16 July 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 2

What You Know Now

by JEFF TANNEN

Admittedly, I should have been more dubious at the outset. But Monty had so few achievements to celebrate that I felt obligated to attend the commencement, or whatever it was he had called it.

"It's not a graduation," Carla, Monty's girlfriend, said. "That's probably what he told you, but that's not what it is."

"What is it then?" I asked, taking into account that Carla had once been jealous of an Easter haiku Monty had written for his mother.

"It's one of those cult thingies," she said, sounding like she wanted to whisper, if only for effect.

Again, something should have registered on my dubious meter. Maybe the reason nothing did was because I had had previous experiences with cults and they weren't all bad.

I had volunteered and worked, in various capacities, for the semi-notorious Peppino family, Amway, and the Sierra Club—but none of them seemed to have the clout that Monty's organization did. I could tell the minute we entered the windowless brick building that they weren't any old run-of-the-mill outfit. The men and women in charge wore wire-rimmed spectacles and power watches. They had gelled hair, pressed suits, and spit-shined shoes. Security wore earpieces just like secret service agents and weren't afraid to openly wield their electric stun batons, which they held at the ready during the entire two-hour spiel.

Although Monty had put me in compromising situations before, and on a few occasions in immediate peril, I thought he might be doing me a service for once by dragging me to that meeting. I was especially impressed by the Grand Professor's eloquent speech which began: "Ladies and Gentlemen, you have to ask yourselves one question here tonight—how can you live with the disgrace of knowing that you are nothing if not a Who Knower?"

As intrigued as I was by the opening, I don't think most of the other investigators (as we were referred to) shared my enthusiasm. They began grumbling to the people who had brought them, shifting in their seats, probably wondering when the graduation ceremony would begin.

"Who Knower," the Grand Professor repeated. "It just has an ugly ring to it. But what can we be if we are not Who Knowers?"

One of the members raised her hand, displaying an animated set of spirit fingers.

"Yes, Scholar Patsy? What is it we have the potential to be?"

"What Knowers!" she shouted feverishly.

"What Knowers!" the GP repeated, pulling down a screen behind him that read, in big block letters, WHAT YOU KNOW.

"Investigators, your scholar friends have invited you here tonight to educate you on a subject you've been misinformed about your entire lives. You're here tonight to discover the power of what you know and to renounce your dependence on who you know. You cannot go through life relying on others to do things for you. You have to take the initiative and start being responsible for yourself."

Following the GP's homily were several testimonies from members who were still coping with guilt from all the special deals they had received from their travel agent connections, the bar tabs they never paid because the restaurants were owned by family, and the cuts they had accepted to get to the front of the lines at amusement parks and sporting events. At one point I had to wipe a tear from my eye as a woman confessed to receiving a dishwasher from her husband for Christmas. "As if accepting a gift weren't bad enough, I was making the dishwasher responsible for cleaning my dishes," she sobbed.

Some other investigators weren't as enchanted by the testimonies as I was. They cursed under their breaths the whole evening. Sighed or yawned every time a member professed their allegiance to the cause. One woman (I thought) took quite a bit of responsibility for herself by beating her husband senseless with the investigator pamphlet before security was able to remove her from the building.

At the end of the meeting the Grand Professor asked those of us who wanted to change our lives for the better to form a line at the podium. One by one we took responsibility for all the friendships we had corrupted, all the acquaintances we had used. In the fervor of the moment I told off Monty in front of the Grand Professor, God, and all his fellow scholars.

"You exploited our friendship by bringing me here tonight," I said. I paused for effect, doing my best to appear offended. "But because I wasn't responsible enough to find my own way to What You Know, well, I guess it's okay."

For a moment the members seemed stunned, the investigators dazed. Then the Grand Professor began to applaud, setting off a chain reaction of clapping and whistling among the audience. (I didn't know until later that Monty received a reprimand for using our friendship to get me to the commencement, which cost him nearly three hundred of his hard-earned dollars.)

Once the responsible investigators had been granted membership into What You Know and the covetous ones had left the meeting, only to return to their shallow Who Knowing lives, Monty and I went to our favorite tavern, The Ragged Duke, for a celebratory cocktail.

"Why are the initials for the organization WYKN?" I asked, sucking the head off my pilsner.

"What You Know is a relatively new organization," he explained and pointed to the header on my certificate of membership that read: Empowering individuals with a sense of responsibility since 1983. "It was launched to counter the less successful organization Who You Know, which was founded in the late seventies by a conman named Norman Lawler. Even though his two-bit union didn't stand the test of time, he still owns the WYK trademark."

Monty was full of useful knowledge about WYKN. He told me that membership had doubled every sixth year over the last decade and that the organization was a proud sponsor of other philanthropic societies like MADP (Mothers Against the Disbursement of Pez) and the International Penguin Class Dinghy Association.

Monty was so excited about my membership that he not only offered to pay for our drinks (which I couldn't let him do since I was now taking responsibility for myself), but he let me borrow his directory of WYKN approved businesses.

"These are the only establishments we're allowed to conduct business with or work for," he said matter-of-factly.

I examined the list and rubbed my eyes.

"Where's the rest of it?" I asked.

"Well, it may not look like much now, but more businesses are complying with our standards every day." He tossed back the last of his beer and slowly shook his head. "The world we live in lacks integrity, my friend. We're part of a cause to restore dignity to the human race."

Those were the words I repeated over and over to myself when I went in to work the next morning to offer my resignation. It killed me to do it, but I was living by a new code of ethics and I would have been a hypocrite if I didn't abide by them. When I told the principal, Mr. Richards, that I could no longer teach my fifth-grade class, or work for the school district in any capacity, he of course wanted an explanation.

"I'm out to make the world a better place now," I said.

"What can be nobler than educating the leaders of tomorrow?" he asked, as if repeating a slogan he had heard on a government-funded PSA.

I glanced at the cheat sheet WYKN had given me for when I was confronted by Who Knowing questions.

"There's no excuse for mediocrity," I said. "Even blank needs to be more responsible. I mean, children. They need to be more responsible."

"I couldn't agree with you more," he said.

I skimmed the cheat sheet again.

"It's time to bring knowledge back to the workplace," I said, with a little less confidence.

"Absolutely."

Mr. Richards waited patiently for me to pull out another whopper, but I could see he wasn't going to let me leave without a fight. I decided to come clean and t