8. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Lysander
T asha, my business partner and gallery co-owner, had laughed in my face for nearly a full minute when I told her I was taking a five week leave to appear on the reality dating program Build-A-Pack-Blind .
She had thrown her sleek, blond head back, tears beading at the corners of her eyes as she gasped for breath, convinced that I had made the funniest joke she’d ever heard. It wasn’t until she’d collected herself, catching her breath and dabbing the black mascara globs from her damp lower lashes, that she realized I hadn’t moved a muscle.
I can understand why she would have had trouble accepting the premise of me on a popular reality dating show. I am at the unique intersection of strikingly neurodivergent, consummate work-o-holic, incredibly wealthy, and woefully inexperienced with dating and courtship for a man of my age.
Tasha would more likely have expected me to say I was joining some sort of monastic cult and taking my leave from society.
And yet, here I am, waiting in a ‘bubble’ room for my next date— doodling a mystery woman in ballpoint pen in the margins of my production-provided notebook; contemplating a little Matisse homage; a green stripe of highlighter down the center of the woman’s scratched ink face.
“Hello?” A voice drifts in from the other room.
I halt my sketching and kick my legs off the couch—swinging myself into an upright position, my notebook folded closed neatly on my lap.
“Good afternoon,” I greet her.
“Jeez, is it even still afternoon? I feel like I’ve completely lost track of time in these damn ‘bubbles’ without having windows and stuff,” she laughs to hide her exhaustion, but I can tell by the soft breathy edge to her words just how tired she is.
“Yeah, it’s like a casino or something.They don’t want you to think about what time of day it is. Keep ‘em at the tables, or in the ‘bubbles’ as the case may be.” I do my best at levity, but I myself am also pretty worn out and low on social battery.
“Well, I guess this is a case in which I really hope that the house does win ,” she titters nervously, beautifully carrying our shared conceit over the finish line.
“Agreed. It’s why we’re here, after all—to meet people we wouldn’t have otherwise gotten close to in the outside world.” I open my notebook and tap the butt of my pen against the empty page beside my doodle.
“Lovely to meet you Miss–?” I prompt her for her name.
“Ursula.”
Ursula. Female. Proper Name–from Latin: Ursula, diminutive of ursa “she bear” (see ursine), my brain supplies. I’ve gotten better about the compulsion to recite the information aloud by rote as soon as my brain recalls it—but I’m so nervous right now that I almost start blurting out the etymology of her name back at her like a robot.
Behaviors like that are what used to make my father say that I could never function properly in the real world . He was wrong of course, but I’ve still done a lot to make my behaviors more palatable to ‘normal,’ neurotypical types.
“How have you been enjoying your dates thus far, Urusla?” I ask instead.
“I’ve been enjoying some more than others…” she prompts me with a meaningful pause, and I feel momentarily sheepish that I didn’t think to introduce myself before asking her about her dates.
“Lysander.”
“Like A Midsummer Night’s Dream Lysander?” she asks hopefully, and I can’t help but smile.
“Yeah, exactly that Lysander. Mom had a list of Shakespeare themed names, but that was the one that ended up making the cut.”
“It’s a good one.”
“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’s The 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 back on 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 theta retard .”
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 my betrayal . 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 my obviously stunted development.
As I got older, I found myself increasingly in spaces for gifted children 一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-called genius along with my growing collection of awards and accolades. He had even grudgingly agreed to let me attend ‘one of the faggy Ivy 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. Many of 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.
The way she keeps righting herself after each unsure wobble—like one of those egg-shaped plastic toys that are weighted at the bottom, refusing to be knocked down; it brings me a sense of peace, of comfort.
“I like it. The way you talk. I don’t think it’s annoying. It shows that you’re a real person with a mouth that struggles to keep up with her brain, not a persona,” I reassure her.
“Well, I like the way you talk too, Lysander,” she replies, a sing-song-bounce in her voice.
“I can tell you’re clever, even though you’re not trying to show off that big brain,” she snickers, her Boston accent turning the word ‘clever’ into something closer to ‘clev-ah.’
Knowing that my elitist father would despise what he would categorize as an immediate identifier of middle to lower-class speech.
I push my big, round tortoise-shell glasses up the bridge of my upturned nose, only now stopping to imagine what Ursula might look like.
I can’t help but imagine the animal skin wearing woman, with the bright red bouffant hairdo and hourglass silhouette like Ursula’s cartoon namesake. It’s not a bad image, but somehow it doesn’t quite line up with the voice on the other side of the wall.
Strangely, I’ve never been much for any kind of archetype of feminine beauty when it comes to being attracted to women. Not much for the standards of attractiveness of most men either, for that matter. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced that conventional attraction is really my speed at all—as I’ve never really experienced being sexually attracted to another real person. Characters in movies, tv shows, comic books, anime, even a few pop stars here and there—but never another person who I might actually be intimate with. It didn’t help that when I tried to talk to my father about this, as a younger teen—he merely expressed how disgusted he was with me, and discouraged me from telling anyone else how I felt. For a long time, I listened to him. I didn’t tell a single soul for many years.
Perhaps it's the same reason that I don’t understand how people react to my appearance. One of the girls in my year during undergrad had told me that it was unfair how ‘pretty’ I was—that she wanted to ‘steal my lashes.’” Before then, I had never considered my lashes; fluffy, dark, and improbably long; to be something to be admired.
While in my master’s program, a member of my thesis consortium had casually said, “For you to be so gorgeous and such a weirdo robot is just my luck, isn’t it?” One night after she had lagged behind the rest of our study group in the hopes that something might blossom between us. She had assumed that I hadn’t picked up the subtext of her extending her stay—when I actually had been keenly aware of her intentions all evening…I simply hadn’t wanted to lead her on when I didn’t return any of her apparent affections. All the same, her words still sting whenever I recall them. I’m not an unfeeling robot, after all. I’m just a little bit different.
“You’re getting quiet again over there,” Ursula sing-songs.
“Sorry, sorry—I was just contemplating what you might look like, if we’re being honest.” I let the truth hang for a moment, worried I’ve mis-stepped.
“Ha, well… don’t think too hard.” Her laugh does a poor job of disguising her nerves and her distaste for my question. I can't say I blame her.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not sure I’m the sort of person who cares about what you look like. I care about what it’s like to be with you, if that makes sense?” I try to allay her fears, but I’m not sure I’m doing anything other than possibly sounding slightly out of my mind.
“That makes sense. I read about that a bit, I think some people call it ‘demisexual’—like, you need to have some kind of established emotional intimacy before you get anywhere else remotely sexual,” she agrees easily.
I scribble down the word ‘demisexual’.
“Well, I like being with you. It’s easy,” I say flatly, because it’s true.
“So, does that mean you’d like to have a second date, Lysander?” she giggles from the other side of the partition.
“Yes, I do,” I answer, a rare smile tugging at the corners of my lips.