves and Teds of the worlds to screw themselves. :)

  Good luck finding your lady.

  I looked back at the card and picked up my phone. Grasping at hope, I texted the 732 number of my anonymous rival. “Are you Jamie McAllister?”

  I placed the phone down on the table, next to the card. I leaned back on my couch with my eyes closed and waited.

  The phone vibrated. “No.”

  I just stared at the text, feeling the last lingering hope that this was some sort of trick—a ruse from my secret foil—get dashed. All along, I’d held on to the rationalization that Fakebook wasn’t hurting anyone. I was just telling a story. Playing a joke. That rationalization was shattered as my lie claimed its first victim.

  Instead I just felt the burden of it all. This stupid commitment to a dumb idea I’d had four months ago…I could barely manage it when it only disrupted my life. Now I felt the full weight of Jamie’s uncertain future. I placed my shaking palms
on my forehead and pressed my fingertips into my scalp. I wanted to scream but couldn’t…I was still far too lucid to not worry about how ridiculously dramatic that would be.

  I just wanted to sleep, to take a break. I wanted eight hours to forget about this dumb fucking joke—to not worry about having a reasonable answer when people like Jamie eventually and inevitably asked why I would do this. I wanted one life again.

  Oh god, my life…I wanted a break from that, too. I didn’t want to think how I actually dreaded Friday night with Dhara. I wanted to not think about the sixteen-year-old kid and the gun concealed in his boot. I just wanted some fucking sleep. I’d been working every day and every night…with my only downtime while I was in transit between obligations. I just wanted to rest, to go to bed, and rest…to have nothing at stake for a few hours…to have no responsibilities for a few hours…to have no one watching.

  I walked the handful of steps to my bathroom. I leaned forward onto the sink, and with both hands supporting me, I began to steady. Tomorrow was Friday. I could sleep on Friday, I thought. No, I had to work. And then I had jury duty. And then I had a date.

  Saturday…no, not Saturday. It was the Toy Fair, and I had to work.

  Sunday…maybe on Sunday I could rest. Maybe. Just make it until Sunday. Get it together until then. I had work to do. I had to keep it together. After all, Fake Dave didn’t.

  The next morning, I savored the walk to my half day of work. At jury duty, everyone was still shaken from the Tin Man case. Crazy Juror 8 told us she drove up to Morningside Heights—in what I assume was a wildly illegal act—to check out the scene of the crime. I like to imagine she used a big sleuthing magnifying glass.

  Dave Cicirelli

  There is not enough time to sleep.

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  Dave Cicirelli

  Expunging the toxic spirits to find the Center.

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  I got home just in time to shower before meeting Dhara for our Valentine’s Day date. I made her a “Lower East Side fixed-menu date” to play off the prolific restaurant deals. She had three venue choices for each course—dinner, dessert, and drinks. She noticed the grammatical errors before the effort, and the night had all the passion you’d expect from a woman who was going through the motions and a guy afraid of doing something wrong. I got an early night and a homemade card.

  Dave Cicirelli

  All the toxins in our mind create the weight that is the imbalance. The fulcrum of the Universe lies in the Center, and next year is quickly approaching.

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  Saturday I worked at the Toy Fair, acting as security for toy collectors—the only crowd I could ever intimidate. It was the scene I had hoped for, full of the fun of toys celebrating themselves and the weirdness of a playpen filled only with adults. On my break, I shot out a few Fakebook posts on other people’s walls—enjoying the heckler-like relationship the Facebook format allowed for.

  Ralph Cicirelli

  Dave, please give me a call. I need to speak with you about something that is very important. Also, I am worried about you. I have not heard from you in weeks and don’t know where the hell you are. Please call!!!

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  Dave Cicirelli Ralph, I cannot speak to you yet. You and mom gave me life which means you are the direct link to the ethereal toxins that have been poisoning me since pre-life. It is difficult to quarantine myself from the family, but how can I find the Path to the Center while remaining anchored to the Imbalance?

  I forgive you.

  Also, some people have brought up a good point about taxes. Can you handle that for me? I don’t want to find myself in trouble with the IRS.

  27 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Steve Cuchinello Yeah Ralph you were only good for giving life and filing taxes. Everything else has been poison. Good cult, Dave. Isn’t there a comet you have to catch?

  24 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Steve, I know you only mock me because being dismissive of one discovering Truth is much easier than facing what it is that you fail to see.

  I forgive you.

  19 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Steve Cuchinello Dave, YOU have begun to bore me. I forgive you.

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Sunday, Dhara was back in town and I saw her at her request. Her text was short and devoid of whimsy. I arrived at the bar first. When she arrived, she offered me only her cheek. I asked her what she wanted to drink, while pulling out my wallet. She placed her card down on the bar.

  I remember sliding a glass of Jameson in small circles around the booth’s oak tabletop while I waited for my brother to arrive.

  It’s funny. In moments like those I’m more interested in holding the whiskey than I am in drinking it…the same way I’ve never felt an impulse to smoke but occasionally would like to gesture with a lit cigarette.

  I guess I really am an artist—always concerned about the aesthetics. Like the way I couldn’t help but think about how much this bar I’d stumbled into looked like a bar. There’s nothing distinct about it; everything’s made of wood, and there is some Irish name above the door. It feels like a bar “template,” content to be unassuming and let the patrons fill it with character.

  The places I usually go downtown, or in Brooklyn and Jersey City, tend to skew a bit younger and a bit more…novel. So many of those bars, like the people in them, seem to need some sort of statement—a twist to capture the interest of a purpose-hungry crowd. It’s a bar meant to feel like a ’70s basement or a speakeasy, or the bar that’s all German imports… They all have to have something to validate their existence. As if being a place to gather wasn’t enough.

  I took a sip of the whiskey.

  My brother, Mark, finally came in. Normally I didn’t notice, but he had a specific way of entering. He stepped in quickly and sort of leaned forward as he looked around the room with an economy of movement. He was…focused.

  I liked talking to my brother. He never patronized me with reassuring lies.

  “Baby brother,” he patronized. “What’s the matter?”

  “I got dumped.”

  “Is this the Princeton girl? You were barely going out with her.”

  “Yeah, I know. It was just another false start. It’s frustrating. I can pull it together long enough to get my shot with a girl like that, but…”

  “A girl like that? What does that mean?” Mark chimed in, taking offense at putting anyone on a pedestal.

  I showed him a photo on my phone.

  “Empirically speaking, that’s the best you’ll ever do.”

  “Unquestionably. There’s something strange about dating a girl like that. She’s so…unfamiliar with certain things. Uninhibited.”

  “Yeah?” Mark said with a slight, filthy interest.

  “Haha, that’s not what I meant.”

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “Like, she lives in a world where people want her to like them…It’s a stacked deck. Her sense of what’s…normal…is somehow wider. I dug that, actually.

  “But listen,” I continued, “I’m under no delusions. I don’t think she’s one of the great loves of my life. I don’t think this was ‘meant to be’ or any bullshit like that. What she is, however, is very bright. Very perceptive.”

  I paused, a bit of a lump rising in my throat. “I asked her to be honest, and she was. Her reasons were insightful…accurate.” I paused again. “She handled everything respectfully…maturely…I can’t say I’m even angry or hurt exactly. I just feel…”

  I was embarrassed by how hard I was taking this.

  “When Dhara was breaking up with me, her focus felt entirely on letting me down easy…like she didn’t want to hurt me because I did nothing to deserve being hurt. I mean, that’s what really stung. That…more than
anything in particular that she said. It’s that dismissive quality to it all.”

  “Right,” Mark said. “Like the rejection was total.”

  I was startled by Mark’s succinct description. He was right. That’s exactly what I felt like. I was rejected not only as a boyfriend, but also as an equal.

  Looking down, I slid my glass again in a small circular pattern. “Yeah…” I said. “I’m the ‘nice guy’ to her…and that’s just not who I always viewed myself as…but I think that may be true.”

  “What does that even mean?” Mark asked.

  “Hard to describe…like, I always aspired to be a ‘good man,’ but that’s different, too. I think it’s assertiveness. A nice guy is passive, accommodating. He’s nice because it avoids conflict—he has no point of view. It’s not admirable or anything you respect…it’s just well-packaged weakness.”

  I paused for a moment, attempting to collect my thoughts. I tried to make it clear how I had fallen into the pattern of making half-stances, and how that had eaten away at who I was…allowed doubt to grow inside me. I needed to make clear how this all connected to the girl who didn’t think enough of me and the career I compromised in and the audience whose respect I earned only by being someone else. How it was all part of this general frustration and anxiety of my stalled-out life.

  “Like, I’m bright. I’m capable. I could have done what someone like you has done…have that kind of success.”

  “You’re clearly too distraught to think clearly,” Mark said.

  “The point is, I had this creative itch. I decided I’d reject a safe road for the chance to be creative…but then I flinched. And now I live check to check in service of other people’s ideas. It’s…so…subordinate.

  “But I always thought that was just what I had to do to make a living,” I continued. “I don’t expect people to pay me to do what I say, you know? But when I’m treated that way by a woman I thought a lot of…”