Fakebook (7 page)

Other than a few self-aggrandizing flourishes, that's exactly what had happened in real life. Yes, I was that kid. The high school senior easily (if a bit facetiously) enraged by the federal tax policy. Yes, it led me to write an angry email to several Amish webmasters, ending with the phrase “You suck.” Yes, one sent back a vaguely menacing response full of my personal details that suggested, among other things, a deep familiarity with IP address technology.

And yes, I backed down immediately.

I knew that my Facebook friends would remember the incident and that it would remind them of how strange life can be. It also struck me as a good opportunity to continue a story that had just sort of stopped. Here was my chance to write the missing next chapter—and I could say whatever I wanted. After all, in light of the apparent Web savviness of the Amish, what do any of us really “know” about them? They're somewhere off to the side of our cultural radar. They are the Facebook friends of our cultural landscape.

Now that I had revived this old feud, I could write almost anything about it…I just had to write quickly. The moment I posted my proclamation, I'd subjected myself to the unrelenting deadlines of creating fiction in real time. While Facebook grants plenty of opportunities for second-guessing after posting, there's no room for revision. There's only a never-ending sense of urgency—every passing moment is a part of your story. Everything is happening “now.” And while each of my posts had the potential to create a loose thread that could unravel the whole story, a lack of posts would raise suspicion, too.

Earlier, I described Fakebook as a giant red button marked “Do Not Push.” Now the button was flashing. Was it an ignition? Or a self-destruct? Either way, I carried it around in my pocket at all times—even at the grocery store.

In the chips and dip aisle of my neighborhood grocery store, my eyes lingered on a nearby candy display. I took out my phone, logged on to Facebook, and sorted through my photos until I found the images I'd prepared. I smiled nervously at the ridiculous thing I was about to make true.

All I had to do was press a button, and it would have happened.

But I hesitated and put the phone back in my pocket. I bought a pack of M&M's and walked out of the store. The clock continued to tick.

The first few weeks of Fakebook hadn't gone as planned. I was completely stunned by its immediate impact, and I'd desperately come up with ways to avoid taking the next step. Like it or not—and I didn't like it—my profile was my reputation, and I had put it on the line for something I'd started but really didn't understand. Was I just doing something funny and entertaining, or was I exploiting my friends and their repressed longings? I didn't know. I still don't know. I just knew I needed to land this thing on my own terms.

I stopped at an intersection. I ate a handful of M&M's without really tasting them. I glanced across the street. People were walking out of the costume shop with their store-bought make-believe, and I took my phone out again. The clock was ticking. I had to do this now, or it was all over.

“To hell with it.”

It was almost Mischief Night, and I wanted to toilet-paper something.

So I did.

Mission accomplished.

“Don't take my picture.”

I was sitting in a booth at one of the many East Village faux dive bars, with my hand extended out to block the camera's line of sight. I was at a birthday party for one of my coworkers at Handler, and it had only been a few hours since I branded myself a hate-criminal farmhand.

“Damn paparazzi,” I said.

“Are you serious?” the confused birthday girl asked.

“Yeah, I am—I can't be tagged in photos at some bar. People think I'm living on a farm.”

“You're so weird.”

“No, he's brilliant!” Joe stepped in. “And so is Fakebook.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

“It's also kinda fascinating.” Christine joined the fray. “He's discovering what people are willing to believe—how much of what they see online they're ready to accept.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

They debated for a bit, and I let them have at it—I was on both sides of the argument. The conversation eventually moved on, but my thoughts lingered.

I'd been well accustomed to the thrill of a successful prank, but this one was different—the sense of danger was weirdly divorced from the moment. There was no grand catharsis, no single instant for me to realize that I'd “gotten” them. I was never in the room to watch my audience's reaction. I had almost no sense of whether I was fooling everyone or even fooling anyone.

Meanwhile, the usual suspects were posting on my wall, but they only made up a fraction of my hundreds of Facebook friends—so what did that mean? How far down had the hoax taken root? How many people were falling for it? I just didn't know.

A large part of me was on that farm with Fake Dave, keeping tabs on the timeline, making sure his story unfolded at the right pace. Another part of me was back in Red Bank, wondering how my hometown was reacting to Fakebook. There was only a little bit left of me in the moment.

After a few minutes, my phone vibrated, rousing me from my thoughts. It was a text from an old friend, Jason.

“I don't do Facebook…but that doesn't mean I'm not following you. Hang in there. People love you.”

Jay and I had been close friends back in grade school, but I hadn't seen him since his wedding a year earlier. I didn't know how to respond, so once again, I just ignored it.

I ended up leaving the birthday party early and started walking home along Avenue B, checking my profile at every street corner. Jay's text made it clear that my wall was a poor indicator of exactly who was paying attention. Were people just hesitant to get involved? Were they embarrassed to admit to being audience members? Whatever the reason, this was bigger than it looked. People were talking about it. If not over the Internet, then over beers.