Page 22 of Knot Just for Show

“Was your mother or father fond of bears?” I try to keep the conversation flowing, but even I know this is a reach.

“No, no,” she laughs politely, not a real–full laugh. The sound is more for my benefit than anything else, a quiet smoothing of the wrinkles created by my ham-fisted attempt at chatting.

“There’s an old cartoon that was a spoof on Tarzan…” she explains with the studied script of someone who has said the same thing countless times in explanation.

“The Jane analog was named Ursula, of all things.” Another polite laugh.

“Oh, yeah—part of the Jay Ward and Bill Scott catalog—probably can’t say it on camera without it getting bleeped for copyright infringement,” I wince at the words once they’re out of my mouth. Why do I sound so much like my smarmy old man right now?

“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that! You’re probably right. I think you’re the first person I’ve met who isn’t my parents' age that has actually known what I was talking about.” She doesn’t break stride, just keeps moving along—seemingly happy to take me, however lame I may be, with her. “Not nearly as classy as Shakespere—but hey, everyone’s parents have to have their own source material to choose from, right?”

“One of my favorite animators, Robert Willows, actually did an incredible adaptation of Shakespeare’sThe Tempest. It had an incredibly troubled production history—beginning in the late sixties. Around the same time your namesake Tarzan-spinoff show was airing; but it didn’t actually end up being seen by anyone until almost thirty years after it began production—and only after being sold to multiple different animation studios after Willows failed to make his deadline to complete his proposed feature film for the original animation studio. It’s incredible to watch; even if the only way you can view it is to watch the ‘Prospero Cut’ and the ‘Caliban Cut’ back to backon NuToob,” I word vomit—unable to stop myself from info-dumping on one of my topics of special interest.

“That sounds so cool! I’ve never even heard of him before!” Ursula marvels airily before a chilly silence begins to spread its delicate wings between us.

I could step in—I could say something—but I’m caught between the panic of having just done something I promised myself I wouldn’t do—lapse into neurospicy expository lecture mode—and the complete paralysis of not knowing how to pick myself back up and keep going.

I’ve never been good at casual conversation, even when I’m face to face with someone and I can grasp at the proverbial straws of body language, presence or lack of eye contact, and micro-facial expressions. Without the benefit of any possible physical ‘tells’, I’m left without any compass—lost in the wilderness.

I can blather on about something that interests me, or something that I’ve read about or been lectured on—though I’m certain that wouldn’t do in this situation. Again, I hear my father’s voice in my head:

“What kind of cruel joke is it that my only son turns out to be a thetaretard.”

My parents had both expected something different from what they had gotten out of me. My mother had been hoping for an omega, like her. Either a girl or a boy, whom the treasured Ewing Estate and its ornate heirloom nesting wing would be a worthy dowry to their new pack. My father had set his hopes on an alpha like himself, preferably a son whom he could proudly bequeath his legacy to; a real estate empire built for years by the men of the Ewing clan.

As it happens, I managed to disappoint them both in different ways.

My father had considered himself the first victim of mybetrayal. It had taken me till I was nearly five years old to begin speaking like other children my age. I don’t remember much of that time in my life, but my mother still spoke of my early childhood years with fondness. Fondness tinged with trepidation over myobviouslystunted development.

As I got older, I found myself increasingly in spaces forgifted children?achieving high academically while languishing more and more socially. My mother staved off her disappointments in my ability to make and keep friendships with other children that might afford her a more expanded social circle of other society mothers, with my multiplying awards for musical excellence in violin and piano, fencing, dressage, and chess.

The more I won, the happier she was—living through my achievements vicariously until the day that she could either install me or my future pack in the family nest and preside over the youngest generation of Pack Ewing’s brood in her rightful place as the family matriarch.

While my father had wished for a more masculine child, more like himself—he had been content enough that my neurodivergence was becoming more easily disguised by the mask of so-calledgeniusalong with my growing collection of awards and accolades. He had even grudgingly agreed to let me attend ‘one of thefaggyIvy League schools—like Brown or Harvard’ instead of Princeton or Yale like him and his father if it turned out that I ended up designated as an omega as my mother hoped. The deal, of course, being that I was honor bound to attend Princeton—just as he had; preparing to make my ascension into the family business alongside my father if I were to be designated an alpha. To take my place, to build my own pack and carry on the Ewing family name for the next hundred years.

The joke was on them. Almost as soon as I started getting accepted to colleges I ripened as a theta. Mom didn’t get her fellow omega and Dad didn’t get his built-in-alpha buddy, his worthy heir. Instead, they got a no-knot, non-breeder with a scent that could make anyone downwind so relaxed they might stray into sleepy or even outright tranquilized territory.

Being a theta had made matchmaking somewhat difficult. Most omega centers and their partner placement agencies prioritized the distribution of omegas to established packs, consisting of an appropriate number of alpha partners for breeding purposes–the number of non-breeding partners is of much lesser consequence as far as the centers or agencies are concerned.

Of course there are sigmas, male and female, that can give birth much like their omega counterparts, just as there are gammas, male and female, who can use their knots to breed with sigmas or omegas. Though, agencies are quick to remind prospective pack mates that gammas are socially submissive and generally less aggressive than alphas. A pack with only a gamma breeder might not be deemed sufficient protection or compelling enough command in leadership when it comes to placing an omega.

The Reproduction Board and Placement centers will also caution that sigmas lack much of the nurturing traits exemplified by omegas. While they can give birth and they can breed with omegas or even others of their own designation, sigmas don’t even nest before going into heat—generally preferring isolation from everyone other than their own pack.

To say nothing of how the nasty whispers circulate about mutinous deltas and tranquilizing thetas.

Deltas, the no-knot-havers that ooze the same charisma and control as alphas, with all the reassurance and stabilizing calm of a beta’s scent, often manifest as unexpected bad-boys. Manyof history’s most bloody and bitter pack coups have been at the hands of a magnetic delta who managed to start a revolution in his own pack, ultimately overthrowing his own pack leader.

Whereas thetas like myself are said to find their way into packs for largely nefarious purposes–like a sleeping draught or a sedative on legs.

“Lysander? Hello? You ok over there?” Ursula’s voice calls me from the deep rabbit warren of my errant thoughts.

Shit. How long have I just been sitting here blue-screened while she’s been trying to get a response out of me.

“Hey-uh, I’m sorry–I promise I’m not trying to be an asshole, I just got really carried away down the tracks of another train of thought,” I apologize earnestly, bracing for a litany of scolding or lecture on how I need to listen, to be more present.

“No, no—you’re fine! It’s been a super long day and I don’t know about you, but I think that I was probably way past burned out like—two dates ago,” she begins before quickly catching herself and clarifying: “Not that I’m not enjoying talking to you! That’s totally not how I meant that to sound at all! I’ve just done so much talking and meeting people today that my brain is kind of like oatmeal right now—and when I could hear you over there but you just kind of tapered off…” She stops a moment to catch her breath, her words coming faster than her mind can keep up it seems.

“God, I talk too much! It was entirely possible that you were just trying to figure out an escape plan while I blather on and on,” Ursula laughs nervously.

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