“Mankind Through the Ages”

A Brit stuck in the body of a Californian, Scott Bradfield has divided his time between the US and his beloved London for the past 25 years. The latter is the city where he does most of his writing nowadays, and he recently helped start the UK’s first creative-writing MFA program at Kingston University. Scott’s latest stories about perverse human and animal behavior can be found in his most recent collection, Hot Animal Love: Tales of Modern Romance (Carroll & Graf) and the forthcoming The People Who Watched Her Pass By (Two Dollar Radio). He also writes regularly for Bookforum, thefanzine.com, and the New York Times Book Review. His work has also appeared in Black Clock, the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Fence, and Neue Rundschau. When asked what inspired this particular story, he said: “I like to write stories about characters with whom I can identify—cynical, overly philosophical world-weary mutts, joyously adulterous penguins, pigs and wolves working together, and even those weirdest of animals (us) wrestling with loneliness, disenchantment, disillusion, and too much (or not enough) love. ‘Mankind’ was written in the dim phosphorescent hum of a flickering suspicion that some of us guys probably seem pretty primitive to some of you girls. (But that doesn’t necessarily make you any better, or wiser, or de-ethnocentric than us.) Sometimes we live together like anthropologists and the objects of their research—which is obviously a lot better than not living together at all.” Ever since awakening to this strange and forbidding dream called the 21st century, Og had been feeling crucially displaced and lonesome. One moment he was sneaking a quick nap in an icy cavern—the next he was rousing thickly among drippy stalactites with nothing but a half-eaten mastodon sandwich clutched in his drenched and hairy hands to remind him of home. Then, staggering outside in all his soggy glory, he found everything transformed. The steaming swamps were paved over with freeways and hivelike condominiums. The apocalyptic red sky had turned smoggy and gray. And Og’s entire hunter-gatherer society had vanished into something called a Service Economy, which meant that the now-prevalent race of pale, overdressed humanoids occupied their days eating prefried meat out of cardboard buckets and selling third-world manufactured crap over the internet. Suddenly, Og only caveman in town, Og bemoaned to Cindy, his tightly spandexed bartender at the Muskrat Grill in Van Nuys. Friends and family all dead as dinosaur bones, and no matter how hard Og try, he never master newfangled conventions of daily life, such as establishing good credit rating at Best Buy or making left-hand turns in two-lane traffic during rush hour. I mean, what good is survival when you keep falling behind in Advancement of Species? Not that Advancement of Species mean anything to Og. But it always mean a lot to Og’s mom. Back in the Pleistocene, cavegirls had considered Og a great provider, but only an OK lay. This meant that while they happily gorged themselves on any freshly slaughtered beasts Og dragged home from the Tribal Hunt, they preferred the romantic offerings of every rival caveman in an intriguingly rumpled loincloth. With the coming of the Modern Age, however, Og’s reputation suffered a notable (and not entirely unwelcome) sea change. Modern girls, it turned out, thought sex with a caveman was fine and dandy. Just so long as he didn’t hang around during the awkward morning after. Sleeping with you, Og—and I hope you take this as a compliment—is like degrading myself down to the level of the primitive. Og had met Trudy Worthington while watching the NCAA championships at a Brea sports bar. Then, after some heavy groping in a vinyl booth, he had whacked her over the head with his mahogany love club and transported her home in a cab. When I’m with you, Og? I hear jungle drums in the darkness. I feel imbued with animal rhythm and heat. And when we make love, I don’t feel like boring know-nothing old Trudy Worthington anymore. I feel like Philomena, Queen of the Amazon, riding my man down the steaming Nile of my loins. I am the stone, Og, and you are the ax, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me, especially after the guys I’ve been dating. So what I’m trying to say, Og, is have yourself a really great life, OK, and don’t ever call, especially when I’m at the office. I mean, if a girl wants recreational sex and a career these days, she’s got to make some pretty tough choices. And my latest tough choice, Og, just happens to be you. The funny thing about the primitive, Og thought, is that it only makes sense when it isn’t around. Racing breathless through the heated jungle. Mating with toothy cavewomen in the long grass. The fundamental boom-ye-boom of native drums in the darkness. Og didn’t miss the primitive, exactly. He missed being part of something bigger than himself. What color was the sky, Og? Stan Chambers, a graduate student in physical anthropology at Cal State Fullerton, was writing his doctoral dissertation on Og’s remarkable life story. Entitled Implicate Form: The Caveman as Monotheistic Totalitarian in the Age of Thermostatic Recursion, it had inspired high hopes in many members of Stan’s department, especially Stan. Were there any peculiar atmospheric disturbances you recall? Sky very yellow, Og replied bluntly. Except when volcanoes erupt. Then it more like mix of purple and red. Did you prefer raw meat, Og? Or did your tribe cook it over a common fire, thus establishing mutually reinforced kinship traditions? Basically, Og drag wooly mammoth into camp, and everybody tear it limb from limb. Og never pay attention to food preparation, though, since Og happily eat anything that fit in mouth. What about your tribe’s political organization, Og? How did group leaders single themselves out from the pack? Man with biggest club win. What about courtship rituals and child-rearing techniques? Man with biggest club get all the women. Man with biggest club get all the respect from the kids. What about written language? Oral history, racial memory, a collective sense of outrage and guilt? What deep structure of primitive storytelling do we hominids share, regardless of race, sex, or place of natural origin? Sometimes, when Stan looked especially earnest, Og felt a weird rush of maternal tenderness lift in his chest. Back in the Stone Age, if a guy like Stan came wandering into the tribal encampment shooting off his mouth—pow. They’d have skinned him alive and boiled him in a pot. As Og try to explain, man with biggest club tell all the stories, fuck all the women, and eat food any way he like. No such thing as level playing field in Stone Age, Stan. More like every-caveman-for-himself cannibal feast. Og never knew what to do with himself when women weren’t around. Usually he just watched too much commercial television, browsed through superhero comics from the local newsstand, or dialed the occasional 1-900 number, where girls with husky voices talked dirty to him while he tenderized steaks in the kitchen with an undersize wooden mallet. Do you know what I really love about you? Alvinia O’Leary asked Og rhetorically over freshly barbecued ribs at her place. In a city filled with go-getter guys who’d rather save a buck than take off their pants, you’re not afraid to give a girl what she needs. So how you doing with those ribs, honey? I’ll move that endive salad out of your way, and we can take a ride on my new water bed, which I’ve had reinforced with this woven-steel underlining. It cost a pretty penny, but I don’t care. From what my friend Trudy Worthington tells me, you’re worth it. Before Og could properly digest his meal, Alvinia had taken advantage of Og in a series of startling positions hastily adopted from her well-thumbed trade-paperback edition of Prolonging Your Life Through Orgasm. And before he knew it, Alvinia was handing him his loincloth and showing him the door. Sometimes, urp, Og feel like temporal freak who live in totally wrong generation, Og confessed to his cabby, a laconic clutch jumper and night school dropout named Mel. It like he can’t ever grow or develop, urp, because his brain mired in backward-thinking concepts of ancient Pleistocene. Og very much want to build progressive, non-gender-specific relationship with New Age lady of proper size and dimensions. But every time lady make demands, Og can’t help himself. Og give woman what she want, without ever getting what he want in return. Og returned to his smelly studio apartment and found half-gnawed soup bones on the floor, dirty dishes everywhere, dead flies in the sink. It was amazing, Og thought, how hard one worked in order to maintain the cheap veneer of civilization. Then, the moment you let your guard down, wham. The primitive was all over you like a cheap suit. We like to think we’re responsible for history, Stan Chambers announced that Friday at the 27th National Conference of Anthropological Research. But more likely it’s history that’s responsible for us. We aren’t self-determining creatures, willing ourselves into existence by the sheer force of our animal being—and I don’t care what they say on Oprah! Rather we’re opportunistic nonentities who leap into any current that will take us. In other words, human beings don’t adapt over time. They just remain eternally, pathetically the same. For two days now, Og had wandered aimlessly from one sparsely attended colloquium to another, trying to make sense of such weirdly punctuated panel topics as “De[con]struc(t)ing Australopithecus” and “The Urge Toward Biodiversity: Primitive (Wo)Man’s Genetic Differential Component.” So far as Og could tell, the most significant fact to be unearthed from this doodah was that nobody attending it ever got laid or found anything at the thinly stocked buffet tables better than stale bagels and metallic-tasting cheese spreads. Take, for example, Og, Stan said— —and Og, behaviorally cued, stood abruptly at half-mast, swung his knobby arms about, and glared menacingly at the weaseliest-looking audience members. Og’s a caveman with a profound disrespect for authority, Stan continued. Og’s a red-meat lover, so just forget about serving him coleslaw. When it comes to the 20th century, Og’s still got about 2 million years left to catch up. Unless, that is, we start reassessing what Civilized Man is all about. With Stan’s support and encouragement (not to mention a hefty grant from Carnegie Mellon) Og acquired a new perm, a double-weave linen sport coat, and an industrial-strength bottle of Acqua Di Gio for Men. He moved into a larger, more tastefully appointed two-bedroom duplex in Hancock Park, replaced all the boob-oriented men’s magazines on his bathroom footstool with trendy newsweeklies and mail-order catalogs, and stopped worrying about who he really was and what he really wanted. The important thing to keep in mind, Og, Stan reiterated from time to time, is that Modern Man only cares about who you appear to be. Because while civilized girls might appreciate a little rough stuff now and then, what they’re really looking for is a guy who can pay the bills, accumulate money-market funds, and rise through the corporate hierarchy by means of his genetically granted ability to suck up to others. Professor emeritus Justin P. Greenslade and all those other tenure-soft phonies may laugh, Og. But we’re gonna prove that it’s not what’s in your cranium that counts. It’s knowing when to say no to lapels, and when to say yes to French cuffs. Stan refused to let Og hang out in sports bars anymore. He sold his stone pallet to a high-quality gravel manufacturer and his love club to the Museum of Natural History. Then he burned Og’s various mammoth-skin jerkins and loincloths at a beach-party bonfire, donated his frayed velour pullovers to the Goodwill, and even junked his old answering machine in favor of one of the new high-tech digital varieties. The Answer Mate 5000 was, according to its multilingual operating instructions, a miracle of modern technology, since it not only logged the time and date of incoming calls but dispensed curt, preprogrammed replies to all those retro-people from Og’s past who refused to leave well enough alone. Hi, Og, it’s me. Darrell Mulcahey from your dating support group, and I was wondering why you’ve stopped making our meetings. After all, the group isn’t about you, Og. It’s about all those concerned individuals who helped you when you needed them— Beep. —Sorry, Darrell, the Answer Mate replied, while Og was showering off his heavy-duty depilatory cream in the orange-tiled bathroom. But Og no longer need ego-centered, deity-worshipping 12-step therapy to keep warm at night, since Og into neo-Lacanian analysis, which stress personality as product of social codes and symbol formations. Og wish everybody at dating support all the luck in the world, though. And hope they learn to outgrow old-fashioned behavioral analogies before it too late— Beep. Hi, sweeties, I couldn’t help wondering why I haven’t seen you at the gym. It’s me, Alvinia, and I know it’s breaking my one-date rule and all, but I wondered what you’re doing tonight. A friend of mine dropped by some amyl nitrate and a plunger, and of course the first person I thought of sharing them with was good old Og— Beep. —Sorry, Alvinia, but Og no longer obsessed with reliving dead-end relationships. From now on, Og not dating until he get to know himself deep inside and understand what direction he want to take with future lifestyle agenda— Beep. OK, Og, I’m getting sick of your goddamn prerecorded messages, and if you don’t get your hairy butt down to Allied Movers in the next two hours you can just forget about your job, your medical insurance, and your luncheon vouchers— Beep. Thank you for calling, Mr. Morgenthal, but Og leaving job as piano hauler in order to seek more challenging position in either high-tech or public-relations industry. Og want opportunity to use creative side of brain instead of just brute strength. So best of luck, Mr. Morgenthal. And best of luck to your lovely wife, Mrs. Morgenthal, with whom Og enjoy many fun times while you at last month’s sales conference in San Rafael— The Answer Mate was the sort of technological innovation Og could never have dreamed up for himself, like remote control or Presto logs. In fact, it made Og realize that civilization wasn’t quite so tricky as he originally imagined. All you really needed was to live near a decent high-tech superstore and keep up with the minimum payments on both your Visa and your American Express. Believe me, Og. I know that looking good is no piece of cake. Stella Dufresne was Og’s favorite grad student from Stan’s department, since she was attentive, attractive, and had, on more than one occasion, publicly refused to sleep with the department chair, no matter how many letters he contributed to her dossier. When I was young? I was always getting my legs waxed, or my nose bobbed, or my eyebrows plucked. I once even considered a boob job. You wake in the morning after the anesthetic wears off and I don’t know, it’s like familiarizing yourself with a new set of skin. Your tongue can’t find the old grooves of your teeth. Your bottom feels tight in all the wrong places. Now be careful, Og, and stop pulling at your hairnet. The grafts will heal in a couple of days, and once you start using the talcum powder, nobody will even notice the sutures. And please let me say, Og, that I really respect what you’re doing for science and all. Most men these days? They never care about anything except getting their leg over or watching some stupid sports event on ESPN. When Og made the cover of Paleontology Today (wearing a snappy handmade suit by Vuitton and a pair of sea-blue-tinted contact lenses), Stan bought him a Honda Civic with their subsequent Fulbright, and he was soon strutting his stuff at job interviews and career-placement seminars. For the first time in his stooped, craggy existence, Og could do no wrong. In Taos a week later, Stan was so nervous he forgot Og’s moisturizer, so, at the last minute, they dispatched Stella to a pharmacy in a cab. Nevertheless, Stan’s keynote presentation was a hit. Og’s fellow suspects in the lineup of other muscle-bound, overdressed men included a semipro discus hurler, a gay travel agent, an overweight grease monkey from Whittier, and a second-string action-adventure superstar now fallen on hard times. One by one, Stan called the academic community’s most well-respected skeptics to the stage. Justin P. Greenslade was nonplussed. Aurora Leigh Carmody blamed her stymied vision on the overhead lighting. And the entire UCLA anthropology department were later spotted weeping into their wine spritzers. It was Stan’s finest hour. Nobody picked Og as the caveman. Everybody picked the retired news anchor from CNN. Years passed. And Og, true to his species, made many terrific advances. Pursued across flaming deserts by leathery pterodactyls. Hearing the wild cry of beasts in the night. Skidding across frozen valleys. Tar pits bubbling open beneath his feet. Sometimes, rousing from dreams of the forgotten life, Og found himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Blue-contact-lensed pupils, cosmetically implanted dimples, smooth, flat brow, and well-rouged cheeks. Og was civilized, whether he liked it or not. What about mating habits, Og? Do you still fulfill your antedated role as mating initiator? Or have you finally opened up to a more heterogeneous display of mutuality and sharing? There were times when Og still had no idea what his friend Stan Chambers was talking about. Other times, though, Stan came through loud and clear. Ever since babies arrive, Og work hard many hours each day, with little time left over for fun stuff. Some nights, Og roll onto woman, or woman roll onto Og. Og usually half-asleep, though. Sometimes he think maybe it only a dream. Ever since Stan had accepted a prestigious chair at an Ivy League university, he had given up his Perrier in favor of large icy gin and tonics. He sipped reflectively at one of them now. What about group-feeding dynamics, Og? Do you eat together as a family unit? Or does everybody come and go as they please? Og eat bran muffin every morning from Starbucks. Light fish or chicken salad for lunch. Pasta for dinner, olive oil and pesto, no cheese. Og’s bowel movement right on schedule every morning. Like special-delivery package from UPS. How about your children, Og? Are they growing up as well-centered individuals? At the mention of his children, a wave of nostalgia passed through Og, causing him to gaze around fondly at his rec room, where he had established a series of costly diversions over the years. The regulation-size billiards table. The pottery wheel and loom. The electronic drum set, the upright piano, and the PlayStation. Each item had worn its peculiar geometry into the sea-green deep-pile carpet, like bones and striations of bones at an archaeological dig. Baby Gar diagnosed with attention deficit disorder, Og replied after a while. Then spend time in reformatory after incident with neighbor’s poodle. But once Baby Gar mature past puberty, he become well-liked and much-sought-after boy. Baby Soft, on other hand, take after her mom. She engaged to building contractor in Reseda. But won’t get married till she finish degree. Ever since tenure (not to mention his third marriage to a grad student) Stan’s career ambitions had gone the way of the dodo. He never got around to publishing his long-anticipated opus, Og: Last of His Species. He never attended another PSA conference. And he never completed a single interview session with his old friend Og without falling fast asleep on the sofa. Some nights, after covering Stan with one of the mothball-scented baby blankets from the garage, Og would take his Yamaha out for a spin into the high amber hills of Santa Ynez. Out here, the skeletal frames of housing estates stood watch over the valley like the headstones of a dinosaur graveyard, and Og felt like a child again, flying across a universe of fire and ice. Here he rediscovered the constellations of his youth. Kar-Mak-Mog, the Beast Slayer. Krak-Lar, the Flying Demon. Or even Bog-Flak-Bog, the Meat King. The sort of gods who made men realize their insufficiency. After all, Og reflected, the night isn’t filled with all this Big Dipper, Little Dipper nonsense. The night is filled with memories of power.

Then the wheels of his cycle would find the next lift of road, and Og felt a corresponding lift in his heart. It was almost like flying. Like flying back into the world where Og truly belonged. Eventually, though, Og’s Yamaha would run short of fuel, or Og would need to empty his bladder. And now that Og was well past 50, emptying his bladder was a lot easier said than done. Can I help you? the slightly tarnished waitress asked when Og arrived at Neptune’s Net on the PCH. Or would you prefer to seat yourself, honey bun? Og preferred the wobbly aluminum tables and cracked plastic chairs of the road-front patio, even at night when a chill sea mist was blowing. Sipping his coffee and consulting the stained menu, he couldn’t decide between the Prawn Salad Diet Plate or the Lo-Cal Lobster Bisque. It took him almost a full minute to realize he was being watched. Big fella like you should be checking out the T-bones. Standing just behind him, the waitress announced her presence by tapping Og’s menu with her multiply bitten ballpoint pen. Baked potatoes with sour cream. A big slice of banana-cream pie. Beautiful belly like yours isn’t looking for old-lady food. It’s looking for protein and meat. Og didn’t turn around right away. He liked to know she was there without actually seeing her. When somebody real comes along, a guy has to wait for the right moment. It didn’t take long. Og turned and looked her straight in the eye. What about big slab of porterhouse so pink it quivering? Og like meat with flavor of life on it, you know? The waitress was already showing him the tips of her lipstick-stained incisors. She didn’t have to say it but she did. Coming right up, honey bun, she said, with a flickering half smile that told Og her real smile was on the way. And hold on to your hat, big boy. ’Cause tonight you get anything you want.