Evolution

I was way out in the middle of Texas somewhere in my old International Travelall, one of those wagon-type trucks that was impossible to get parts for, so when the choke broke, I had rigged up an old wire through the dashboard to pull on when it needed more gas. It wasn't that safe because sometimes you needed an extra hand, but way out there there were only two speeds, very fast and old farmer, and I was kind of like the second one, so it didn't matter.

I was looking at the vast expanses of cattle country, miles of open range, the early morning sun in my eyes to the east, the dew melting off the wildflowers, when I saw this dirty old hitchhiker with a small pack that looked like the dust it was sitting in. I stopped and he threw the pack in the back. He had dirty hair and an old beard, his jeans were torn at the knee and a dirty old leather coat was also kind of worn out. But he was friendly enough, didn't smoke, thanked me for the ride, and wiggled around in the seat enough to get comfortable as we started again.

He eyed the homemade choke warily but I assured him that it was ok, it was handmade, but what can you do, you have to write away for International parts and even then you couldn't get them, and that took years. He said he was going to Dallas, and we established where I would drop him off, a hundred miles up the road or so. The sun was coming up over the horizon and shining an orangish glow in his beard as he turned a little to keep it out of his eyes. A strange beeping came from his coat and it kind of alarmed me, but it turned out to be a cell phone which he promptly answered. He turned away and kind of mumbled into it even though the reception was probably terrible; we were way out in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea what he was doing, but was grateful that it wasn't a gun, because theat could get ugly. It was probably just young kid business but who knows. I know so little about what young folks do on these things that I just concentrated on my driving and left him alone. And sure enough the call was over quick enough and he put it away.

But then a big old cockroach fell out of his pants and onto the floorboard of the truck. He stomped it out with his cowboy boot and it sat there squished up until he kind of pushed it over into the well at the side. It was one big ugly old dead cockroach by the time he was done with it. My jaw must have dropped about a mile, not because I'd never seen anything so hideous, but more because, way out in the country you don't see cockroaches so often. They're kind of city things. You see crickets, mice, armadillos, all kinds of stuff, but not cockroaches.

"Big ugly b---ard," he said, smiling. He was a little embarrassed, to his credit.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "It's not like I'm trying to keep the truck clean."

"You ever heard the cockroach theory of evolution?" he asked.

Well, it was still a long way to Dallas, and I figured, I got nothing else to do, so I figured he might as well tell it.

"In the beginning of time," he says, "there were these two cockroaches. They were friends. But one day they got into an argument. 'I could evolve into something better than you,' says one. 'Yeah, but we cockroaches are already pretty good. You don't need to evolve,' says the other. 'I think I'll evolve just to be better than you,' says the first. 'You go right ahead and do it,' says the second, 'I'll just stay the way I am.' So they went back and forth like that, and pretty soon it was a dare, and the first one set out to evolving. So he turns into a fish, and then a frog, and on up the ladder, and it took a number of generations, of course, but the second one just stayed a cockroach, he didn't evolve at all. And every time that frog or armadillo or whatever looked back at that cockroach, he saw that look of hatred, that look of recognition, in his eyes. Because I'll tell you something, one thing you can say about the cockroach, he's always watching, he's always ready to run and hide. He's always watching what we'll do next. Because you can guess what happened, all the way up that ladder...monkey, ape, human, whatever, that cockroach was still watching. And now, we're humans, and they're roaches, and you know what? There's no animal we hate more than cockroaches. NOne. There isn't a single person around that wouldn't tell you they're the most evil, most wicked, filthiest, sneakiest animal alive. And do you think they're any worse than any other bug? Not really. They're a little more aware of humans, maybe. They're a little more tuned into what we're up to. And that's why we hate them."

"So you can guess how this story ends," he says. "We evolve until we blow ourselves up. It's inevitable. Humans are smart, they make the bomb, they survive for a while, they hold off from destroying each other, but eventually, somebody blows everyone up, and then, you know what? The cockroach survives. Know why? Because all he is, really, is a shell, and a pair of eyes. He never got past that perfect and simple state where he was simple enough to survive the bomb. And why not? Because he chose not to. He knew what evolution entailed, and he didn't want it."

He laughed a little, and settled back into his seat again. Out the window, the wildflowers were picking up, shining in the morning sun, and there were signs of civilization again, houses, motels, gas stations, and the like, as we were coming into the outskirts of Fort Worth maybe. I'd never heard such a theory, but I"d never really thought about it, and I had to admit that most people including myself hated cockroaches way beyond what they were worth, when you turn on some light, and they all go scattering under some dirty stove. And it made me think some more, you know, sometimes it feels like the world is full of your friends, people like you, who think and feel all the same stuff you do, but other times, it just seems to be full of evil creatures like the cockroach, evil personified, the opposite of us, who are watching, waiting for their opportunity, just completely opportunistic.

Now this kid, he was nice enough, a little different from me, but a nice kid, and I had to say, he seemed to put his finger right on that aspect of life. And I had to thankhim for that wisdom, for after all, that's what you hope to get out of a hitchhiker, a little relief from the boredom and the monotony. When we got to the exit, I let him out, wiht his dirty old pack and his gentle smile, easy manner. He was a survivor. What he'd do in Dallas, I don't have a clue, maybe that's what the cell phone call was about. He collected his stuff and walked down toward the other highway. I pulled out that old wire choke, and headed off my own way, down the ramp, feeling better. Helping someone out gives you a good feeling, regardless of the circumstance, a warm feeling, entirely different from a hot Texas morning in an old truck.

(written 3-21-05, originally appeared in Unloading.