The True and Believable Story of the Invention of Women

Once upon a time, in the days before history was discovered, there were only a few, a very few people in the world, perhaps 50 altogether. And they were all men. As they were all men, they did not, for reasons that will be apparent to the more worldly of you, increase in number but lived an idyllic masculine existence.

They had no knowledge or even awareness of sex and, as a result, they did not suffer from either stomach acidity or ambition, which are, as is well known, the cause of all evil, including death.

The men's normal day (continued on page 180)Invention of Women(continued from page 174) began around 11, when they began making plans for lunch. When not eating or sleeping, they occupied themselves by smoking cheap cigars, hunting, fishing, using foul language, gambling, drinking, quarreling, wrastling, bragging and sweating a lot. In a word, they devoted themselves to those natural pursuits to which the male is congenitally suited.

So that this society could exist in an orderly manner, each man had one job assigned to him. One man, Pablo, was the cheap-cigar maker. Another, Beauregard, was the tobacco grower. Another raised pigs and another was the bookmaker. Sam was a tailor and Casey was a distiller. One, Adamovitch, was the chef, an important position because the men ate in a communal dining hall, which was built, of course, by the carpenters (Charley the framer, Christofsen the joiner and Hans the roofer).

In time the men, as was only natural, became proud of their own specialty or job and considered its practice their personal prerogative and a proper subject for lying and bragging and quarreling. This circumstance was to prove, as we will learn, unfortunate. Because there arose an exception. Although the other men never thought of infringing upon the plumber's right to plumb or the shoemaker's right to make sneakers, they would on occasion do their own cooking. On Sunday morning or late at night, they would often fry a recently trapped rabbit or boil up a mess of beans and pork. Or make sandwiches.

Now, in those days, the men were divided racially, or, to use a more contemporary word, ethnically, roughly along the same lines one finds in the species Homo sapiens today. Some were Teutonic, some Latin, some black, some Oriental, and so on. This, I think, has some bearing on what happened, because Adamovitch the chef was a Slav and, as such, was more apt than some of the others to feel that his honor had been impugned.

Whenever he discovered any of the other men cooking, Adamovitch would fly into a rage. They were, he felt correctly, taking advantage. It was not fair. He threatened and remonstrated but to no avail, and in time he became bitter and, at last, vindictive.

He decided to take steps. "I gone fix all them shitheads," he would mutter. "I don't grow no tobacco. I don't take no bets. They shudden do no cooking."

Adamovitch thought and thought and finally he had an idea. He decided to make a change and, by so deciding, he affected the future of the world, irreversibly, for all time, because change is and always has been destructive and wicked, as that which exists is always better than that which does not exist. If you don't believe this simple maxim, then you obviously have not studied such recorded history as is available concerning the latter-day experiences of the human race.

Adamovitch had figured out that if other men could cook, then he was relieved of the restrictions that kept him from practicing their specialties, so as a first step in his master plan for revenge, he decided to steal some of the secrets of Albert the magician. In those days, there was no skepticism and in the face of a total lack of disbelief, Albert was able to perform actual magic. It was his skill in necromancy that provided the community with such basic requirements as felt for the pool tables, matches to light the cheap cigars and metal equipment for the construction specialists.

Adamovitch began to hang around Albert's workshop and in a few months, he had learned something of the techniques Albert used and managed to steal a number of secret ingredients, such as powdered toad liver, bat's wing and Bi-So-Dol.

These, along with other arcane condiments, he added to a largish lump of dough he was allowing to ferment in the back of his kitchen. The lump of dough was the basis of his plot. He planned to use it to create a New Fellow, a golem, who would be his slave and do whatever he told him. He would, he reasoned, teach the New Fellow to do all of the other men's specialties, to sew clothes, slop hogs, make cigars, etc. He would create chaos. He would get even.

Adamovitch devoted all of his spare time (he still cooked the meals for the other men) to his mysterious project, constantly kneading and rekneading the swelling lump of dough. He began to anthropomorphize the lump and gave it a name, Steve. "Hey, Steve," he would whisper to it as he rolled it about the floor, "we gone fix all them shitheads. You bet."

When questioned about his activity, he merely said he was working on a recipe for a superior soda cracker, and such was the innocence and lack of genuine suspicion in those days that nothing was thought of it.

Finally, at midnight on the first full moon of spring, Adamovitch the chef inscribed a pentagram on the dirty floor of his kitchen and, placing the dough inside it, he began to mold it into a human form. Having no training as an artist, his work left much to be desired. It bulged in some places, was too thin in others and was generally out of proportion. However, it was his own and he viewed it with pride and affection. "Hey, Steve," he said, "you gone be one handsome sumbitch."

When he had the form completed to his satisfaction, he modeled the face, using two jumbo olives for eyes and chicken livers for lips. For a heart he inserted a small pig's knuckle. Realizing his creature needed brains, he filled the inside of its head with oatmeal, to which he added marjoram, rosemary, cumin, bay leaves and peppercorns. He then put a mop atop the creature's head and arranged its worn strands to simulate hair. Stepping out of the pentagram, he studied his creation critically for a full minute before he noticed a singular omission. "Goddamn!" he said. "Hey, Steve, you got nothing to pee with. I fix that." Getting a Knackwurst from the refrigerator, he stuck it deftly into the creature's crotch. "There," he said. "Now you a real regular fellow."

Adamovitch sat down, wiped the sweat from his face and beard and picked up a book of incantations for all occasions he had stolen from Albert. Leafing through it, he picked one at random and began mixing an odd sauce. As he mixed, he intoned the following:

Depilatory, Listerine, Bobby pins and hormone cream, Blood-red paint, a fall of hair, a Pinch of Pan-Cake, green mascara, Pucci, Gucci, Blue Chip stamps, Ortho-Novum, monthly cramps, Playtex, Windex, I. U. D.s, Ohrbach's, tampons, frozen peas, Anacin and Feminique, A page from B. Friedan's "Mystique," Ajax, Sardo, Big Blue Cheer, Steinem, Millett, Germaine Greer!

A cloud of noxious smoke rose at once from the sauce and Adamovitch hurriedly brushed it over his human figure. Finished, he placed it on its back on a long tray and slid it headfirst into the hot oven. Unfortunately, he discovered that the figure was too long, and he had to shove the legs up in order to close the door. This tended to make his creation shorter, lumpier and bulgier in the seat than he had intended.

Then he sat down to wait. Throughout the night, he occasionally opened the oven door and poked at the figure with a long spatula to see how it was coming along. It was dark in the oven and he didn't notice that his prods with the spatula first dislodged the Knackwurst he had attached to his golem and subsequently made a deep crevice between its legs.

Toward morning, Adamovitch the chef fell asleep.

He was awakened around ten o'clock by loud sounds of banging, clanging and swooshing. Leaping up, he saw that his kitchen had undergone a shocking transformation. Layers upon layers of scum and grease had been scraped from his stove, which now glistened obscenely at him. Two tablecloths had been hung up, one on each side of his window. And by the door, the New Fellow was busy (concluded on page 254)Invention of Women(continued from page 180) wielding a mop, scrubbing the floor.

"Hey," Adamovitch said. "Hey, what are you doing? You ruined my stove."

"Things must look nice," the New Fellow said. "Move your feet, you dirty baboon."

"What's a baboon?" Adamovitch said, puzzled.

The New Fellow sloshed a bucket of soapy water over the floor. Adamovitch jumped out of its way. "Cut that out," he yelled.

"Things got to look nice," the New Fellow repeated.

"Listen," Adamovitch said. "You belong to me. I made you. You do what I say." He crossed the room and seized the New Fellow roughly by the shoulders.

"Eeek," the New Fellow said. "How dare you!" He swung his mop in a half circle and caught Adamovitch full in the face. "Go change those dirty clothes," the New Fellow said. "And shave."

"Shave!" Adamovitch said. His face turned red. "Out!" he suddenly shouted.

He seized a cleaver from his chopping block and waved it at the New Fellow. "Out! Out!" he yelled.

The New Fellow dropped his mop and threw up his hands, squealed and ran out the door. Adamovitch looked sadly around at his ruined kitchen. He poured himself a water glass full of drinking sherry.

For several days, the New Fellow lived here and there in the community, sleeping outside or in the dining hall. Naturally, he attracted a great deal of attention at first, because none of the other men had ever seen a New Person before, but the novelty soon wore off and he was accepted. Actually, he was tolerated more than accepted, because he was different. He didn't care for hunting, cheap cigars, bragging, gambling or, in fact, any of the activities that occupied the others. Until Thursday afternoon.

On Thursdays, the men usually had a wrastling contest. Potzo was the current champion, and he, of course, challenged the New Fellow.

The New Fellow for the first time showed an interest in what was going on. He asked what wrastling was and when it was explained to him, he smiled shyly and agreed.

It was really no contest. Potzo easily threw the New Fellow to the ground and seemed to be winning handily when somehow they began rolling around and rolled beneath some bushes beside the river. After a time, the sound of thrashing about in the bushes became more subdued and regular. Potzo was heard making strange sounds.

They did not roll back from under the bushes for some time. When they did, Potzo had a strange expression on his face and was buttoning up his trousers.

"Hey," he said angrily to the few spectators who had remained. "Hey, whatcha looking at?" The others were puzzled by his expression and the tone of his voice. You see, Potzo was embarrassed, probably the first, but certainly not the last time that man had felt this odd emotion.

"Did ya beat him, Potzo?" Pablo asked.

Potzo, normally loquacious, grinned in a silly sort of way and nodded. "Yeah, yeah, sure," he said. Then he reached out, took the New Fellow by the hand and they wandered off toward Potzo's house.

The next morning, the New Fellow had put up curtains in Potzo's house, mopped the floor and was shouting at him to scrape his feet before coming inside. "Things have to be nice," he said. "And no more coming in whenever you want. You have to be on time for dinner. And no more bringing your crumby friends home without letting me know first."

Potzo glared at the New Fellow. "You shut up," he said.

"All right," said the New Fellow, "but if you don't scrape your feet, no more wrastling."

"Who cares?" said Potzo, and he stomped out.

"You'll see," the New Fellow called after him.

Potzo saw.

By dinnertime, he was back with his feet scraped and his hands washed. Two days later, he had shaved his beard and was wearing a clean shirt. That evening, when Adamovitch came around and tried to claim Steve as his personal property, Potzo hit him in the mouth.

Adamovitch went out and began brooding again. He couldn't forget the New Fellow. In spite of his strange manner, there was something nice about him. He smelled good.

After a while (about ten minutes), Adamovitch decided to make another New Fellow. And he did.

And then he made another. And another.

Until suddenly it was too late.