Physical Anthropology and That Other Thing

Stan and I used to go out driving after dinner. We took back roads through developments full of designer brick and glass homes, drinking quarts of Busch in the dark. Stan smoked cigarettes which is why we did this since his wife, who let him smoke cigars on their back porch, thought he quit the Marlboros years earlier. It was never that bad riding around when Stan smoked. I rolled down my window if it got too stuffy. Besides, I pretty much lost my sense of smell after a long bout with a sinus infection a few years before we started our journeys through the south end of our county. If I hadn't lost my sense of smell, things would likely have worked out much differently with Julia Davenport. You can decide if this is good or bad.

Stan and I drove around swigging on our beers, sometimes talking about the anthropology classes I teach at West Chester University and the biology classes I teach at Montgomery County Community College. Occasionally we talked about Stan's work. He had at least fifteen years on me as a professional and was in his last days as a radiologist. 

"Getting out of it just in time," he would point out. "I used to run a business. Now I'm on the payroll of the insurance companies. They pay me what they say I'm worth and they charge me what they need to cover the liabilities they define."

But Stan liked most to talk physical anthropology with me while we drove around in his Wagoneer. He would rest his Busch between his legs and ask about the evolution of the hand. More than once he said that the same part of the brain that gave the hand dexterity was responsible for language.

"Communication developed right along with the ability  to make tools and weapons," I remember him saying into the windshield. "To think humanity evolved because those two go together. Making tools and weapons and speaking to others."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," I replied, trying not to sound pedantic and knowing it was hopeless.

His left wrist steered as he hoisted his bottle for a long pull.

"Everything's complicated, Ted."

"It has more to do with reproduction," I said. "The rest we just call fortuitous development."

He stuffed his beer back down between his legs, took the wheel with his right hand then groped in his pocket for his pack of Marlboros. "The will to fuck?" he guffawed.

"There's that," I said, then took a hard hit on my own bottle. I was halfway through and the beer had lost its fizz and was close to ambient temperature. "There's more than just physiology, though. We evolved to seek pleasure. Pleasure on both sides. Women and men. That's the key. Both sexes. The complex nerves down there running from the glans up the spine to the hypothalamus, and the same with women coming off their clitorises. We're not as efficient as rabbits or chickens maybe, but the force of human orgasms and the unique--"

"Clitori."

"What?"

"The plural of clitoris is clitori. Look it up."

"Yes, well..."

"I don't know why you would ever need the plural for something like that. How many times you see more than one together? Even if you're with two or three women you can't really focus on more than one at a time. Makes no sense to even have a plural."

I smiled into the darkness. 

Stan had popped a cigarette in his mouth and reached for the Bic lighter on the dash board. "So your theory," he said, "is it's all just about reproduction?" 

"Pretty much," I told him.

"Screwing. That's your theory?" I heard the click of the lighter wheel and saw the golden flame illuminate his wide face and broad nose. "Not the hand and language?" He asked this with smoke trailing along the side of his face and up around his balding noggin.