A Girl Is A Dangerous Thing (10 Minute Free Write)

I knocked on his door to see if he was OK. The apartment manager had sent me, suspecting the tenant was having trouble, maybe his health was failing, maybe his mind was going. It was my job to identify needs and offer resources. I thought I heard a rustle behind the door, but no answer. I rang the bell. His bell was the first I had rung all day that worked perfectly as it was designed. It made an off-key bing-bong triggered by the push and release of a black button just underneath the peep hole. The tenant opened the door as wide as his own body and leaned out into the hall. I introduced myself with a smile, patting my chest as I said my name. He remembered me perfectly from his visit to my office a year ago.

He opened his door wider and invited me in. I realized how warm the hallway was as the cold threw its arm around me in his apartment. He was wearing a scarf that looked hand knitted. But his bald head was bare. I wasn't sure how he could feel warm, it had to be under 50 degrees in his one-bedroom apartment. And bird-thin 80 somethings are notoriously cold blooded. My goal was to see if he was having any problems keeping up with his housekeeping or personal hygiene. So far so good, though his apartment was cluttered there was no odor. And clutter was about all he had.

I saw only 4 pieces of furniture in the living room area: three wooden folding chairs and a wooden TV tray aspiring to a desk. On the wall above the make-shift desk was a sizable collection of clippings from newspaper and magazine stories featuring aliens. They were all the short, gray-skinned variety with the large egg-shaped head and black eyes. On another wall were several pictures of a dark-haired man with dark skin and an infectious smile.

I asked him about his income, his recent troubles, and his options for assistance. He talked to me about UFOs, abductees, the Baba who gave him the gift of fragrance, how he'd lived most of his adult life in sexual abstinence, and parthenogenesis. He had studied Hinduism at the Theosophical Society. He had served in the Army. His eyes shone as he told me that one in every 100 women was parthenogenic. I was a blue-gill hooked on his line. Who are those women and how could we tell them apart? For him it was enough that they existed.

They are the perfect essence of humanity, women born of woman without sperm -- the ovum splitting into itself, imploding into an embryo. The perfect being. Was it possible Jesus was really a parthenogenic woman? I kept that question to myself. I remembered reading about a woman who had been knocked unconscious during a bombing in London during WWII and who later found herself to be pregnant. The only explanation for her pregnancy, since she claimed she hadn't had sex and no one could prove her wrong, was that her ovum had spontaneously fertilized itself. This theory was supported by the baby herself when she grew into a tiny carbon copy of her mother. Her conception was at once a rejection of millions of years of reproduction and a leap into immortality and divinity. That little girl represented a world without men.

The man tapped a one inch square baggie that was pinned to the wall under a photo of the dark haired man. That's the last little bit of the fragrance, condensed from what's left over after incense is burned....