Dr. Zimmer in the Amazon

Dr. Arnold Zimmer.

Dr. Arnold Zimmer.

It isn’t a bad name I guess. Has a certain zip to it.

Of course, I’m aware that the “doctor” makes it sound haughty, maybe even a little pretentious. Although I most certainly did earn that title. I am a doctor of anthropology, after all.

I could always zip it up a bit.

Arnie Zimmer.

Arnie the Zims.

He grinned. Arnie the Zims. He liked that.

But he wasn’t wild about tossing the title aside either.

After all, it isn’t at all like the Piled Higher and Deepers out there who spend a few extra years reading classics and then write an extended book report to get their degree.

Or those who spend a few extra years in coffee bars slathering philosophy about as if they had purchased the entire world’s stock in five-gallon buckets and nobody else had so much as a thimble full.

Or—

He tried to think of one more way to slander— appropriately and justly, of course— the PhDs. He put his right thumb to his first and middle finger on the same hand and rubbed them together several inches in front of his chin as he walked. It helped him think.

After all, there is a reason the Rule of Threes fits pretty much every situation of the arts, including slandering one’s lessers. And about the PhDs, there is a certain— eh, je ne sais quoi, perhaps wastefulness, about them. Ah, that’s it. Wastefulness.

They read classics and turn in glorified book reports, or they put on a caffeine drip (albeit an ostentatious one that includes saucers and tiny little cups hovering at forearm height above a café table, preferably outside the café in an enclosed, gated area.

Or they Engage in Other Similarly Wasteful Pastimes— yes, definitely pastimes, not pursuits, for they are in pursuit of nothing useful— and are then, at the successful conclusion of one of those three complete wastes of time, “awarded” a doctorate.

What does that even mean, awarded a doctorate? It’s as if they bought a lottery ticket and were handed a faux sheepskin by the mayor of Lone Skunk, Arkansas. And who needs that, I ask you? Those who haven’t the wherewithal to go after serious studies and earn actual doctorates.

If they’re going to call what those people are given a doctorate, it should at least have an asterisk attached. You know, like the asterisk in the records of sports games? From what I understand, the asterisk means that yes, a fellow or a team seems to have accomplished something, but the requirements weren’t quite as stringent as they might have been or as they were in the past.

I’m only using that as an example, of course. I mean, I realize sports games are not the same sort of endeavors as those for which faux scholars can attain PhDs, but—

No, scratch that. Actually they are very similar.

In fact, I suspect those who achieve certain levels or awards in sports games have exerted a great deal more effort, both physical and mental, than those who merely have proven the patience and perseverance to sit through classes long enough attain a PhD. The primary requirement of the latter, after all, is that the aspirant simply “hang in there,” which I suppose is a kissing cousin of “man up.”

Those are sports games kinds of admonitions, aren’t they? I think that’s right.

I mean, they don’t even have labs. The PhDs I mean, not the sports people. I’ll bet one can obtain a PhD in The History of Weaving Reeds into Useful Culinary Containers at some of the lesser schools.

As he continued walking, he looked around. Then he frowned.

Speaking of exerting effort, I’ve ambled along this ridiculously narrow trail for almost two hours. Will it never end? Why don’t they cut these things wider?

The Amazon River was rumbling quietly along somewhere over to the left.

I don't remember the river being this close earlier. Or the air being this humid. But why wouldn’t it be humid with the Amazon freaking river right over there?

Probably there are crocodiles too. Of course, I call them crocs. A PhD would call them crocodiles. Or Crocodylus Somethingoranotherus. You know what I’m saying. It’s how they are. Or they might be alligators. The creatures, not the PhDs. One or the other. All right, this is getting convoluted, isn’t it? By one or the other, I mean crocs or alligators— gators— probably not both. In one river, I mean. They don’t do that, do they? I don’t think they do that.

Ugh, can you believe the sweat? Everything is sweat in this place. The Amazon is probably made of sweat. Sweat has soaked my khaki camouflage boonie hat. And look at my shirt! Look at my pants! They’re both light khaki but now they look like dark khaki from my above my waist halfway to my knees.

And sweat still is trailing down my forehead and temples. What is this place?

My glasses are streaked so I can hardly see, and as a bonus, they keep sliding down my nose.

I don’t mean to complain. Not that anyone can hear me. I didn’t say that aloud, did I? No.

It’s just annoying, all the sweat. And it isn’t like I seem to be getting anywhere. I thought the base camp lay in this direction, but apparently not. Still, if I continue just a while longer, this trail is bound to intersect something familiar. Then I can finally—

He stopped, his eyes wide as he peered through his sweat-streaked lenses. Several yards ahead of him, a few native males were engaged in some sort of ritual.

He gaped for what seemed like a very long time, then came to his senses and ducked into the brush alongside the trail. He crouched in the heady scent of passion flower vines, sweeping a broad leaf away from his right cheek.

Even the leaf is drenched in sweat. Or a secretion of some sort. Probably a secretion.

He quickly stood and wiped at his cheek.

What if it was a secretion? What if it was some sort of acid that will begin eating away my skin? Not so I could even feel it, but microscopically. Maybe even avoiding the nerve endings intentionally so I wouldn’t feel it until it was too late to dig it out.

And what if imbedded within the goo there are minuscule seeds from this— hmm, this plant, whatever. This probably carnivorous plant. What if the acid made little inroads, microscopically turning my flesh into something on which the seeds can dine?

Someday they will find me right here. I just know it. Right here in this stupid little bit of brush. And a plant that looks just like that one and emits strange, gooey secretions will be growing out of my cheek. And I will be dead. Tragically, hopelessly dead. And—

He remembered the men on the trail. Again he quickly crouched.

Maybe they didn't see me. Maybe the rush of the Amazon hid any noise I made.

Still, his heart was thumping in his chest.

He used one finger to push his glasses up his nose.

And my stupid camera is miles away for all I know. In the stupid base camp. Wherever that was.

He frowned.

Lost or not, I am still a scientist. Not a PhD but an actual doctor of anthropology. I still can observe. Oh, and take notes! I can take notes.

He reached into his left breast pocket and withdrew a three by five spiral notepad with the spirals at the top. He flipped it open and—

The paper. It’s soggy. The lines are even gone and the paper’s light blue. The lines have dissipated into the paper. Still, maybe I can make a note or two if I write lightly.

He reached up again for his pen, but it wasn’t there.

Well, that tears it.

He flipped the book away to his left, but immediately regretted having done so. He straightened a bit and looked in the direction he had thrown it.

What if some creature eats the paper and the ink is poisonous? What if something steps on the end of the spiral and the wound becomes infected? What have I done?

Again he remember the men on the trail. He crouched immediately. His left knee popped.

“Focus, Arnie. Focus, Zimmer.” Definitely Zimmer. “Focus, Zimmer” sounds firmer, more decisive.

He leaned slightly forward, and he tightened his brow as he strained to listen. Zimmer. Arnie the Zims.

The men spoke.

Rather, they were speaking before the arrival of my attention. No doubt they will continue speaking after I lose focus. Must maintain focus. Focus Zimmer!

He frowned.

Wait. What?

And he looked at the ground, breaking focus intentionally.

It didn’t matter. The language was a series of clicks and clacks. Nothing more.

Arnie grinned and shook his head. Well, he didn’t grin so much as his lips stretched away from his teeth in recognition of the ludicrousness of his position and everything that had brought him here.

What was I thinking? Even if I could hear them plainly, I wouldn't have a clue what they were saying. An opportunity missed, that’s all. An absolutely excellent opportuni—

A hand clamped tightly on his shoulder.

The grin fled. His heart leapt. He screamed. His body broke out in trembling and he twisted hard away to the left and forward, striving to escape. A sharp blade of grass sliced a line through the skin on the inside of his right forearm.

Options. Was that from the acid plant? I can’t race headlong through the brush. I’d run straight into those headhunters. Is that the correct term? Headhunters? Well whatever they are. Better safe than— Focus, Zimmer!

I can’t go right. That’s the trail. I’d be in the open, subject to all manner of travail.

I can’t go left. To certain death at the jaws of crocodiles? Or alligators? Whatever? I don’t think so.

But something— He had to do something. Something was behind him. He awaited another touch from the scaly hand, a mouse paralyzed by the snake’s glare.

Ice fired along his spine.

Might be only one. Might be a tribe.

A massive boiling kettle full of water appeared in his mind. Behind it was a reed and grass shack. Outlining the door, a series of shrunken heads. Off to one side, a pile of bones. Immediately identifiable as femurs and humerus. He frowned. Humerii? Humeruses? Whatever.

His mind released the cartoon and returned to the situation at hand.

Behind me. It might be only one. Okay then.

Still on his hands and knees, his heart in his throat, his entire body shuddering with fear and anticipation, he twisted around to look. But he twisted too hard and fell onto his left side. He rolled onto his back.

Melanie! Smart-ass Melanie!

Her arms crossed, his teaching assistant Melanie Trotter was looking down at him.

There’s that smug, cockeyed grin that I despise. She doesn’t even have enough sense to crouch down so the natives won’t see her. And those shorts are— short. Is that appropriate? Should her thighs be that tan that high up?

Melanie was resisting the urge to ask the good Dr. Zimmer whether he wanted his tummy scratched. There he lay, after all, with all fours in the air.

He untangled his limbs from his fear and sat up, the red glow of her grin reflecting on his neck and cheeks.

“Jesus H. Christ, Melanie! Why’d you do that?”

She shrugged. She tugged the grin flat for a moment, but it sprang back into position, accompanied by a giggle. “Sorry,” she said, then shrugged again. “I didn’t wanna spook your friends, Dr. Zimmer. I just touched your shoul—”

“You might’ve given me a heart attack!”

He took a breath, brought his emotions under control.

“I’m just saying, Miss Trotter, you could have said something. Let me know you were there. Quietly, of course.”

“Sorry. Like I said, I didn’t wanna scare away the natives.” She glanced along the trail. The dark-skinned men had vanished. “Don’t have to worry about that now.” She laughed lightly and extended her left hand. “Wanna hand up?”

“No. Thank you, I suppose, but I’ve got it.” He pressed his hands against the ground and pushed himself up. “I know you did this on purpose. Now you have a story you can tell everyone back at base camp.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, Arnie. And I certainly didn’t do it to—”

“Dr. Zimmer!”

“Okay. I didn’t do it on purpose, Dr. Zimmer, and I certainly didn’t do it to embarrass you.”

“Right.”

He brushed his hands lightly against each other, then looked down at his pants. The right knee sported a grass stain. That would be extremely difficult to get out. He looked up.

“And yet you were laughing. Why did you come looking for me anyway?”

“I didn’t. I mean, I saw you crouched down over here and I saw the natives. You didn’t have your camera with you, so I thought I’d bring it to you.” Again, she grinned. “And I am sorry. I didn’t expect you to launch like that.”

“Right. So you brought my camera all this way from base camp because you somehow knew I would encounter natives.”

She frowned. “What? No. I saw you duck in here and then I saw the men on the trail so I naturally assumed you would want your—”

“Never mind. Give me the camera and let’s get back to base camp. I want to be back before dark. Between crocodiles and alligators and carnivorous plants and possible headhunters, I definitely don’t want to spend the ni—”

She pointed. To her credit, she kept her voice to a whisper. “Base camp’s right there, Arnie.”

He looked up.

There it was, perhaps twenty yards on the opposite side of the trail.

Roger and Ben and Grace and Winston and the other two girls were waving. How much had they seen? Dr. Arnold Zimmer, in the time-honored tradition of primates everywhere, chose to save face by embracing embarrassment.

His left arm at his waist, his right hand poised gracefully in the air, he bowed low to his distant companions’ laughter and applause.

Shaking heads, grins and laughter were punctuated with, “Now see? That’s Arnie for you. Always up for a bit of silliness” and “Ah, good old Arnie. Keeping the party interesting at all costs.”

When he straightened, he took Melanie’s hand. He had never seen thighs like those.

He squeezed her hand slightly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

As she shook her head, he began leading her in the direction of the camp.

Under his voice so only she could hear, he said, “As for the base camp being right there, yes, well of course it is. I knew that, you see. I was merely testing you. I’m not some PhD, you know.”

And he puffed out his chest, to the extent that it would puff.

More loudly, for the benefit of the camp, he said, “You see, my dear? There’s the camp. Right where we left it.”

* * * * * * *