When a male chimpanzee wants to show a female that he has an erection, he will sit in a pose that exposes his engorged genitalia and then will begin to very loudly rip up dead leaves and arrange them in piles around his body, as to attract specific attention to himself. If the female notices and is interested, she will approach him; the two will soon mate.
Human social and sexual rituals, we have to admit, are as similarly elaborate and simple. Before we protest that we are more advanced—we use our opposable thumbs to post messages on the Internet!—think of all the behaviors scientists have observed in other species: Jealousy, social stigma and community punishment, embarrassment, exclusivism, humor, forethought, greed, grudges, loyalty, even oral sex. Rest assured that while Jane Goodall had her back turned, the chimpanzees in Tanzania were writing bad poetry.
So stigmatized am I by this innate sexual nature of all living things that I generally keep my gaze at the three-foot level, so I might engage solely with neutered dogs and babies. These creatures are largely unconcerned with sexual accomplishments, and while otherwise unintelligible, needy, and dripping with saliva, at least they don't leer at anyone from behind the driver's seat of a pickup or brag about how much money they made last year.
"Does she get a say in that?" My other friend asked.
"Nope," he said.
I'd spent that same day at The Field Museum, the only place in Chicago where one can stare at dinosaur bones, Hopi kachina dolls, angry teenagers, and overpriced Waldorf salads. It was in the nature walk section that I accidentally merge with a school field trip, and besides their yellow T-shirts, there is no perceived order to this ragtag group of pedal pushers. Near the section on oil spills, they shout for someone named Jasper. By the diorama of an eagle with a rabbit enclosed in its talons, a few yell and pretend to vomit. The boys are shoving and teasing the girls in that juvenile way one flirts in elementary school, or when two adult friends do not know how to tell each other they'd like to have sex.
The adult chaperon of this whole raucous affair does nothing to calm down this hyperactive group and instead saunters around like a larger, silent sidekick. I'm reading a description on one of the display cases when he walks over to where I stand, positions himself mere inches from me, and proceeds to read every label affixed to the glass aloud. Just as abruptly, he walks away, passing the other display cases without so much as an audible breath.
For the next half hour I try to remove myself from this group, entering quiet rooms with relief before two or three yellow shirts inevitably burst through and flash their cell phone cameras or drop kick each other. A few are just running past me in the World of Birds when I hear the chaperon say, "Hold on a minute." Again he stops at my side, even closer than before, and reads aloud every label affixed to the glass. I am not sure if I should acknowledge his presence, so I awkwardly provide a polite guttural noise instead, without moving my eyes from a placard describing the horned puffin. "During the breeding season," it states, "the horned puffin's flashy bill attracts potential mates."
I pull out my notebook to record this sentence, and the man starts to walk away.
"Later," the description continues, "the colorful plates fall off and give way to a duller, small bill."
I nod in understanding, and as I do, a baby in the next room screams.
