Fiction

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What Would Cavemen Do?
Dawn Winston
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Linda smacked her alarm clock off soundly. With a groan she struggled to go back to her dream. For a precious few more moments she was back with her tribe as they all ran naked through a savanna. Rudely consciousness coaxed her awake. “Crap,” she said, sitting up. She felt alone and pissed at the world. Really, she thought, would a primitive tribeswoman be shocked awake, while it was still dark, only to work in a cramped office, sitting in artificial light, on her behind all day? Is that what nature intended? Or should she be doing what was raw, primitive, tribal and natural? That question drove her through her day: what would a caveman do?
She stumbled to her son, Adam’s, room, shook him awake, and then into the bathroom. Grabbing a toothbrush she remembered primitive man’s teeth are white without brushing. They have wide dental arches in perfect alignment without the need for braces. Some tribes would chew on bush stems. She looked at her few fillings and thought of breakfast.
She met Adam in the kitchen. In the wild they would be scavenging last night’s kill, not rummaging through her refrigerated leftovers. Primitive man was naturally without the refined white flour, white rice and sugar she eyed traces of in her stash. One generation, she recalled, is all it takes for the pristine state of original people’s health, their fantastic immunity and lack of disease, is degraded to that of our own. She half-heartedly took out yesterday’s omelets, and vowed to eat more raw, more organic food.
After dropping Adam off at school, and sitting in traffic, she settled into her cubicle and sighed audibly. “Well good morning, Miss Linda,” her coworker, George, waved down to her. He shelled and ate peanuts at every break, so everyone called him “Mr. Peanut,” behind his back. He was very nice but didn’t seem to fit in, and she knew the feeling.
“A good morning it isn’t,” she muttered back. They were customer service representatives for an online apparel store. Her specialty was shoes. Did primitive man wear shoes? Who really cares about shoes anyway, she thought. Her life is pointless, meaningless, she thought.
At break she pulled out her “Early Man Magazine,” and was struck by an article- “Mitochondrial Eve, New Developments.” As an anthropology student she treasured the mitochondrial eve theory. Mr. Peanut came by and asked her what she was reading. Mitochondrial Eve, she explained, links all humans throughout history and the world, to one ancient woman in Africa through tracing our mitochondria in our cells.
Mr. Peanut broke out in a big smile, and stared at her, finally he said, “Tigris and Euphrates.”
“What?” she asked.
“Adam and Eve were from the Tigris and Euphrates region, the garden of Eden.” He was beaming.
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” She rolled her eyes. She remembered learning that when she was a child, but she hadn’t heard it since. Mr. Peanut is nuts. She laughed to herself… peanuts, nuts, get it, she thought. What a snort. She would have to tell her friend Carol in the purses department. They occasionally shared sarcasms at lunch. Cavemen were from Africa, she was going to tell Mr. Peanut but he said quietly to her, “We are all looking for Eden.”
She was taken aback. He hit it. Eden, she was looking for Eden. She was looking for her tribe. She recalled chipping flint on a river bank with a very young Adam and “Homo erectus”, which was what she called her ex. That was her last happy memory. It was clear to her now, she wanted Eden. If Mr. Peanut’s long ago Eden was all there was, it would be a very sad thing. Primitive tribes all over the world were vanishing. Eden was vanishing, but Mr. Peanuts was reassuring, everyone wanted Eden.
When she was younger she followed the story of the Tasaday. They were a “stone age tribe” newly discovered in the Philippines. On TV they were remarkably loving , peaceful and caring, they were also, as was later revealed, a hoax. It was a treasured hope that living cavemen like that existed and were utopian. She was devastated when it turned out to be untrue. Where was her tribe? She fantasized about visiting an actual primitive tribe existing today. Although they do exist, the odds that she would get to even see them were slim, she knew that, but like Mr. Peanut had said, we are all looking for Eden.
A smiling Mr. Peanut leans over her cubicle asks, “What are you doing Sunday?” She pauses to stare at him. What was he up to, she thought.
“Busy.” She said, turning back to her computer. She had a busy and important day of watching Adam play Nintendo and a little TV for herself… the usual.
Unfazed, a still smiling Mr. Peanut asks, “Saturday?”
“For what?” she asks, annoyed.
“For you!” he says, popping a peanut, “and some friends, and some biblical discussion.”
She stares back at him incredulous. “Thanks, but no thanks, she thought. Spiritual matters for me, she thought, are a walk in the woods. After all, what would a caveman do to worship?
The next day Mr. Peanut towered over her at lunch, arm folded. “Schmidt says primitive man worshipped one God.”
She lay her fork down from her chef’s salad and folded her arms back at him. Mr. Peanut, quoting theories of the Reverend Wilhelm Schmidt to her, she was stunned. She raised her left eyebrow to him and breathed deeply. Of course I know Schmidt’s views; I touched on it in college, she thought.
Mr. Peanut raised his eyebrow back to her and smiled broadly. What the heck was he up to, she thought. “OK,” she sighed, “What of it? Mr. Pe… ” she stopped herself too late and felt embarrassed.
“Its OK,” he shrugged, “I know what people call me. Come see my tribe,” he said, affixing a sticky note in front of her, it said, “Saturday, March 5th, 12:00, 211 Dewes Lane, Glen Grove.”
The man, she thought, staring at the note, strangely moved, is mad.

Saturday came and she nervously drove up Mr. Peanut’s driveway with Adam and his Gameboy. “What the heck are we doing here?” she looked at Adam. Annoyed, he looked up at her and said, “Seeing Mr. Peanut’s tribe, Mom.”
Mr. Peanut greeted them, and introduced his small, plump wife, his college age daughter, Thomas, an Indian friend of theirs who shook her hand vigorously, another friend, Allison, who threw her off guard with a bear hug, and surprisingly there was Christina from work, who sat in a far corner.
After Mr. Peanut prayed briefly for their meal, their well being and “their special guest, Linda,” they had chicken divan, salad, hot rolls, and chocolate cake. Mr. Thomas asked Mr. Peanut if he had heard how the Gulley’s mission was doing, in Peru, and what prayers they requested. Linda felt uncomfortable and asked, “Where in Peru?”
“In the suburbs of Lima.” Mr. Thomas said.
“You know, there are tribes in Peru who have never been contacted by civilized man.” She said, she found herself to be annoyed, and melancholy.
The rest of them got excited and leaned forward. “Really!” exclaimed Mr. Peanut’s daughter.
“And in some islands off India, there are some fierce natives who had been undisturbed since they arrived there 60,000 years ago, who have been ‘discovered’.”
“Why that’s remarkable.” Mr. Thomas said.
“Why do your missionaries put brassieres on primitive Amazonian tribe’s women?”she asked sadly.
Mr. Thomas coughed nervously, then a long awkward silence followed.
She was torn. She was tempted and seduced by the warmth of these people, but weren’t these the same zealous people who ruined her treasured tribes. Who invented convert or burn, she thought to herself. She felt as if she was being led into the warmest most inviting cave she had ever experienced, but feared bears somewhere in the back of the comforting darkness.
Finally Mr. Peanut said, “You know Linda has brought up an interesting point.” He rubbed the back of his neck, “Genesis says, ’They were naked and felt no shame.’” He paused, “Yet since the fall of Adam all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. ”
Adam looked up from his game and said, “Fall? Me? What Mom?”
They all laughed. “I am not such a learned theologian to sort this out, but I know missionaries are not perfect, none of us are, even though we are commanded, ’Be perfect as your heavenly father is perfect.’ And there is evil in the world, but know for sure there is a God that loves you, Adam, and all other tribal people absolutely, fantastically, and forever.”
She couldn’t deny it. Here, in Mr. Peanut’s house, with his tribe she sensed peace and happiness, and acceptance like nowhere else before. She felt as if someone else was in the room, like a chief and shaman, smiling on them, waiting to embrace her.
She didn’t want to leave. It seemed somehow to her, that these people were not the enemy she supposed. They were saying Jesus this and Jesus that, she thought there was debate as to if he really existed, but she couldn’t concentrate or absorb it all. Adam and her left, amid hugs and handshakes, and she struggled with the feeling of being conflicted.
Over the next busy week she stewed quietly, sorting out what was said. “We all have sinned?” she thought to herself. What did she do wrong? Not much, she argued. Ok, maybe a little, but to call it sin seemed so heavy-handed.
The dilemma raged inside her until she felt long buried shame bubble up. Her divorce was fraught with downright crimes on both sides. She remembered seeing other men to infuriate her ex as he saw women to get back at her, and they battled over poor, damaged Adam. She couldn’t sit still. She couldn’t sit by her computer and go through the mindless routine. She was drawn to Mr. Peanut, but paralyzed and ashamed, she decided she could talk to Christina easier. She unplugged her headset and swung past her supervisor, “Bathroom emergency,” she said, her voice cracked as she darted by on way to the corner and Christine. Christine looked up, smiled, and put her call on hold.
“Christine,” she said, tearing up. She couldn’t get out any coherent thought, any sensible thought out, and looked down, “Cccan I have your phone number.”
“Sure Honey,” she calmly wrote it down and gave it to Linda, ‘call anytime, and you know, you don’t look so good, maybe you can take the rest of the day off.” she winked.
On the way back to her cubicle she saw Mr. Peanut affixing a sticky to her computer screen. He turned and smiled and gave her a salute. Maneuvering through the maze of desks she was confused but she knew one thing, she was enveloped in her very own tribe, if they would have her.
If they knew what a monster she could be, maybe not, but she hoped so. She sat down excited and nervous and read his sticky note-“He predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ in accordance with his pleasure and will. Ephesians 1:5”
“Adopted as sons,” she read and re-read it, and repeated it to herself.

She spent her Saturdays with them, nervously at first, but she felt she had checked them out and there were no bears in their cave. She didn’t understand half the stuff they talked about, but the listened to her, and still accepted her. One Saturday she decided, maybe these people didn’t exactly crack open water buffalo femurs to get to the marrow with hand chiseled rocks; and they wouldn’t exactly sleep in a group under animal skins in a group. But she did know that they knew one true and raw primitive thing. They were a tribe and they stuck together. She laughed to herself, one time with them, a little too loud, that she would start them out by bringing, next time, a little steak tartar.

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