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.
