That is the quiet magic of Mr. Maxwell's work. A, a strapping, direct fellow who easily qualifies as the caveman of the title, drops in to discuss some problems at work with his older colleague, the sleepy-eyed C, who wears a large cowboy hat that sets off his large stomach. A takes an instant fancy to W, who waits upon the men with the mute attentiveness of a hired servant. A kisses W. C and A argue. W and A engage in a primordial exchange of screams.
Life goes on.
If this all sounds vaguely like some brainteaser from a high school math class, that is probably Mr. Maxwell's intention. His style is a flattening process that reduces innately dramatic material to a naked equation. The dialogue has a similarly anatomized feeling, like something presented on a specimen slide. I would tell jokes and you would eat snacks and she would sit on my lap. The suggestion would seem to be that any story or for that matter, any feeling can be thus boiled down, that everything operates within one mechanical formula or another.