A Is for Alpha Male

by Laurel Curtis

  Allison found it particularly annoying that I decided “Junk” was a better choice than “Jocund”. However, when I asked her if she wanted him to have bad junk, she quickly shut up about it.

  Now I was in my bedroom in my apartment trying to pack because we decided we should leave right away. I could take my work on the road (read: put it off until I got back) since I mostly just did freelance writing for different magazines and newspapers, and my mom had basically just told the doctor’s office she worked for that she was going and didn’t know for exactly how long.

  Someone could probably make a pretty sound argument that her just leaving was irresponsible, but she had spent her entire life following the rules, and it had pretty much gotten her shit. Therefore, she was done with it.

  I personally loved this more reckless version of my mom. Perhaps it was partially the fact that “Crazy” liked company, but I also didn’t want to see anyone walk all over her. And that’s what had happened in the past.

  I had my phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear, doing the weird dance you did when you were trying to keep it there while at the same time doing other things, and the woman of the hour was currently whining on the other end of the line about not knowing what to pack.

  “Haley, ughhh. I don’t know what to bring with me. What does one bring with them on a road trip without a destination? I need your help!”

  “Mom, you are a grown woman, and I’m busy packing my own damn stuff,” I told her as I slammed my denim skirt violently into the suitcase. “I kinda can’t come over right now unless you want me to be naked the entire trip. I mean, I’d like to be naked some, after I find my very own Joe Callahan, but not with you and definitely not during the summer, in a convertible, where uncomfortable parts of me could stick to the leather seats.”

  “Really? You want someone with a tragic past like Joe Callahan?”

  That’s the part she focused on? Jesus. “Mom, focus here. I can’t come over.”

  “Why is it again that you don’t just live with me? That would make things so much easier.”

  Rolling my eyes even though I knew she couldn’t see me, or maybe it was because I knew she couldn’t see me, I answered, “Because I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m a grown woman. I don’t want people talking about how much I need to cut the cord. Not to fucking mention, I may talk about sex with you, dear sweet mother, but I have no desire to have you hear me moan because you’re down the freaking hallway.” I paused to take a breath before finishing, “Actually, that goes both ways. I don’t want to hear you moan either.”

  “Are you a moaner? I don’t know that I’m much of a moaner,” Allison mused.

  “Mom!” It was like she was turning into me with this displayed lack of focus.

  “Alright, I get it. At least give me some ideas then,” she conceded, irritation still ripe in her voice.

  Huffing out almost all of the air in my lungs, I grumbled, “Fine. Harness your inner Rock Chick. We’re looking for KA men, so that’s the best advice I can come up with. Denim skirts, jeans, flip flops, heels, tank tops, and lots of awesome jewelry. That’s what I’m taking anyway. A few things with sparkle are a must, but beyond everything else just be comfortable. We’re driving a lot. The last thing I want is to listen to you whine. And you don’t want to meet a man and then have him find out you really have a totally different style and personality.”

  She took what seemed to be a pensive pause, but landed on making fun of me instead of saying something insightful. “You’re right. It’ll be enough when he meets you and all of your multiple personalities.”

  “Are you trying to say that you think your only daughter, the fruit of your loins, the air to your breath, is mentally ill?” I squeaked.

  Her voice was the picture of placation as she answered, “No baby. Your mama would never say something like that about her baby girl.”

  Right. Fine. Moving on.

  “Whatever. I’ll pick you up at Eight tomorrow. Dress comfortable, but look alive. You never know when we may meet our men.”

  “Ten-four,” she said in closing.

  “Peace out, Mammajamma.”

  AT HALF PAST eight the next morning we were cruising north on Route 129 on our way past downtown Knoxville, Tennessee, the morning sun glinting off the buildings that made up a huge portion of the University of Tennessee.

  I had grown up around Knoxville (affectionately known as KnoxVegas), the orange of the Volunteers coursing fiercely through my veins every Saturday starting in September. It was a great town that had a lot to offer, but Allison and I both felt like we had used up the somewhat lacking supply of good men in this city. It would always be our roots, but we were both willing to try just about anything to find that last piece of happiness we were searching for.

  We had the top down on my 2013 blue Mustang GT convertible, and the radio was cranked up with Luke Bryan’s “I Don’t Want This Night to End” blaring through the speakers. Our heads were bobbing and rocking side to side, our mouths moving with every word of the song, and our packed-to-the-hilt suitcases were riding securely in the trunk.

  I had decided to drive the first leg, and we had only a very basic plan. Our first stop would be a beach somewhere. We didn’t necessarily think that’s where we would find the alphas, but we would surely find a tan. When we met our men we would need to have confidence, and a tan upped both of our pools of self-esteem exponentially.

  Turning the radio down just enough so that we could hear each other talk, I asked, “So what did Hunter say when you told him we were doing this?”

  “Your brother is a lot of things, Haley, but he’s not an idiot,” she told me something I already knew. “He knows you and me, and he knows this is exactly the kind of shit we would drop everything to do. He said to be careful and call if we found ourselves in a situation where we needed help.”

  Not surprising since we (read: I) had definitely needed help before. If there was a pickle to be found in, I would pick it up on my internal GPS.

  I kept my eyes on the road and pursed my lips when she finished, “He would also like to know why you didn’t also call him to tell him what we were doing. I actually think he was a little hurt by it, said something about thinking you guys were closer than that. I’d have to say I agree with him. Why didn’t you call him yourself?”

  Geez. The answer to that kind of question could be pictured in the dictionary beside “complicated”. It could probably be a picture beside “stupid” too.

  See, Hunter was my only brother, and quite frankly the only person on the planet whose opinion I gave a shit about. In general, I thought and acted how I wanted, when I wanted. Whether people thought it was cute or psychotic couldn’t have mattered less to me. But my brother, I respected.

  He was one of the best guys I had ever met in my whole life. Outwardly, he was a cop, good-looking, and friendly. But to me, and therefore more importantly, he always supported me, beat up any guys I asked him to, and stood behind me one hundred percent.

  I had been scared to call him and tell him that I, his brainiac sister, had decided on a whim to drag not only myself, but our mother, on a trip across the country in search of men modeled off of book characters. I knew he would tell me it was okay, tell me to do whatever the hell I wanted and take no prisoners, but I was afraid I would hear something else in his voice. Something that belied his words.

  The thing is, he was the best kind of guy. Protective and strong, loving and easygoing, funny and honest. He was actually the exact kind of guy we were looking for.

  No, not in a creepy way. I am anti-incest. It says so on my bumper sticker.

  Okay, I don’t have any bumper stickers. They ruin your paint.

  But, going back to the point, I think that’s why we loved KA’s heroes so much. Because we already knew one. My big brother, Hunter.

  For all these reasons and more, it was super irrational that I hadn’t wanted to tell him about the trip. He wasn’t the type to judge me. Nonetheless, I
still couldn’t bring myself to call him. I guess I feared at some point he was bound to get tired of all my shit. I never ever wanted to see a day when he wasn’t proud of me, and with every new idea I had, I was afraid that day would be today.

  Instead of telling my mom the truth or giving her any kind of a real answer, I brushed it off and changed the subject. “I’ll call him later.” Moving into the next topic so rapidly my words practically ran together, I continued, “I’m gonna need to get my hair done at some point on this first stop too. I had to cancel my appointment for next week, and I’m in desperate need of a color and cut.”

  Knowing she wouldn’t get it out of me unless I wanted her to, my mom shrugged a shoulder about the hair and dropped the topic about my brother.

  “Alright, come on. You’re in the DJ seat while I’m driving. Crank some music up, Woman,” I instructed her when the Hunter discussion had passed and silence had set in.

  Without wasting any time, my mom cranked “Walking in Memphis” by Lonestar. One of our favorite songs to jam to in the car. Anytime we went anywhere, it included our unskilled singing of this song.

  And it was unskilled. On both of our accounts.

  As we bobbed along, I watched in horror as my mom reached for her phone, leaned over next to me, held it out, and snapped our picture.

  I could hardly believe something like this was happening in reality and not in some alternate universe.

  “I’m sorry. Did you just snap a ‘selfie’ while we’re driving? It’s going to come out horrible!” I grumbled loudly.

  Sighing, my mom responded, “Oh relax, Haley. We need documentation. Don’t you want something to use to embarrass your children one day?”

  Of course I wanted to embarrass my children one day. Isn’t that why people had kids?

  Besides free labor, I mean.

  What I was afraid of, however, is that the only person that photo would embarrass would be me. “Mom, you know I take horrible pictures as it is...driving and distracted, it’s bound to be atrocious.”

  My mom pulled the phone back out, flipping to the camera roll to prove me wrong as she assured me, “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

  When she got to the picture, looked at it, and then changed her tune, I knew I was right on target. “Okay, so I’ll delete it. But we have to take more pictures!”

  Thinking about taking more pictures, even if they weren’t selfies taken while driving, did nothing to alleviate my concerns. I swear, I took the worst pictures ever. I either looked like I was passing out, or drugged, or had one eye that was bigger than the other in every picture I took. I’m telling you, I always came out hideous.

  The funny thing was, I was pretty sure I didn’t look like that in real life. Either that or I had the exact opposite problem of every woman on the planet...self-esteem that was skewed higher than it should be. I would never know for sure because anyone I could ask was always biased (my family) or telling me I was ugly would be counterproductive to their goals (men who wanted in my pants). You’d think that the fact that men wanted in my pants would be proof enough, but you’d be wrong. Men are animals. Just having a vagina was enough, but I also had a great body, a perfect mixture of soft bountiful curves and a flat stomach. That I knew for sure. These things alone would make a guy go for it, even if I was a “Butterface” (Everything is hot but her face).

  Hunter had filled me in on that fun little term. Seriously, guys were animals.

  That didn’t stop me from wanting one.

  And to be honest, I wanted pictures too. Even if I did look like a one-eyed bum in all of them.

  “Alright, Mamalicious. We’ll take more pictures. At least one of us will look good.”

  Knowing full well that I meant her, she smiled and teased, “Good. I’m the only one who really matters anyway.”

  I let her have her moment without retorting and turned up the radio as Tim McGraw’s “Truck Yeah” came through the speakers.

  “Did you see how good Tim looks in the video for this song?” my mom questioned.

  “Truck yeah, I did. He gets better every day he gets older, and that video is nothing but a testament to that fact.”

  I looked over to see that my mom had her head resting back on the seat, her eyes closed, and she looked like she wasn’t listening to a word I said.

  “Mom?” I prompted.

  When she didn’t respond I barked, “Mom!”

  She came back to this world with a full body jerk and muttered, “Sorry, yeah. Sweet baby Jesus. I was just picturing him and I kind of got distracted.”

  I’ll say.

  We were so alike sometimes, it was scary. “God, sometimes you make it so hard to deny that I’m the fruit of your loins,” I informed her.

  She waved me off and responded, “You don’t want to deny the genetic link to me anyway. I’m far too pretty. And fun.”

  “That’s the damn truth.”

  And it was. My mom was smokin’ hot. Great body, pretty face, long chestnut colored hair, and vividly blue eyes. In fact, her eyes were so blue they almost looked turquoise. I would know, since they were the same as mine. And she had great features. Proportional and delicate. The combination of all of that together, not to mention her really youthful skin, made her an out of this world forty-nine year old.

  The only reason she was single was because my dad, her first true love, died when I was little from Leukemia, and since then she had a real talent for finding assholes.

  Case in point, the son of a bitch she just divorced. She was a bright, sunny, unbelievably fun person, and he had almost completely smothered it. Thankfully, oppressing her wasn’t his only asshole-like trait, and she caught him cheating on her. I know that doesn’t seem like an appropriate time to use the word “thankfully”, but it was. The cheating was a catalyst to action. The way he treated her in addition to countless demands from Hunter and myself had her filing for divorce shortly after that.

  Fortunately, once we got her out from under his influence, it took hardly any time at all to build her back up.

  See, Allison is one of the best kind of people. One hundred percent pure of heart, her every intention good.

  I’m a horse of a different color. I’m mostly good-hearted, but there’s also a jug full of cynicism and just a pinch of unabashed frigidity in there.

  A faithful student of Live and Let Live, I mostly try to stay out of other people’s business and choices. After all, I wouldn’t want someone nosing around in my less than perfect life. However, if the person you’re planning on messing with is me or someone I love, be prepared to deal with the unmitigated wrath of Mama Wolf.

  Try to smother the bright light that beams out of my Mama, and I’ll rip your fucking throat out with my teeth.

  Metaphorically speaking, of course. I’m not a cannibal.

  Therefore, one could say I wasn’t content to just let Allison’s dear old ex go on his merry way post-divorce.

  No fucking way.

  What could a petite little girl like me do, you say?

  Well, it just so happens I had a bigger, stronger partner at my back, known by all as my brother.

  Going on some theories I had been harboring, I had Hunter do a little digging (all of this completely under Allison’s radar), and it turns out Mr. CFO was doing a little borrowing of the company funds. Read: Embezzling.

  I hear prison is an absolutely lovely place.

  Meanwhile, my dear sweet mother and I were in a convertible, on a road trip, with nothing but the prospect of perfectly worthy men in front of us.

  Seemed about right to me.

  A smile crept onto my face, and I peeked out from under my Maui Jim sunglasses to look over at my Mom.

  Her bare feet were up on my dash, her head was back against the head rest and rocking, her lips moved to the rhythm and lyrics of the song, and her right hand was riding the resistance the air provided in a wave motion.

  Bringing my eyes back to the road ahead, I relaxed into the seat, pushed the ped
al a little closer to the floor, and lost myself in the sound of the radio and the heat of the sun on my face.

  Destination: The Beach.

  ETA: As soon as fucking possible.

  WHEN WE FINALLY got to Gulf View, Alabama, we were exhausted. I’d like to tell you that we got all dolled up, swathed on the war paint (aka makeup), and went out on the town, but that would make me full of shit.

  It was a long drive, coming in at around nine hours with stops. Plus, we had had to make the decision that this was our destination in the first place.

  It was easy in the beginning, when we were just leaving Knoxville, because I knew we needed to get on 75 south pretty much no matter what destination we settled on. However, about an hour and a half into the road trip, around the time we were getting close to Chattanooga, I made the executive decision that we needed to make a decision.

  Helpful of me, huh?

  Thus, a discussion ensued on the merits of Florida that ended in my (unfounded) declaration that Florida was “so last season”. After considering Tybee Island in Georgia and Gulfport, Mississippi, we decided that Gulf View was the way to go.

  And it was pretty much for no reason whatsoever. We started to discuss the features of each place but quickly tired of that, and ended up doing Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo on Allison’s fingers instead.

  So basically, we just let fate steer our course. Fate, and a tiger we caught by his toe, that is. Let me tell you, he was fucking ferocious.

  Allison was settling into the room and ordering up some room service (that’s right, no Motel Six for the girl’s trip), and I was on my way down the hall to get some ice.

  Knowing it would only get harder the longer I waited, I called Hunter. At least this way I would have some privacy, and Allison wouldn’t be able to see the insecurity glaring off of my face.

  Two shrill rings sounded in my ear before he picked up.

  The ringing may have been shrill, but I would take that over a callback ringtone any day. Everyone knows that there’s a four ring courtesy if you’re not going to leave a message. If a person doesn’t pick up after four rings, you hang up. If they want to talk to you, they’ll call back. But when you call and there is no ring, but instead, some insidious pop song playing in your ear, how do you properly gauge the time of a four ring courtesy?