Fakebook

by Dave Cicirelli

  And we’d be doing Amadi no favors, either—encouraging him further down a dangerous path. A path that led back to this courthouse, but the next time he’d be a little older and a hell of a lot less sympathetic, and under god knows what charges. Most of all, we sure wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors if that trigger got pulled.

  No, the only people who had anything to gain were us, the jury. We would have gained the delusion of living in a world where a scared sixteen-year-old kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and not in one where some fucking gang could seduce a desperate child to peddle their violence.

  I want to live in a world where his story is true. But I don’t. Instead I live in a world where I helped send Amadi Johnson, a scared kid who was dealt a shitty hand, one step closer to jail.

  That night I grabbed my hockey stick and went to the handball court on Houston. In the summer, it’s a madhouse, but you can count on it being deserted in the dead of winter. I was relieved to see that it was even plowed.

  I wound up and took my first shot. It was as weak and inaccurate as ever, but the ball made a comforting “thud” against the wall just the same.

  It was about as quiet a night as downtown can have, and the ambient sounds of city traffic were easily pierced by the various thuds and scraping sounds of mindless ball hockey. Combining with the deep breaths of cold winter air, it had an almost meditative effect on me.

  I felt awful about what had happened in court. I couldn’t get over how easily and deeply I had rationalized Amadi’s story. I had forgotten how powerful a thing perception is. Truth can’t be destroyed, but it can certainly be buried. And when it’s buried, we have our hands on the shovel, don’t we?

  I wished Amadi’s story to be true, and in doing so I was a willing participant in his lie—willing to connect the dots for him because I liked the picture that made. And for the first time, I truly understood how I was getting away with Fakebook.

  The story I was telling tapped into the collective angst of my peers. Twenty-six is an overlooked age—not a kid anymore, but still not settled. The honeymoon phase of young adulthood is fading, and stretching out in front of us are the consequences of the course we set—a course that seemed like a good idea to the teenager who picked your major—for another sixty years.

  When we were in our teens and early twenties, every ambition or goal was possible in the wide-open future—and our goals were wonderful ideals created by our imagination, not yet tarnished by becoming real.

  For most of our lives, it didn’t matter what our friends were doing with theirs. Whether they were going to a good school, playing in a band, or starting a landscaping business, no one had accomplished anything yet. It created the illusion that we were all the same. Everyone was at the beginning of their path toward a wide-open future.

  But by our midtwenties, the future was beginning to narrow. We’d traveled different distances down divergent paths, and the gaps between us have turned into gulfs. And every time we log in to Facebook, the choices we didn’t make, the lives we aren’t living, are staring back at us through other people’s profiles. Facebook can become a window to the world for each of us, just as the world begins to pass us by.

  And we feel something. It’s not jealousy, exactly. And it’s not exactly nostalgia for our youth. It’s a yearning—a sense of loss that comes with understanding that becoming who you are means saying good-bye to all the possibilities of who you could be.

  And then there was Fakebook. Imagine that you’re going through the motions of another Monday. After staring at a spreadsheet for the better part of the morning, you begin to lose motivation. In search of a thirty-second distraction, you click off Excel and log on to Facebook. Somewhere between the dozens of posts bragging about another great weekend, you stumble onto my page.

  Here’s a guy admitting publicly that, like you, he’s in a rut. Like you, he doesn’t have a plan. Like you, he doesn’t know what he wants or how he’s going to get it. But unlike you, he’s not letting that stop him. So right when you are about to accept the inevitable narrowing of your potential—when you begin to acknowledge your only possible future because of the choices you’ve made—you see my story.

  Dave, a guy you sort of know, walked away. He is walking away right now, while you’re reading about it. He rejected the inevitability of the path he was on and has begun blazing a new one! In truth, it actually is only an escapist fantasy, but to your knowledge, it isn’t fantasy at all. It could be you.

  When I began Fakebook, I tried to remove people’s emotional investment from the story. I thought it was messy and morally complicated. I didn’t want people to care. Now, I realized that was never possible. My Facebook friends weren’t simply unsuspecting victims of my hoax; they were its collaborators. Once they wanted to believe, Fakebook no longer needed to be convincing—it just needed to be rationalized. No one would believe Fakebook if they didn’t believe in the idea of Fakebook just a little bit more.

  The question was…was I starting to believe in Fakebook, too? Was pretending to quit my job and walk across the country just a pragmatic, quasi-believable premise to a practical joke? Was that all? Could I keep calling it a parody when, I realized now, so much of it felt completely sincere? Don’t I also have a longing for a new adventure or the chance to start over?

  I shot the orange street-hockey ball off the corner of the wall, and it deflected out of the court and into a grimy pile of plowed city snow. I scrambled up the pile with my feet cracking the dirty, iced-over surface and sinking in. As I plucked the ball out, I felt some of the city snow begin to melt into my socks. It was time to head home.

  During the walk back, I sent out a post with a caption that felt as honest as anything I’ve ever written.

  Dave Cicirelli

  What a week.

  Like · Comment · Share

  Chris Buske where are you?

  about an hour ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Just south of the border. Long story. I’ll fill everyone in a bit later. Playing on my iPhone is affecting my begging, ha.

  about an hour ago via mobile · Like

  Terrance J Riley haaaa…you have such an uncomfortable smile in this pic. What’s good, buddy?

  25 minutes ago · Like

  Enayet Rasul Can you smuggle some good tequila back to the good old USA?

  3 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli I need to smuggle myself back first…

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Heh, I thought. It’s almost funny: I longed to live in a world where Amadi Johnson wasn’t a criminal. But my Facebook friends longed for a world where Dave Cicirelli was.

  Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic.

  Juror 8 typed away on her cracked iPhone.

  “Can I help you turn off the sound?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s a feature on this model.”

  Juror 10 and I exchanged a knowing look. At least I had tried.

  The bailiff walked in. “No more cases for the day,” he said, hands gesturing up in the air. “Thank you for your service. See you in seven to ten years!”

  And with that, jury duty ended. A half dozen of us went out for drinks afterward in a crappy little bar just up the street. It was an easy environment to bond in—for the past month, we had all shared an experience. It felt appropriate to have a proper send-off.

  But soon enough the crowd dwindled down, as people got back to their families or didn’t want to trek home through the snow. Before long, it was just me and Juror 10.

  We talked for a while about the things we saw at court—the characters in the jury or the funny behavior of some of the more harmless criminal cases. We joked about having a favorite stenographer, or that one lawyer who didn’t know how to tuck in his shirt. Then we talked about our jobs, and how we both felt like it was time to try something new. How she was
working full time and going to school at night, pursuing a new career in fashion journalism and marketing.

  I told her how much that impressed me—that she had the guts to start something new. How I was finding myself especially impressed by that of late—by making a change in direction. Then I teased the aspiring fashion journalist for wearing giant snow boots.

  She laughed and stuck out her foot, as if to model them. When she rested her leg, it was touching mine.

  It was a snowy night, and I offered to hail a cab or walk her to the subway. She opted for the train. It was a long walk, considering the weather. But we trekked the two dozen blocks through puddles and slush, and she jokingly pointed out how dry her feet were inside those boots.

  I suggested we cut through Washington Square Park because it’d be nice to see in the snow.

  I’d had a lot of time during the month in court, during the time at the bar, during the walk through the park, to convince myself that she was too pretty to be interested in me. I’d had plenty of time to convince myself that the past month established a platonic relationship or that it was too soon to try something new after the Dhara disappointment. There were hundreds of reasons to protect myself from rejection.

  But I didn’t think about any of that. A little over a week ago, I’d completely exhausted myself with Fakebook, with work, with relationships. I’d crashed through the wall, and I was still in that echo. I didn’t have the patience for overthinking, for indecision, for cowardice. I wasn’t weighed down by worry. I’d lost interest in trying to navigate the haze of all the things I couldn’t know.

  Instead I focused on what I did know.

  I knew that I was standing there in the center of the park with a beautiful girl in endearingly large boots. She brushed her light brown hair behind her ear. Her hair was dusted by freshly fallen snow. My feet were wet. Hers were dry. And the moment was lingering.

  So I leaned in and kissed her.

  Dave Cicirelli

  Somehow I got down here without a passport, but apparently having one is pretty useful in getting back.

  I’ll fill everyone in on my daring escape that got me here in the first place, but first I need to cry for a few hours—mostly about these international roaming fees.

  Like · Comment · Share

  Elizabeth Lee Why don’t you have your passport?

  3 days ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Shut up, mom.

  3 days ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Seriously, it’s the same reason I left without a winter coat, the same reason I couldn’t handle life in NY, and the same reason Kate cheated on me. I’m a screw up.

  3 days ago via mobile · Like

  Elizabeth Lee You’re not a screw up. lol

  There was no reason for the nasty comment, it was a legit question. Can someone possibly mail it to you? You could rent a PO Box somewhere. Or, do you know anyone visiting Mexico any time soon? It’s almost vacation season in Mexico.

  3 days ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Can some one even get it? I have no idea what was done with my apartment…I just left it. The landlord or new tenant probably used my passport to get a new identity…holy shit.

  3 days ago via mobile · Like

  Matt Campbell Find a US embassy. They may lock you up for being crazy after they hear how you got there…but you should do that before the Mexican police find you…

  3 days ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli

  I’m not sure how to make a poll on Facebook, so let’s do a good old fashioned vote!

  Now that I’m an illegal immigrant in Mexico, what ironic job should I try and get:

  A) Day Laborer

  B) Delivery Boy

  C) Open a Mexican Restaurant

  D) Border Agent

  I’ll also accept write-in votes.

  Like · Comment

  Danny Ross Water tester.

  2 days ago via mobile · Like

  Annette Pandolfo De Luca Open a restaurant. Then you can have your cousin the chef come and help!

  2 days ago via mobile · Like

  Mary Carroll Do they have a Home Depot parking lot? If so, everyday can be a new job.

  2 days ago via mobile · Like

  Stephen Papageorge Work for the cartels since they run Mexico…life expectancy may not be that long but at least you will have money to burn through.

  2 days ago via mobile · Like

  Ted Kaiser Find a coyote to get you back across the border. Although you probably have no money to give them at the moment so I guess try day laborer for a day. You did have a job doing driveways or something once didn’t you? That can be useful now.

  2 days ago · Like

  Elizabeth Lee Option A.

  2 days ago via mobile · Like

  Elizabeth Lee Or u should work at a resort…You might make more cause you speak english.

  2 days ago via mobile · Like

  Matt Campbell Do they need landscapers in Mexico?

  yesterday via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli

  I’m at a bus stop. I found a church that set me up. I’m going on the move to a less heavily patrolled strip of border. I somehow crossed it once…

  If I get into trouble, I can always rely on my signature tequila dance to get me out of a bind.

  Like · Comment

  Amanda Hirschhorn Just like Pee Wee Herman did during his Big Adventure!

  yesterday via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli

  “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

  With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

  I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

  Like · Comment · Share

  Stephen Ortez good luck

  about an hour ago via mobile · Like

  Steve Cuchinello I would guess that it’s a bad idea to try to climb that.

  about an hour ago via mobile · Like

  Matt Campbell You know there may be Minutemen on the other side of that fence? With rifles?

  12 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli Yeah, the temple hooked me up with a group that does this a lot. I should be ok. The embassy is all the way in Mexico City, so I don’t have much of a choice…

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  For Fake Dave, things were moving again. It was a lot of fun putting him into a new adventure and having things move at a quicker pace. Nothing like a deadline to get things going.

  But he wasn’t the only one on the border of where he wanted to go. I was sitting on a leather couch across from a receptionist’s desk, mentally rehearsing my portfolio presentation, about to have my first interview in over half a decade.

  It’s odd…I’d found all of my roommates in New York on Craigslist. I literally gave more than two dozen strangers from all over the world a key to my front door on the sheer faith that some unfiltered message board won’t steer me wrong—but it felt weird looking on the website’s job board, knowing they had a “hand job” board just one tab over.

  But what did I know? Last time I looked for a job, Craigslist wasn’t really a thing. Instead I had a New York graphic design directory and started cold-calling individuals, A to Z, looking for internships. I can’t say I recommend that approach, either. It was long and grueling, and my calls were usually unwelcomed. So I bit the bullet and applied for this Craigslist posting.

  Today, I maybe was a little nervous, but mostly I felt confident. I was hustling. The part of me that had cold-called a hundred art directors was reactivated, and it felt good. After all, judging by the reception area, this looked like a pretty legit operation. Who cared t
hat I’d never heard of LiveWired Products? It was a bustling place, somewhere between cool and crowded. All sorts of people quickly walking around, talking about sales numbers and exchange rates and all sorts of things that you don’t hear in the non-physical marketing practice. It felt like a place where real things happen.

  “Mr. Cicirelli,” the receptionist said. “Freddy is ready to see you.”

  I stood up and followed her to a large conference room overlooking Broadway, with Times Square just visible a few blocks to the north. Freddy was sitting at the large dark wood table. He stood up—he was a short guy, maybe five-foot-four, with his mostly gray hair slightly disheveled.

  We shook hands.

  “How are you? How are you? Please, take a seat.”

  You could tell right away that he was a bit of a character. Maybe a little bit of a hustler himself. I immediately liked him.

  “So,” he said. “Show me your work.”

  I pulled out my laptop and began to go through my portfolio.

  “That’s a very nice laptop,” he said. “Is that yours, or does your company own it?”

  “It’s mine,” I replied. “Yeah, a MacBook Pro, under a year old. I’m still paying it off,” I said with a laugh.

  “Very nice,” he said in a serious tone.

  He opened a bin and spread its contents out over the table. It was full of electronics and accessories. Computer mice, iPhone cases, brightly colored digital cameras geared for children.

  “This is our current product line. Tell me what you think,” he said.

  I began looking through it, looking at both the packaging and the products themselves. It was pretty decent. It was not high end, but they seemed willing to try things.