Fakebook (3 page)

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:

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 grit. 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:

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?”

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.

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.”

“So I should say things like, ‘Be brave, stay safe, your family loves you'?”

“You'd be that supportive?” I asked. “I'm glad to hear that, because I've actually been thinking about doing something like this for real.”

“Don't be stupid,” Ralph responded sternly.

“Yeah! Exactly! That kind of stuff, like how I should think about my future, act responsible…”

“You
should
be thinking about your future! I'm serious. Maybe it's time you at least look into getting your teacher degree—for the benefits. And then maybe consider getting yourself a nicer place to live.”

I'd accidentally triggered an argument we'd been through a hundred times. I felt myself getting fired up, but then I remembered the coffee shop girl, who was probably still inside watching me. “All right.” I took a deep breath. “This is good stuff, but let's save it for Facebook.”