Cro-Magnon Man

A Modern Parable About Prejudice

Crags of cheek hanging from cliffs of cheekbone, eyes as piercing as a hawk—buried deep in the abyss of tan sockets.

Bald-capped with smooth, suede skin.

Biceps, triceps, deltoids rippling through even a loose-fitting crocheted sweater.

Surveying the aisles, he searches for his seat.

Passengers shift in their seats as he passes by.

A white-haired man with pasty skin whispers to his wife, "I don't think he's from around here."

A middle-aged professional man on his way to a real estate conference takes note, then decides to keep a close eye on this neighbor who's sitting directly in front of him.

"Does he have any sharp items? No, he couldn't have cleared them with security," he rationalizes. "Maybe he'll use something else—a pen. Maybe he'll go for the eyes. Perhaps he's trained for years in hand-to-hand combat."

The flight takes off. The seatbelt sign is still lit up, but Cro-Magnon man gets up swiftly.

The real estate professional unfastens his seatbelt and retreats towards the bathroom, surveying his neighbor from a distance.

The Cro-Magnon man opens the overhead bin, rifles through his bag, and pulls out a computer.

"Hmmm," whispers the real estate executive to himself. "May as well use the restroom while I'm here." Looking in the mirror, he imagines himself a spy. He pulls up his pants and returns to his seat.

The Cro-Magnon man is logging into his computer. "Perhaps he will detonate it, use it to interfere with the plane's computers," deliberates the real estate man.

He peers closely, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen.

The Cro-Magnon man is signing up for Wi-Fi. Then he puts on his reading glasses. He pulls out some paper.

"I wonder if he'll use those papers as a weapon," reflects the real estate professional.

The pasty white-haired man and his wife crane their necks and look over too.

A story by Pemba Umoja