Earl and the Cavewoman
© Mark Wolf

TIME TRAVEL INC. CORPORATE OFFICES - NIGHT.

Earl Bronson, skinny, white, hippie boy in his early twenties, sports dreadlocks and a ice-blue “Save the Polar Bears” T-shirt as he dances and sprays glass cleaner on glass-framed pictures, in a long, well-lit hallway, then wipes them down with a cotton cloth.

A bandana with a explosion of psychedelic colors and a black Jimi Hendrix logo with the words “Foxy Funk” gathers Earl's dreadlocks into a neat bundle.

Earl wears ear-buds and listens to music and executes a dance step into the company's reception area. He slowly spacewalks before the companies corporate logo, TIME TRAVEL INC., reaching up to spray and wipe down the logo's letters, one at a time, as he passes them without losing his funky rhythm.

David Chesterfield, sixty-something, black man and security guard calls out to him from behind the security desk.

“Hey, Earl!”

Earl has his groove on. He can't hear David over the tunes from his ipod. David shouts and waves his arms. Earl finally hears him, looks up and grins, and removes his ear-buds.

He turns toward David and does an electric slide as David head bobs in time to his funky high-steppin'. David and he “High-five” when Earl reaches David's desk, then Earl slouches and leans his lanky frame over it.

“David, my man. Wassup?” Earl says, grinning.

“Nothin' much, my young, white soul brotha'. 'Bout you?” David grins back. He likes this kid's energy and doesn't see a honky, just a kid with a lot of zest for life.

“I been thinking 'bout takin' anotha' trip.” Earl says.

Earl raises his eyebrows, then shakes his head, good-naturedly.  “Earl, Earl.  What did you spend your money on this time? It was the polar bears last time.”

“Yeah, and Congress is passin' legislation on some global warming stuff, and check out my colors!” Earl grasps the bottom hem of his t-shirt and stretches the polar bear silk screen for David to see it better. It makes the bear look more like an amoeba.

“Oh, that be wicked-righteous. So, here you are 'gain, working like a slave-boy. That trip back in time to Egypt made you rich, why you here?” Earl says.

“I sent the money I made to the “Save the Lemmings Foundation”. Did you know the little 'fellas get depressed and jump into the ocean when they're too many of them? The guys at the foundation offer crisis intervention counseling for them.” Earl's face droops in sadness.

“I don't know about that, Earl. You mighta' been had,” David gives Earl a worried look, then grimaces when Earl flashes a sly grin at him.

“Ah, got me again,” David chuckles. “What did you really spend it on?”

Earl clicks and whistles in a very close imitation of dolphin squeals.
“Dolphins?” David asks.

Earl nods his head excitedly, like Flipper in the old TV show. “'Fo reals. These guys need more protection laws. They get trapped in nets and drown. They need our love, man.”

“True, 'dat.” David says.

*  *  *

          TIME TRAVEL INC. HUMAN RESOURCES OFFICE - NEXT DAY
Earl sits in a heap of wrinkled clothes and splayed limbs signing numerous nondisclosure agreements. He fills out a form that leaves his death benefits to his mother.

Marcy Penrose, early thirties and attractive, dressed in designer office clothing, smiles at Earl and hands him another form.

“Arggggggg!” Earl gags and makes choking motions, holding his hand to his throat. A stack of signed forms as large as two city phone books sit before him on a coffee table.

“Just one more, Mr. Bronson and you're all done. This one is your waiver for burial benefits. If something goes wrong, we don't retrieve your body. Just okay it and sign it, then we'll be all done.” Marcy continues to smile and wait expectantly.

“Okey-dokey, finished.” Earl stabs his pen into the paper as he finishes signing with a flourish, then slides down in his chair. “I'm melting...”

Marcy laughs. Earl takes it as a hopeful sign and grins at her.
“So, Marcy.  What you say, you and me go see a movie tomorrow night?”

Marcy enjoys the flirtation, but Earl is too young and too strange to really interest her. She lets him down easy. “Ah, I'm sorry Earl. Minksie is getting her pedicure tomorrow night, sorry.”

“Minksie?” Earl says.

“You, know my poodle.” Marcy says.

“Oh, the poodle you said had to get fixed the last time I asked you out on a date?” Earl says, a light of dawning awareness on his face

Marcy cringes, found out, but sticks to her story. “Yes, Minksie has such sharp nails, she scratches grooves in the door some times when she wants to be let out.”

“Ah, I see,” Earl says and perhaps he does, because he rises to his feet, eyes downcast, crosses the room and turns the doorknob of Marcy's office, while Marcy stands holding his forms, helpless to offer him solace.

*  *  *

            TIME TRAVEL INC. PROCESSING – TWO DAYS LATER

“What better identity to assume to retrieve cave painting images than to be a caveman!” says Smithers, the not really mad, just slightly disturbed, scientist as he fits Earl's inflatable sumo wrestler costume on him.  

Earl flexes and puzzles over his poofie bulging biceps, leans over and slaps at his belly roll, then tugs at the loin-cloth mawashi. “I'm not going to Japan, am I?” Earl turns and wonders what the burro tied to set of metal shelves in the corner is about.

Smithers laughs as he tries out the suit's Samurai wig on Earl, then shakes his head and mutters, tossing the wig aside.

“No, France. The cave of Pech Merle. All the caveman suits just happen to be out right now on a movie shoot with Spielberg back in the neolithic.”

Smithers grabs a aerosol can of contact cement. “Close your eyes.” He sprays a thick cloud of glue all over Earl from head to toe.

Earl gags and protests. “Dude, you're drowning me in fluorocarbons, here, help!”

“Hold still and keep your eyes closed and mouth shut. I need to prep you for the hair,” Smithers says.

“Hair?” Earl yelps.

“You like animals; don't you Earl?” Smithers says.

“Yes...?” Earl says, cautiously. “Exactly what do you mean by like animals?”

“Go hug the burro, Earl.” Smithers steps back from Earl and makes shooing motions at him. Earl points at the burro in question. The burro's ears lay back as Earl steps gingerly in it's direction.

“Is it friendly?” Earl says as he stretches forth a hand toward the burro's nose. The burro, fast as a striking cobra, latches down on Earl's hand with a clomp of it's teeth.

“Not really,” Smithers says.

Earl screams and jerks his hand free from the burro's mouth, loosening the burro's tether. The burro senses its freedom and dashes for the door. Smithers jumps to grab its lead rope.

The burro's ears lay back again, but Smithers is ready. He quickly ties a loop of the lead rope over the burro's jaws and holds the beast steady.

“Hug the burro, Earl.”

Earl looks at Smithers then at the burro, which now chews nonchalantly on some flowers plucked from a vase on Smither's desk. Earl sidles his way to the burro, then holding his breath, grasps the burro in a powerful embrace.

The rodeo is on. Burro, Smithers, and Earl fly around the room in a cloud of dust, hair, and burro pucky and piss. The burro is neither too clean nor continent.

Finally, Smithers loses his grip on the burro's lead rope and flies headlong to the floor. The burro kicks over several pieces of equipment before running headlong into the door and falling over in a heap, stunned or dead.

Earl turns to regard his reflection in some stainless steel cabinets.
I look like a Chia Pet. A lot of hair and less savory leftovers from the burro's panicked flight now adhere to him.

Earl stinks. He might also pass for a Neanderthal caveman... in very bad light.

“Well, that'll do, I guess,” Smithers says as he picks himself up off the floor.

“Now remember Earl, I only need about a minute of footage,” Smithers says as he hides  minicams in Earl's chest hair, one over each nipple. “Flex your biceps”

Earl strikes a Mr. Universe pose.

“Good. Whenever you see something to film, just do that and the biofeedback sensors in the cameras will run the cameras. Oh, and one more thing, Earl.” Smithers pauses as if searching for the right words.

“I think I'm going to make this two jumps instead of just one. The first one I'll send you back 30,000 years. What we're looking for here is whether Neanderthal Man lived in the cave at that time.”

Smithers sniffs and frowns at Earl's funk, then sighs. “I suppose the smell might actually work in your favor.”

“And how will I know if anyone I see is Neanderthal?” Earl says.

“Because they'll probably try to eat you if you're a stranger.”

“Oh.”

“Take some film of whoever is there and hit the callback button, then I'll drop you in at 25,000 years ago. The Neanderthals should have died out by then and the cave will now be occupied by homo sapiens; that's us.”

“What we're looking for during that time frame is positive collaboration for National Geographic that women did in fact, paint the cave drawings at Pech Merle. Get in, take the footage, and toggle your navel call-back button, clear?”

“Yup, film the painters and push my belly button, got it.” Earl says.
“Let's go.”

*  *  *

Earl stumbles forward and blinks his eyes in the campfire's reflected light. Several human shapes sit around the fire eating, most of them wearing fur robes, a few suckle infants.

They gasp in surprise at Earl's sudden arrival. Earl strikes a he-man pose, flexing his biceps, activating his pec-cams. “'Betcha can't beat this, uh-huh, uh-huh,” Earl says.

One of the seated, stands suddenly, roaring in rage, and strikes the same pose as Earl. Not to be outdone, Earl turns and strikes an even more aggressive pose, which further infuriates the man.

The man screams in fury and charges Earl, striking down with a stone blade as Earl panics, backpedals, and toggles his belly-button. As the caveman fades from Earl's sight, Earl notes the man's sloping forehead above his open mouthful of green teeth and uncooked meat.

        *  *  *

Earl jumps into the cave this time during daylight. On the wall of the cave are several paintings of spotted horses. Spots of color, black and red surround the horses. A lightly clad woman, her hand against the cave wall above the paintings, turns at the sound of Earl's arrival, eyes wide with fear. Earl remembers to flex.

She, too, has a sloping forehead, another Neanderthal. Her face is dirty, but attractive and she appears about Earl's age. She pulls back her hand, leaving a stenciled silhouette of it behind on the cave wall. The woman continues to stares at him.

Earl notices a hissing noise for the first time. One of his biceps, droops a foot lower than the other, like Popeye without his spinach. The male Neanderthal had cut his Sumo suit. Now he'd loose all his air.

“Uh-oh.”

The woman laughs and a speculative gleam comes to her eyes. Earl hears the sounds of several voices coming from the mouth of the cave and turns.

A group of hunters with a small deer slung on a pole enter the cave. None have sloping foreheads, none look friendly. They all start talking at once. I better boogie!  Earl toggles his belly-button.

               *  *  *

Smithers rushes forward excitedly and tears the pec-cams from Earl's chest, taking a patch of hair and the plastic suit beneath. He rushes them over and plugs them into a feed and the footage starts rolling.

“Ouch,” says Earl. “I'm glad that wasn't my real chest fur.”

“Shhh, I want to hear if the big guy is speaking a language or just making noise,” Smithers says. They watch as the knife comes down and the scene fades to black, then the footage of the woman starts up. Smithers pauses it.

“Wait a minute. Did you stay until daylight? This can't be right.” Smithers says.

“No, the painting woman is from the second jump, why?” Earl says.

“Because this will turn the theories around on Neanderthals presence here in this time period. They were thought to have been supplanted by homo sapiens, already. Wow this is great!”

Earl pauses a moment and ponders. The humans that had come into the cave had all been modern men and women, no Neanderthals. Was the painter the last of her kind?

Smithers runs the film forward. The last thing Earl sees is a haunted look on the face of the cavewoman as she fades from the camera's viewpoint.

“Well, did we change anything?” Earl says.

“Let's look,” Smithers says as he pulls up the cave paintings from  the cave of Pech Merle on his computer monitor. Everything on the wall is the same, the spotted horses, the hand, which Earl now knew to be the Neanderthal painters, and the spots around the horses. No, not the same.

A new painting is on the wall of a male Neanderthal. The man stands flexing his muscles, one arm a bulging biceps, the other arm sags like a spaghetti noodle.

Earl is silent as he wonders if he might have been the last Neanderthal the woman ever saw.

___________________

Mark rambles about as a logistics gopher at an eco-tour company in Hawaii when he isn't writing.  In other incarnations he has snared pigs, built houses, worked oversees as a missionary, fought forest fires and built wilderness trails.  

His published work has appeared at:  Liquid Imagination, Aurora Wolf,
Spaceports and Spidersilk, Goldenvisions, and 69 Flavors of Paranoia.

His web-link is honuio.wordpress.com