A young Aborigine boy (he even looked like Simba -- or was it the kid from The Jungle Book?) grinned from the bush, and said, sheepishly, "Sorry." Taking his words at face value, and feeling adequately reconciled, J-B casually flipped the toy smile-sad back and, in the process, accidently took out a galah ("rawwrk") on the toy's arc back to the cheeky boy. "C-word," the youngster yelled after the Jeep as it sped off.
Later that evening, now far into the unknown interior, Charles and J-B set up camp, pitched a tent, kindled a fire, ate corned beef and watermelon, and polished off a small cask of lambrusco, taking turns putting their mouths under the spigot. J-B had forgotten to bring tumblers. (Charles thought: first he touches my goddamn knee, now he brings along lambrusco, and he wonders why his theory didn't survive.) That night they were taunted by the sound of oversized whippoorwills (at least, that's what Darwin said they were), and the unnerving movement of something tragic in the bush around them; they told each other jokes and anecdotes to avoid picturing mastiff-sized dingoes dragging them off into the bush and doing things the syllogism professor had seen with his own two eyes and had never forgotten. They were especially soothed by elaborate pun stories drawn from childhood summer camps stays they'd each been relegated to by divorcing parents on the prowl for new mates, and the two almost shared a heart attack laughing over the punchline of "If the Foo Shits Wear It," bringing back all that glad tonic for the soul deeply buried in memory. It had been so long. Even the whippoorwills seemed to like that one and quieted down after a satisfied titter. And that night, J-B had a vivid dream where he observed, corralled, and bushwrapped a rare Great Tit in the wilderness. It was a wet dream. And in the morning, he woke to find the still-sleeping agent provocateur Charles's hand on his knee, and a thirst for Liebfraumilch. They'd only brought powdered milk.
That day, after they had decamped, they trekked and sketched and murmured details of their findings to each other, grunting academic jargon to keep the mosquitoes at bay. They held a moving debate on natural selection and the shape of things to emerge, everythings. Charles, seemingly stuck in his ways regarding evolution, saying stuff like, "Nature finds a way," which sounded suspiciously similar to a line J-B recalled from the film Jurassic Park. "Sometimes she needs help," replied Jean-Baptiste. They seemed at loggerheads and, at one point, about to strike blows, two evolutionists talking, and thinking of walking the talk -- on a leash. Suddenly, Charles felt an urgent need to defecate like a big black bear in the woods. He moved off into the bush and pulled down his stoned Levis and began to unload his urgent loamy loam. He recalled the tale of apples, their beginnings in Kazakhstan forests, bears eating the sweeter apples and sh*tting seeds out all the way to proto-Europe, and now we have macintosh apples.
Meanwhile, J-B wandered away, off-wind, and peered meaninglessly into the far cosmological distance. Stars drive off stars they don't want in the galaxy anymore, he thought, and humans are star stuff according to Carl Sagan, and that's why the universe is expanding. He could hear haughty Charles struggling like a working class hero to 'release a crocodile back into the wild,' as Aussies were wont to express it, and the garish groans, strains, and musical gases disturbed the morning's quietude.
"Aw, sh*t," Charles exclaimed after a while. "I forgot to bring toilet paper."
Jean-Baptiste smiled and casually strolled toward his evolutionary tormentor and held out a wad of delicious-looking French derriere papier. "Look ing for some of thees?"
Presumptuous, Charles, still squatting, for fear of dunging up his dungarees if he stood, held out an impatient hand, gesturing for the paper. "C'mon, c'mon," he said.
"Hmm," started Jean-Baptiste, "What were you say ing about survi val of the fit test and natur al selec tion?" He moved, not toward Charles, but about a dozen feet away, and dropped the wad to the ground dramatically. "As I was say ing," he continued, camping up the French accent, "some tà mes Na tà ºre needs zum help." He walked quickly to the Jeep and hopped in.
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