Fig

By

Robert Ferrigno

It’s time to set the record straight. You know the official version. Now hear the real thing, from the source itself.

Trust me. They don’t call me the Tree of Knowledge for nothing.

From the moment I sprang out of the soil, I said to God, This is a bad idea. Why plant a Tree of Knowledge and then forbid its fruit? The surest way to make a human do something, I said, is to tell him not to. That goes for both sexes. I’m an invitation to trouble. I’m an open door marked Party in Progress; Do Not Enter. I’m a cookie jar with the lid off winking at the kid when the parents are out of the house. There’s no way they’re going to be able to avoid me, I said. One bite and it’s over. They’ll go dashing for those fig leaves and soon it’ll be loincloths, then togas, then three-piece suits and let’s go to the mall. It’s all over, the grand experiment. The being made in Your Image.

He looked at me gravely and said, I know.

I could not follow his reasoning. But before I could ask, poof, He’s gone. I was going to suggest he post a sentry of angels around me. They seemed pretty bored anyway, just hovering around. I mean, how many times can they fire up those glow-in-the-dark swords?

Then along comes the human female. She just stares at me. Appraising. Wondering. Ordinarily I might have found that rude except that I was staring right at her.

I could see she wanted to reach out and touch one of my branches, pluck a ripe fresh fruit. But she drew back her hand and put her finger in her mouth instead. She stood pondering.

Up slinks the serpent. I know he’s charming, I know he can charm a stone into dancing, but I don’t trust him. He suggests she try my fruit. It won’t harm her. Just once, he says. She reaches out and tugs a fig.

By the way, let’s abolish another fallacy right here. I’m a fig tree, not an apple tree. There were no apple trees in the Garden of Eden. I don’t care what those Renaissance painters tell you, I’m the tree. Pig. Which comes in handy, because the first thing she does after swallowing is tug off some of my leaves and start the world’s first fashion trend.

You know the rest of the story. God comes back from his evening walk, pissed. Like I hadn’t warned him. Thunder, lightning, a curse on thee and on thy offspring, all the days of your life. A flaming eviction notice, and the bored angels suddenly become bouncers. The serpent slithers away.

Finally, when all is quiet again in the Garden, the

storm clouds scatter. God sighs a breath of relief. He

turns to me and says, Finally got the kids out of my

hair! I thought they’d never leave! Q