What You Don't Know

What You Don't Know

By G. Robert Frazier

Think you know me? Think it's safe for your kids to come marching up the drive to my front door and ring my bell? Think I'll smile and fill their bags with treats?

What do you know?

I'll tell you. You know what I want you to know about me, nothing more. The rest is just blanks you fill in. That you make up.

For instance:

You know I am an editor for a daily newspaper. Have been for years. So, you fill in the rest. You think that's a respectable profession. You believe I am a respectable person. That I care about truth, integrity, and the right to know. Free speech.

You see me puttering around in my yard once in a while, pruning the garden, mowing. My yard is immaculate. Clean. One of the best in the neighborhood. So, you decide I care about such appearances. You believe I'm respectful of you, my neighbors.

You pass me on the street or we meet in the store or post office. We see each other at the town’s annual Fourth of July celebration. At the annual Christmas parade. At the voting booth. Because you live next door, because you've seen me before, you wave. You smile. And I do the same.

We know each other, don't we?

But, how well do I know you?

How well do you really know me?

We don't share coffee every morning on the back porch. We don't sit next to each other in the grandstands at the high school football game. We don't go to the same church on Sunday. We don't even exchange Christmas cards. We don’t call each other on the telephone and share our day’s events.

I don’t know your parents. I don’t even know if you have a husband. You certainly don’t know any of my family. You’ve probably never seen them, for that matter.

What you know about me, what you think you know, is a lie.

The truth is, I hate my job. I hate the people I work with. I hate journalism in general. You know why? It's fake. Conceited. Arrogant. The media tells you what it wants you to know. Tells you how you should think, act, vote. And if you step out of line, it pokes fun at you. Makes an example of you. Ridicules you.

I don't like to ridicule people. Well, not in public anyway. Not through the newspaper. Behind your back, among my co-workers, yes. I'll ridicule you then. Count on it.

It’s a job, nothing more. A paycheck. A house over my head. Food on my table.

What else? You know I'm unmarried. You probably assume I'm lonely, that I need to get laid. How do you know I'm not? Just because I don't talk about it? Because you've never seen me bring a woman home before?

But I keep odd hours.

Many times I'm not home until well after midnight. You are in bed, aren't you? Or have you been spying on me? Have you wondered why the light is on in the basement until the earliest hours of morning? Have you wondered what those strange sounds are coming from my basement?

Are you afraid to know? Really know?

Have you ever thought about taking a peek?

I keep certain things to myself, the rest you make up. You fill in the gaps.

You know why? Because it makes you comfortable. It allows you to say, "Oh, that's just G. He's okay. A little weird, maybe, but harmless."

But you don't know that. You just say that. If you knew me, really knew me, you wouldn't say those things. You would say instead, "That guy, he's weird. Don't talk to him. Stay away from him."

You certainly wouldn't let your kids come over here on Halloween, would you?

But here they come, all gussied up in their costumes and smiling through false teeth. They ring the bell and holler, "Trick or treat!" And I open the door wide and smile at them and remark, "Oh, those costumes are so scary!" And I fill their bags with candy and watch them walk to the next house. They’re all so cute, so sweet.

But now, the candy bowl is empty.

I close the door and go down to the basement. I flick on the overhead light, put on my work gloves and my apron. I fire up the buzzsaw. I walk over to the young woman hanging from the hook and begin carving her thigh. She stopped screaming days ago, by the way. Did you know that?

I shut off the saw, take off my gloves and apron, and take the candy bowl, filled again with juicy morsels, back upstairs.

The doorbell rings.

I see you standing by the curb waiting while I fill little Jimmy's bag with finger snacks. We wave. We smile.

We know each other, don't we?

The kids disperse as I gently close the door.

WHAM!

The door is suddenly pushed back open from the outside. You and several others armed with guns barge in, all shouting.

You tackle me to the ground.

I roll, throw you off. You careen into a small table in the foyer, knocking everything off it. The gun you were wielding skitters across the foyer out of reach.

I grab your neck in a chokehold. Squeeze tight!

Several others grab at me, trying to pull me off you.

You flail, gag. You reach out, come up with the pencil from my daily crossword --

-- and jab it into my neck!

I stagger backwards, cough up blood and spittle. Fall hard on my back onto the floor.

You loom over me, a sly grin crossing your face as you reach into your blazer pocket. You extract a small billfold. Flip it open to reveal a badge.

FBI.

I chuckle. Blood dribbles over my bottom lip.

I manage to utter a raspy sentence before I die.

“It's funny what you don't know.”

THE END