Animator v. Anthropologist

The Anthropologist walks up to find the Animator sitting with her back to the oak, crying softly.

Hello. What's the problem here? he asks.

She explains.

There there, he says consolingly, without touching, careful not to intrude into her personal space.

I'm awful, she laughs, drying her eyes. I'm too sensitive. Do you know I nearly gave up drawing as a child? And all because an aunt told me my fingers were too short. They're not long and thin, not 'artistic fingers' like hers.

The Animator holds up her hands. They're stubby, gnarled. The left has a sixth digit. The Anthropologist fights back the urge to vomit.

But you persevered, says the Anthropologist. And here you are.

Here I am, she says. The Anthropologist sits on the grass nearby.

The Ch'mekalek - the natives that inhabited this region - called it ikkipu'ulikek, or the overcoming of hideous defects in hope of pursuing a rewarding life.

How far-seeing, the Animator says.

He nods. Yes. Though in their culture, ikkipu'ulikek was a crime punishable by death.

Facinating, says the Animator. She places her hands into the pockets of her pea coat.

No question about it, says the Anthropologist, they were a terrible people. That said, we shouldn't disregard their basketry. Wove the most beautiful little things, mostly to store the ears and noses and scalps and genetalia of their enemies. Also, maize.

He adjusts his glasses.

But this focus on their crafts? A testiment to the work of my predecessors. It's amazing to think that today the Ch'mekalek are recognized for their artisanry, and almost never for their hideously violent cultural mores.

It's because violence is relative, she says.

Correct. Everything is relative, says the Athropologist.

Fascinating, says the Animator. The Anthropologist smiles modestly.

Shall we duel? he asks. The Animator accepts. They rise. They choose their pistols and take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Animal Trainer v. Animator

Here Norman! calls the Animal Trainer. Norman!

The Animal Trainer walks along the edge of the creek, calling for her marmot. After an hour of searching she returns to the oak. The Animator stands under the oak by a bottle of expensive imported beer, a shallow dish.

I think we've met, says the Animator. We both worked on SWINGO!

They shake hands. The Animator is pale, willowy, faintly attractive. She wears a slim black pea coat, a mute orange scarf.

The Animator asks about Norman Mailer. The Animal Trainer explains.

Do you expect to recapture him? asks the Animator.

He's frightened and stubborn, says the Animal Trainer. He's my best pupil. I can only hope he gets thirsty for beer.

It is by far his favorite beverage, says the Animator.

The Animal Trainer uncorks the bottle of beer and pours a healthy portion into the shallow dish. Here Norman! she calls. Beer Norman!

I would have never worked on SWINGO! if I'd known it would have had such a devastating effect on people, the Animator says. This puts me in the minority. I don't care how beautiful or brilliant that film was. I just feel I should say that to you.

It brought more exposure to Norman than I would have wanted, the Animal Trainer says, for all the wrong reasons. Still, she says, it realigned my consciousness in, I think, a beneficial way.

I disagree, though this puts me in the minority, says the Animator.

They spend time choosing their pistols. Eventually, they step out to the field, fifteen paces apart.

In the far distance an almost imperceptible sound, a whistle. The Animal Trainer's eyes widen.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.