Caveman Reflex

The other day I was in the coffee bar heating up my lunch (Santa Fe chicken, for the curious) when one of the attorneys walked in the get a cup of ice. As the microwave is right above the ice machine, I was standing in his way. He politely asked me to move, and I did so, however before I moved I grabbed the roll of paper towels I was going to take to my office. I might have even given him a “these are my paper towels so back off or I’ll beat your butt” look as I got out of his way. It is important for you to understand that, should he have taken my paper towels, it would have taken little more effort for me to get another roll from the cabinet, which was amply supplied with them, as it did to grab them off the counter and protect them.

I imagine the scenario worked out something like this. A Neanderthal pops up on my left shoulder and tells me, in his basic grunty language, to grab my paper towels, smack the attorney over the head with them until he submits and then dance around the lounge screaming in a primal rage to let everyone else in the cave know that I was wearing the daddy loincloth now, bitches. A Cro-Magnon then pops up on my left shoulder and advises me, in his not quite as grunty language, to just let it be and to go paint something nice on the lounge wall; maybe a wooly mammoth or perhaps giant cave bear would go nice over that crappy painting of trees. Fortunately for the walls (and the tender head of the attorney) I chose the middle path and grab my paper towels like some Tolkienian troglodyte. Lucy, all three-and-a-half feet of her watching from the corner, shaking her head in disappointment and wondering, “Three point one-eight million years and this is what we get?”