A Dung Beetle story
The article like most that are buried deep in the bowels of the advertising section of a local newspaper was a filler. Which means that its substance was only of importance to those of whom it directly pertained to.
It was more of the quest, of the obscure entomologist, to save the rare dung beetle than of the dung beetle itself. Of how the manipulating consciousness of capitalism passes the buck through the fractal infinity of greed allowing all those concerned a justifiable reasoning that they as individual representatives of humanity are in no way responsible for the extinction through genocide of yet another of earths creations, and her tears.
The article also carried a photo of him. Crouching on bended right knee, his right-hand pointing behind him where once lived the innocent grassy mountain, the home of the alleged rare dung beetle but where now, personified by man, existed a callous concrete refuse dump regurgitating societies’ ostentatious left-over’s.
The palm of his open left hand sincerely held a piece of dung, a symbol of his purpose for living –the remains of his day. His somewhat contorted face carried several painful expressions at the one time. Its gestalt definition reverberated arrow-panged treason and was the story of many of our lives.
He was born once upon a time. But in the case of entomologists -and most conductors and art critics- this point was greatly debated, especially amongst the fellow students and faculty members who did their best to avoid him during university. His one pointed intellect seemed to have drawn it’s power by expunging on every other aspect of his being, leaving him personality free. But like everyone else, he thought he was normally different.
While at university he arrived early, left late and handed in extra assignments that weren’t asked for. His endless supply of rhetorical, cryptic questions and theories were the new bane of his professors life which gave the professor the best reason to date as to why not to give up drinking, especially during lecture times.
To the relief of all concerned he was given an opportunity to graduate early. His professor suddenly solved the idea by accident, which is the way most professors solve most of their problems.
Early one morning the young entomologist strolled enthusiastically into the lecture room while the professor was in the middle of adjusting his mood with a shot from a flask he kept in his drawer. Upon hearing him enter, the professor, unprepared to meet unanswerable questions sober, misplaced his logic and anxiously dived under his undersized desk, leaving only his exterior exposed.
Walking straight up to the desk, the young entomologist asked, “Is the rest of you there also professor?” The professor sighed silently and thought, no, it’s just my arse of which you are a pain in. After a quick nip and clearing his throat the professor replied, “I’m just looking for my favourite drawing pin!” and my dignity he thought while slurping in another.
With his eyes transfixed on his words that seemed to be in a dimension within the professors protruding exterior, he continued rhetorically like an unemotional answering machine, “Of the more than the 1.3 million described species of organisms that date back some 400 million years, insects account for more than two-thirds of which beetles account for several thousand alone.”
The professor, now silently whining and gently banging his head on the floor thought to himself, ‘and you alone, I’m sure, could name all of them!’
He was far too sober to deal with this situation and his flask needed refilling.
His anxiety levels were increasing as he tried to suck up the remaining fumes.
The young entomologist continued, “Of course it’s a known fact that the organisms have many interactions with humans, and that we, the humans, benefit socially from the study of these organisms, especially the gregarious dung-beetle. I wish to know if there are any unpublished papers you know of and why do you personally think that there hasn’t been more written on the matter?”
The professors’ anxiety, which had shifted, to suicidal thoughts was now morphing in to a survival mode of murder. “That’s it!” the professor proclaimed as he started to hurriedly reverse out, “That is it!” I’ll end my misery by ending his existence, he thought, and then I’ll get pleasantly drunk.
The professors’ tone made the young entomologist readjust his gaze to the professors wriggling behind, “What’s it professor?” What is, it?” As he continued his wriggling reversal, wide eyed with demented determination, the professors’ right knee came down heavily upon the pointed end of his favourite drawing pin he actually did drop but many years before.
“Arrg!” he screeched as his body jolted upright. “Oh!” he moaned dejectedly as his head hit the under side of the desk. He then sank to the floor in the foetal position clutching his empty flask. I should have listened to mother and become a conductor he thought then started to pout as the tears of self-pity -replaced by the out of reach alcohol- began to drown his sorrows.
“Well professor, what is it! And why aren’t there any papers?” the young entomologist enquired in a tone as if asking the question for the fist time.
The professor weak from wariness sighed and replied, “That’s it; that’s the point. There are no papers that will answer your questions because they haven’t been written; so on behalf of the university you have my blessings to go and discover a new species of not any ‘Insecta’ but a Scarabaeoidea, write a thesis and for humanities sake, don’t come back until you’ve found one, please!”
The young entomologist blinked a few times, smiled once briefly at the thought of a new species named after him, turned around and exited the room to begin his souls’ solo sojourn.
**********
Many years had passed; and on a lone uninhabited mountain stood the now middle aged entomologist wearing nothing but soil stained skin, unkempt hair and an expression that was completely alien to his face. As his mind was coming to terms with what his eyes just witnessed, his face was trying to equally come to terms with what it was doing. If there had been any bystanders looking on, they would have deduced that he was either having a drug related experience or an orgasm.
He stood statue still while trying to interpret the emotions of happiness of just discovering a new species of dung beetle. His minds’ eyes insisted on replaying the morning events he witnessed one more time. His face insisted on a medical check up for it had never experienced drugs or an orgasm and although very concerned, it couldn’t show it.
Earlier as the suns rays warmed the bosom of the earth and glistened in the dewdrops, birds announced the beginning of day. Here and there blades of grass gently rustled as insects began their daily routines. A deer strolling by sleepily paused to lick the moisture and nibble on the foliage. Then with out the conscious shame that only belongs to humans, it stretched out its neck, arched its back and lifting its tail deposited the previous days menu back to the earth.
It was moments like these that fulfilled the entomologists’ new life.
Not wishing to disturb the environment by anything man made including his voice, he whispered a mental sigh. To empathise, he emulated the morning constitutionals of his four legged friends and conducted his research naked while living on wild nuts, berries and selected foliage and soft barks. He reasoned that after all this was what the human appendix was originally for. And it was with this attitude that he acclimatised his body and became accepted by his surroundings.
He cautiously tiptoed and fingered over to where the deer deposited its droppings and began to meditate. A short distance off in no particular direction he observed the activity he had been waiting for and interpreted the events he saw.
Petals were being rolled away like small blankets to reveal a community of the most rare species of dung beetle.
He held his breath in silent awe as the larger males of the congregation scurried around the smaller females wriggling their feelers in a gesture of good morning. The smaller females seemed to curtsey and acknowledge that indeed it was a good morning. Closer observation revealed the even smaller children who, in an orderly fashion, were lining up to take morning dunks in the dewdrops.
After their baths they would gather in a circle with their mothers and all wriggle their feelers in odes of joy while the men scurried off in separate directions to seek sustenance. The entomologist was now biting his lips and whining in loud mental excitement as his eyes held back tears and followed one of the males.
Without concern for himself, the male dung beetle braved the elements; scaling pebbles, crossing bridges of twigs and daring the caves of dried up leaves, he relentlessly zigzagged upon his quest.
Beetle hours passed when finally he scurried head-on and smack in to the droppings. Reversing back a few excited steps he stopped still. His head followed the edible pinnacle from its rich smooth base to its crusted peak. Losing his balance in the thrill of his find he fell on his back –which wasn’t a long way to fall- and with frenzied feelers exclaimed, “breakfast!” He then went about the task of breaking it up and rolling it in to a ball, that would be fifty times his own body weight, for the journey home which after a few more beetle hours he began.
Not surprisingly, everyone could see the dung ball before they could see who was doing the pushing. With feelers abuzz they hurried in the direction letting out cheers of appraisal. Upon hearing their approach the male dung beetle took his first break and leaned proudly against his achievement practising smug expressions of, “Oh, it’s nothing really!”
Picking him up they carried him around the dung ball as to suggest a lap of honour. They then sang grace and served each other adequate portions. After their fill, they rested while the elders entertained them with stories they inherited from their forefathers –a few months earlier.
The excited entomologist, yelping thoughts of mental delight, scurried around his mountainside, zigzagging around trees with his fingers wriggling above his forehead expressing his happiness.
Again and again he played the events over in his mind while thinking up appropriate names for his new find when abruptly his whole attention was filled with roars and rumbles of the earths movements.
Sounding somewhat like a retarded stuttering chipmunk on helium, his unused vocal chords let out a static pitched “Earthquake!” His paternal instinct was to run back to his dung beetles, and as he did so he saw the heavy earth moving equipment in the process of eating the mountain and wished that it were an earthquake.
The horror of the sight triggered him to scream unrecognisable sounds in disgusted disbelief and his face to contort into yet another position it would never come to terms with. Approaching the driver, he bellowed out a demand of explanation, his fingers wriggling in angered overdrive. The driver, who was busy checking his instruments, acknowledged him only with his voice, explaining only that progress was in motion. “We’re gonna tear down the mountain and personify it with a rubbish dump”. Stumbling for words, the entomologist blurted, “You can’t! I’ve got dung beetles!”
“That’s nice!” the driver half acknowledged without emotion, and starting to look up in the direction of the animated voice continued. “We have something in common. You got dung beetles and I got a shit boss. There’s nothing I can do about it; you’ll have to take it up with the city office…” His voice stopped dead as his eyes made contact with the sight before him. Then without effort, he fainted.
Tearing off in the direction of the city, the naked entomologist frantically zigzagged determinedly with his fingers wriggling in hyper drive.
Before reaching the city, he stopped by a pine tree and dug up his clothes that he had vacuumed packed in mothballs and buried many years before. After recuperating from the punching odour he got dressed, which proved to be more awkward than he remembered. For not only were his clothes many years old, but also many sizes too big as he had lost a considerable amount of weight due to his herbivoric habits . Undeterred, he forged on like his male beetle friend.
To the delight of his hands, they were straight by his sides holding up his pants, but due to cellular memory were still wriggling.
Not surprisingly he was smelt long before he actually arrived at the city office. The crowded lines that adorn every government building quickly dispersed upon his entry, opting for the more breathable pollution outside. Without waiting for the girl behind the counter to offer any greeting, he hyperventilated an abridged version of the last decade of his life focussing on the highlights of the days events concluding that work on the refuse dump be halted and the area to be declared a heritage site to safe guard the rare dung beetle. The girl continued to stare at him blankly with a deadpan expression – which is standard issue for all government employees to wear during office hours. She thought to herself, ‘if he wanted to observe somebody having to take somebody else’s shit in order to survive he could have saved himself a trip to the country and come here in the first place; I wonder what has happened to his face.’
Then with an equally deadpanned voice –which she also received upon employment-started to issue a standard government response, but was cut off short by her superior who was listening from a breathable distance. “I’ll see to the err… gentleman. Come this way”, he said in a voice that belonged in a used car yard. The girl, lowering her head back to her paperwork, mechanically called out “Next!” to an empty reception area.
The superior then led him down a corridor to a small waiting room. And after opening a window, left.
The superior had been working in the same office at the same job for the past fifteen years. His ambition was to be a fully-fledged council member. When he first began his life sentence working for the government, he was determined to work his way to a high position as quickly as possible. But being morally deficient and opposed to hard work, he devised a scheme he code named ‘Elevator Express’: quite simply, he would get the chairman’s sister drunk, impregnate and then marry her which would then give him the automatic right to a seat on the council.
The chairman’s sister, being beauty impaired, was considered by the polite to be an old cow and by others a fugly old cow. In spite of her welcome mat and begging banners, she had no takers. Upon the eve of executing his plan, he looked upon her with great hesitation, but placing his ego first, swallowed his reservations with a bottle of gin. The chairman, happy to be finally rid of his sister –who lived with him- graciously, gave them, with city funds, a luxury apartment of their own and his brother in law a promotion to superior from counter clerk.
The superior, now standing outside chairman brother –in laws office, paused and reminisced. The long years of waiting would soon be over. He wouldn’t have to sneak in to the boardroom late at night, banging imaginary gavels while silently yelling out threats of order. No more would he have to grovel or scheme for his promotion for he now possessed, what he believed, the final solution.
He knew that funds, especially from the refuse dump budget, were being recycled elsewhere. He also knew that if the eerie entomologists plight made public awareness, it very well would cause a reassessment and stock take of funding. But he had a plan and chairman brother in law would have no choice but to take his suggestion. Before entering, he raised eyes heavenward and with a gentle sigh, gave him self some praise.
On the other side of the scheming door, chairman brother in law and fellow members were working out how to make up the balance of the funds for the refuse dump. All’s they needed was a scapegoat but it had to be an official member when, synchronously, the superior burst in with an overdramatised staged air of urgency which he added for optimal effect.
Telling them of the sour smelling entomologist with the gravity defying face and unbalanced wardrobe he revealed his solution. Simply, it was to delay his research any further until the refuse dump was built, thus avoiding unwanted attention, especially from auditors. He raised his eyebrows up and down with a smirk and added confidently that he was the man for the job but could only do it from a council members seat. He gave them a wink and a nod and settled in to a smug smirk.
Brother in law chairman and the other members looked at each other exchanging their own winks and nods and smirking smugly in return welcomed him on board.
The newly appointed committee member entered the waiting room to find the entomologist talking to his wriggling fingers in a reassuring tone. The stress of it all was starting to take its weight in brain cells and he found comfort in creating his own dung beetle world.
In his used car salesman tone, the former superior explained that he, as a council member, was, personally going to do everything for him but first bureaucracy required extensive reports, at least a few thousand pages, before action could be executed. After consulting his fingers, he raised them to his forehead and nodded in agreement.
A room in the basement was set up with plastic flowers, 3-D pictures of trees swaying, stuffed toy animals including almost all of the species of dung beetle.
The floor was laid with artificial turf and various dung was collected from the local zoo; a kitty litter tray placed in the corner for his private use. Morning bird songs were piped through gently and he was given as much foliage, berries, nuts and barks as he wished.
Meanwhile, the jaws of injustice moved swiftly. The newly appointed committee member was given the sole responsibility of signing all sorts of documents that he was too important and busy to read.
The refuse dump, with budget to share, finished ahead of schedule.
*************
No body lived happily or sadly forever after.
The professor got over his drinking problem by having a nervous break down. The remainder of his days were spent either hiding underneath a desk or standing on top of it conducting invisible music with an empty flask.
The driver of the earth moving equipment while recuperating from concussion took up art therapy and discovered his innate talent for painting. However, he never attained fame for his paintings were all identical: a skinny naked longhaired and bearded giant towering over earth moving equipment with his fingers above his forehead.
The front counter clerk girl was promoted to superior, which made not a single bit of difference to hers or anyone else’s life.
The superior was fired for impersonating a council member and was given a job as janitor in the council building basement during the day. At nights, he studied to become an art critic.
The chairman got to keep his job. His sister moved back home and cried daily throughout the day.
The entomologist never left the comfort of his new imaginary dung beetle world.
He developed an acute case of appendicitis and his face was published on medical posters as a warning to children who dared to eat wild nuts, berries, barks and foliage.
The dung beetles were reincarnated as crows and, as scavenging birds, continually pestered the former council members who were now employees at the new refuse dump.
Intermission