How to tell a story

How to tell a story

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Sorry I Don't Trust You

1
Sorry but I don't trust you.
Nothing personal. What's
at work here is bigger
than both of us. It's called
reality.

You see them on TV
all the time, neighbors
shocked by the news
that the young man with
the big smile, who drove
your daughter to the
emergency room, who
drove you to work when
your car didn't start,
turns out to be what?
a pedophile rapist murderer
assassin for the mob
but he couldn't have chopped
up his girlfriend, that sweet
thing? and put her parts
in the freezer in the garage
he gave the kids ice cream
from that freezer this can't be

But it is. Did I mention
I don't trust you?

2
I am old enough to remember
when everyone trusted everyone.
You didn't have to lock your doors
in Milford, New Jersey. You
kept the car idling while you
ran into the post office.

Even in the 1960s, hiking in
the San Gabriel mountains
north of L.A., you could find
a furnished unlocked cabin
with a note on the table:
"Please clean up after yourself
and leave a contribution for
the food you eat. Thank you."

As late as the 1980s in
Elgin, Oregon, I visited
an old friend and found
nobody home, the house
unlocked, expensive belongings
everywhere, stereo and TV,
art on the walls, all there for
the taking, all safe in Elgin.
I waited an hour before
they got home.

I'm old enough to remember
a different reality.

3
That was then.
This is now.

You may be Mother Teresa's
clone. You may be the next
TV pervert. Sorry, but

I don't trust you.