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If Adam and Eve had been Texicans
Adam awoke and stretched himself for the first time. He caught his reflection in the water, stood sideways and admired himself. God brushed away some dried mud from Adam’s hair and said, “Come on, Son, I’ll show you around.” They walked through the garden. And God said, “It’s all good.” “Well, it looks good,” Adam said. “My compliments.” God smiled. “Thanks. Feel free to eat, drink, smoke, mix, ride, and otherwise enjoy everything you see. Except,” he said, pointing to a pretty tree, “the fruit of that tree, which is the tree of the—” “No problem,” Adam answered, cutting off his Creator. “I don’t much go for that foo-foo shiny lookin stuff, anyway.” “Okay,” God said. “I’ll leave it with you, then.” Adam got busy naming everything. He made camp, caught some—“What did I call those things? Oh yeah, fish.”—and cooked them up. He found the makings for to brew himself a batch of beer. He bottled them each one, each one did he bottle, and he cooled them in the river, in the chilly Pedernales. Three weeks later he popped the top on the inaugural bottle of Eden Primo Red. After a couple of EPR’s, he again observed his profile and noticed a change. “Hey, part of me can fly! Wonder if I can do that all over. Then I could whiz through the firmament with the how-you-say...birds.” He pondered and poked at his new best friend. “I will call you Little Adam.” That was his last coherent thought. Unmindful of any other of his collected molecules, he began to look diligently round about him for a satisfactory way to get Little Adam heading south once more. He auditioned every beast of the field, every creeping thing. God, Gabriel, Lucifer, and Michael looked on with tears in their eyes, for that is how hard they were laughing. They shushed each other (“He’ll hear You!”) and did their utmost to maintain an air of sober, scholarly interest. But the giraffe was too much. They fairly tumbled out of the clouds on that one, wild honey and ambrosia shooting out their noses. God caused a deep sleep to come over Adam, and not a second too soon. The Creator and the Archangels rolled on the ground, gasping, hooting, and slapping their thighs until all vigor was departed from them. “I hope somebody was recording that. Hay-Zeus Christmas, that’s the funniest thing I ever saw.” When Adam awoke, God spoke to him in the garden: “Adam! I have removed a bone from you and made—” He sat bolt upright, making a mad grab for Little Adam. “Whew!” “I said a bone,” God continued. “That’s not a bone. Oh, never mind; you’re gonna call it a bone no matter what I say. Anyway, I have made for you a helpmate.” Gabriel elbowed Lucifer and whispered, “The Gypsy Curse!” Their muffled laughter dang near ruined the moment. Adam gazed upon The Woman. His profile changed again, and with such intensity that he had not loose skin enough left over even to blink his eyes. While Adam was trying to think of something clever to say, The Woman tied a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue. He was very impressed but not sure why. Seems she’d also succeeded in tying his tongue in a knot. When he could speak at last, he blurted out, “Do you come here often?” She winked and said, “Every chance I get.” He offered her a beer. They came to know each other. Several times. After a series of reintroductions, Adam said, “I will call her Piñata, for I have took this stick and did loose many delights, both novel and tasty.” She beamed like a (what’s that thing?) a possum and said, “And I shall call you Sir Prize, for you have found the Holy Grail: The Perfect Taco.” He had no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed to make sense to her, so he let it ride. He spoke to her, saying, “Damn, I’m hungry. What kind of groceries we got?” She searched about with her eyes and said, “Oh, look! I bet those are good.” “What are they?” “They’re the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” “The fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil? What the hell does that mean?” “We’d know right from wrong.” “We already know that. Sounds borin. What else we got?” She scanned the area hastily then said, “Hey, let’s eat that snake!” He slapped her on the butt and said, “Now yer talkin. I’ll start a fire. And we can cut off the head and make a belt buckle out of it.” Eve walked away, putting a little extra swing in her walk, looked back over her shoulder and smiled. He called after her, “And I’ll attach the rattles to a leather strip so you can tie it around yer ankle. Ward off evil.” She hollered back at him, “I’m all for wardin off evil!” Piñata snuck up on the snake, grabbed it by its tail, swung it thrice times in the air, then popped it, like unto a bullwhip, snapping its head off. She sought and found the severed head of the serpent, took it up and looked it in the eye. “There, now, you nasty sumbitch. You just remember that next time you feel like actin ugly around here.” She fetched the serpent back to camp where the happy couple enjoyed the first ever chicken-fried snake. And the snake did remember. The ancestors of that original snake became the best servants and the best protectors. Was it not the snake who showed them, by swallowing its tail, how to invent the wheel, thereby leading to the first rollercoaster? Yes, it was. Many years later, Piñata said, “You know, Sir Prize, God said we could not eat from that tree, but said nothin about us choppin it down for firewood.” And so they did. One of their copious kids, some little peckerhead named Shmegegi, took one of the fruits from that tree and left the Garden with it. Took it somewhere up around what is now Oklahoma and planted the seed. From that seed sprang religion and politics. But everyone who stayed in Texas was safe. And it is true to this day. Any fortunate soul who is born in Texas, and never leaves, gets to live in the Garden.
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