Fakebook

by Dave Cicirelli

  Cheers.

  just now via mobile · Like

  Mark and I let out an evil laugh and toasted my moment of honesty. We even took a photo commemorating the occasion. It was so perfect. It captured my smug look of satisfaction. I was even tempted to post it—to have this image of my shit-eating grin be the definitive end of Fakebook.

  But I resisted.

  And before I had a chance to finish my Four Seasons bison burger with wild boar bacon and crumbled blue cheese that had been aged eight months in an oak cask, Elliott responded.

  Elliott Askew

  Am I the only person following this that thinks Dave’s story is bullshit? I mean…this stuff just doesn’t happen…

  Like · Comment

  Ted Kaiser Who knows, Elliott. It is a mystery of our time like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. What is there to say about Dave? He has been delusional for a while now. He could be in Mexico or just laying in a gutter somewhere in Arizona and just thinks he’s in Mexico. I gave up trying to help him. Dave wanted to see this through, real or not.

  an hour ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli You caught me. I’m actually enjoying a long ski weekend in Jackson Hole. Last night I had a $46 cut of free range Elk steak after a first course of duck sausage. Currently I’m taking a break from the slopes with a glass of Malbec wine at the Four Seasons.

  Cheers.

  12 minutes ago via mobile · Like

  Elliott Askew I called the tattoo shop. They never even heard of Dave Cicirelli.

  just now · Like

  “What?” I blurted out.

  “What’s the matter?” Mark asked facetiously. “They didn’t try to pass off a 2008 Malbec as a 2007, did they?”

  “No…Elliott called Tatooine, and they denied I worked there. Chris was supposed to have me covered!”

  “Wait, Elliott? Elliott Askew? I think I used to babysit him.”

  I ignored him as I frantically dialed Tatooine.

  “Hi, this is Dave Cicirelli. Is Chris Bailey there?”

  “Speaking.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Wait? Is this about that guy from Facebook? I’m sorry, dude. My partner picked up when your friend called. He didn’t know.”

  “All right…” I said, somewhat deflated.

  “Good luck, dude.”

  I put my phone down and took a gulp of wine.

  I don’t know why I underestimated Elliott when I posted my wise-ass truthful response. To be honest, I don’t know if I was even thinking about him when I did it. It was just such an opportunity to get away with yet another thing. Through all this, I clearly still can’t resist the temptation.

  If I’d been thinking clearly, I could have followed Ted’s lead and deflected Elliott’s questions. I could have raised the stakes on him tugging on the thread—after all, he took a risk and called me a liar. If he was wrong and I was actually peso-less, struggling to get back to America after narrowly avoiding total brainwashing by a nefarious cult leader…well, he’d really look like a twat.

  It was checkmate.

  “You all right, Bro?” Mark asked.

  “Yeah…I guess this is it,” I said. “It’s funny. I almost feel relieved. I mean…I’ve been simultaneously courting and deferring this moment for half a year. Part of me…part of me thinks, ‘Let this be it.’”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the mountain. I could see the gondola that we took up that morning go all the way to the peak. My phone was vibrating on the tabletop. The incoming call was from a New Jersey area code. I knew exactly who it was.

  “Hello, Elliott.”

  Elliott Askew was exactly who Fakebook was all about. He was the perfect Facebook friend—an out-of-sight, out-of-mind acquaintance whom Facebook never allowed to stay out of sight.

  Prior to Facebook, we would have had an entirely different and thinner relationship. He’d be a fading memory—someone I knew within a context that long ago expired.

  But the image in my mind of who Elliott is remains sharp—it’s constantly updating on my news feed. Photos remind me what he looks like; posts reflect his sensibility; details give me a bullet-point list of what he is doing, where he is living, who he hangs out with.

  The version of Elliott who inhabits my perception of the world—that character on my personal stage—is a new type of relationship. He’s a memory rooted in real life, in real interactions, in real shared experiences he and I had a long time ago, but that memory has been updated and largely replaced by content offered through his own discretion.

  So rather than fade, Elliott Askew, the memory, has been digitally fossilized, as bit by bit of what was real has been replaced by the 0s and 1s of information—until Elliott Askew has become a digital projection.

  Figuring out what that meant—that’s what Fakebook was originally all about. It was a reaction to this new type of relationship. It was born out of the disconnect between people and the images they broadcast. But right now, Elliott, not his profile, was on the other end.

  “Is this Dave?” His voice was energized. I recognized the reaction from my own—from the surreal moments of Fakebook, like texting my secret foil on the Williamsburg Bridge three months ago. It sounded as if Elliott couldn’t believe any of this was happening. I’d had almost six months to prepare for this, and part of me couldn’t believe it, either.

  “Yep,” I said with a fair amount of fear. “So…you caught me, huh?”

  “So it is all bullshit? You’re still in New York?”

  “Well…my last post was true, actually. I’m in Wyoming, skiing. Heh.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  I wasn’t sure how serious his anger was. He sounded angry, but not exclusively. Like he couldn’t decide what he thought of it all. His entire context of me was shifting. He was bridging the gap between what he’d experienced on Facebook and what was happening in real life.

  “And Ted’s in on it too, isn’t he?”

  “Some people are in on it, but I’ll leave it up to them if they want to be revealed or not.”

  “Ted’s definitely in on it.’”

  I laughed a bit. His anger seemed to subside a little, giving way to amusement. He was solving a mystery, uncovering the twist of this story he’d been following daily. And this conversation—the satisfaction of uncovering the truth—was a payoff.

  “I mean—listen,” I said. “I just want to apologize if this caused you any trouble…That was never my intention. Just the idea for doing this…well, it just seemed inevitable. It just felt like someone was going to do it, and I thought I’d make it funny. I didn’t expect this to be anything more than harmless entertainment.”

  “Oh, it was entertaining. It was so damn amusing. I checked it every day, just to see what was happening next,” he said. “And you’re right. People took it seriously. You were a hero—people would say, ‘Man…work was rough. I want to pull a Cicirelli.’ And I’d be like…‘He almost just died!’”

  “Hahaha…I’m sorry. But things like that, I love hearing that. I’m sorry, though.”

  We talk for a while longer. I could hear in his voice how he was wrapping his head around it. He told me that he’d been pacing around his apartment all day, trying to reconcile my dream quest and the cult and all the oddities with the reality he was clinging to. He told me that he found himself explaining away any discrepancies he noticed. And to my immense satisfaction, he compared himself to a kid who was trying to still believe in Santa Claus.

  I told him that I wouldn’t have doubted a thing if our roles were reversed. It was true.

  “Listen, man,” I said. “I was going to end this thing on April 1 no matter what. I was really cautious at first. To be totally honest, I was scared shitless of getting caught. But I’m past that point now…This thing is coming to an end. I wasn’t going to be able to do i
t forever, and I’m not willing to dovetail it back into my real life…That feels too dishonest.”

  “Have to draw a line somewhere…” Elliott said.

  “Well, yeah,” I replied. “I mean, that’s what’s interesting to me—the complete separation of real life and Facebook. Otherwise it’s just a pointless hoax.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “So, I guess what I’m getting at is…thank you. You helped make this ride so interesting. You, Joe Lennon, Matt Campbell—the whole gang who followed from the beginning.” I look at the mountain again and the trail heading down it. “A bunch of individual posts kind of added up into something, didn’t they? We did something pretty cool, I think.”

  “Yeah…” he said. I could almost hear a sense of loss in his voice. Fakebook was ending. And he was losing it—first he was losing the adventure he’d followed, and now he was losing the adventure he took in unraveling it.

  The conversation ended. I leaned against the faux rustic wood fence and stared out at the landscape. I could feel my legs ache a little from the morning’s excursion. I took a breath of mountain air. The biggest project of my life was ending. But I was glad it had happened here, two thousand miles from my criminally expensive 250 square feet under the Williamsburg Bridge.

  My brother and I went out for a couple of beers. We toasted the end of Fakebook and the return of my life—whatever that was going to be.

  Even though I was mostly at peace with it ending, enough of me was too reluctant to watch it break down. I turned off my phone and retreated to reality. After all, even though Fakebook was essentially over, real life kept going. Tomorrow was Monday, and I’d fly back to the city and go back to my old life. But it wasn’t really my old life. The week ahead was going to give me an answer about a new job. I had dinner plans with a new girl. Chapters close, but the story goes on.

  A bit later, with a few beers giving me courage, I turned on my phone to see the end of Fakebook.

  Elliott Askew

  Am I the only person following this that thinks Dave’s story is bullshit? I mean…this stuff just doesn’t happen…

  Like · Comment

  Ted Kaiser Who knows, Elliott. It is a mystery of our time like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. What is there to say about Dave? He has been delusional for a while now. He could be in Mexico or just laying in a gutter somewhere in Arizona and just thinks he’s in Mexico. I gave up trying to help him. Dave wanted to see this through, real or not.

  3 hours ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli You caught me. I’m actually enjoying a long ski weekend in Jackson Hole. Last night I had a $46 cut of free range Elk steak after a first course of duck sausage. Currently I’m taking a break from the slopes with a glass of Malbec wine at the Four Seasons.

  Cheers.

  2 hours ago via mobile · Like

  Elliott Askew I called the tattoo shop. They never even heard of Dave Cicirelli.

  2 hours ago · Like

  Elliott Askew Actually the tattoo parlor owner just called me back…he was concerned about you. I guess you didn’t cash your last pay check. Not that impoverished I guess.

  2 hours ago · Like

  Joe Lennon So we have real life confirmation on our side of the veil that he worked there?

  about an hour ago via mobile · Like

  Elliott Askew Yeah. I was really surprised by the call back…more horrified really though that this is actually happening.

  about an hour ago · Like

  What? Apparently, Fakebook wasn’t over just yet.

  On Monday morning, I looked over at Mark sitting in the waiting area of the Jackson Hole airport. He looked a little insane, gnawing at a piece of duty-free elk jerky in a futile attempt to wean himself off elk steak.

  It seemed a good time to begin the next chapter of Fakebook—one last big push into absurd character assassination.

  Dave Cicirelli

  The kindness and spirit of my fellow border crossers is really inspiring. I’m simply attempting to go home after my own self indulging run from responsibility. These men and women are enduring great risk as a first step down a difficult and uncertain path to a better life for their families. And still, they share all they have with me.

  Like · Comment · Share

  Dave Cicirelli

  Everywhere around the world

  They’re coming to America…

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  Dave Cicirelli

  Maybe I’ll be a journalist after I return to the real world. I seem to have a great skill in emerging myself into different communities. Maybe one day I can get back in touch with my new hermanos and see where their new lives have taken them. I’m in a great position to tell their story, now that I am so close to them.

  Like · Comment

  This was, of course, all set up for the horrible twist. The second chance to continue this story made me go at it with reckless abandon. Every weird, cruel, and humiliating idea that I found funny but unacceptable to implement was now back on the table. I was living my fake life on borrowed time. And, I figured, if Elliott was willing to throw Joe Lennon under the bus, I should be willing to throw Fake Dave under the bus headfirst.

  So a few hours later, as I touched down in Dallas for a connecting flight, I did.

  Dave Cicirelli

  I panicked. Yelling out “I FOUND THEM!!!” when the Minutemen approached is unquestionably the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.

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  Claire Burke Dude.

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Ray Chan You’re like a modern day Benedict Arnold!

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Kevin Conway Real scummy move Dave…I don’t get you anymore…

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Ted Kaiser I’ve been judging you since you started walking across the George Washington Bridge.

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Erin Brennan Hanson boooooo

  less than a minute ago via mobile · Like

  Dave Cicirelli We were all boned. I didn’t cause that. I thought if I passed myself off as a camper or something I’d at least have a chance. How dare you people judge me.

  just now via mobile · Like

  It was one of the more messed-up posts of Fakebook. Hell, it even gave me pause. But damn it, it made me laugh. It had taken nearly all of these six months for me to get comfortable enough with myself to completely destroy my reputation, and I felt…okay about it.

  After all, that was the plan. I’d started Fakebook to be a self-deprecating, absurdist adventure that would court people’s voyeurism and get people to question what they saw on Facebook. And if Elliott was my audience, then that’s exactly what had happened. I held his interest for nearly six months. I kept pushing Fakebook into stranger places until he couldn’t bury his doubts anymore. I rode it off the rails to where he finally stopped believing it and called me out right on my wall—just like it was supposed to happen.

  But then he surprised me. He changed his mind. When he held the fate of Fakebook in his hands…he undid its destruction. He protected it. There was something powerful about that.

  For so much of Fakebook’s history, it was about pushing things until they became undone. But now that it had happened, it felt so hollow. The story of Fake Dave felt real to me now, despite the strange places it continued to go.

  Looking back at Fakebook as an almost completed whole, I could see there were accidental themes. I actually wasn’t writing a series of unrelated events and Photoshop gags—I was drawn to certain story beats, to certain conflicts. Even when I tried to subvert a belief, I was still guided by what resonated—and what resonated to me also spoke to my audience. I didn’t set out to write a Facebook novel, but it seems I couldn’t avoid doing so. Just like everyone els
e, I was choosing what to post, and my life and my anxieties couldn’t help but be a part of those decisions.

  And that’s why there was a connection strong enough to make a guy like Elliott pace around his apartment, gathering the courage to find out for sure. That’s why he gave me the opportunity to write a real ending. I just had to figure out what it would be.

  Somewhere between responding to people’s judgments and an unsuccessful search for airport elk burgers, the real world chimed in. A job offer arrived from LiveWired. It was exciting—validating even.

  This was something I wanted, but suddenly I became nostalgic for Handler before I even quit. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the LiveWired job. I didn’t want to jump at the first new job presented to me…but I didn’t want to pass on it because I was scared of something new, either. I wasn’t sure what to do.

  I looked over at a big sign just outside the food court. “Welcome to Texas.” Funny, for the first time since Fakebook began, Fake Dave and I were in the same state. Too bad for him, I had the passport.

  Dave Cicirelli

  I’m being taken in for questioning, if that makes people feel any better. They think I’m a coyote.

  Like · Comment

  Dave Cicirelli Oh god…They couldn’t possibly put me in the same cell as these people…could they?

  3 hours ago via mobile · Like

  Matt Campbell Whoah man. I think it is time to get some legal help. You could do some serious time for this.

  3 hours ago via mobile · Like

  Ted Kaiser Putting you in the same cell would be eerily ironic.