Alphas

A battle for domination rages within the bosom of Kay Nou.  There can only be one winner.

Island Boy and The Major continue to duke it out, seven days a week.  No time off for federal holidays.

The Major wins.  He has to.  Sooner or later, Island Boy is bound to figure that out, right?

It usually starts with a wake up.  Papa will say good morning to his boy.

“Stop it, Papa.  I want Mama,” is Island Boy’s customary response.

A bit later:

“I wanna watch TV.”

“You may watch a little TV after breakfast.”

“No breakfast today.”

“Yes, breakfast today.  We eat breakfast every day.  No TV today.”

And from there it degenerates even further.

There is crying.  There is wailing.  There is gnashing of teeth.  Some of it comes from Island Boy.

He is being true to his nature.  He, like his father, is an Alpha Male.

We seek the lead.  It’s not egotism.  It’s genetics.  We can’t help ourselves.

We’re not Spock.  We’re Kirk.

We are not content playing the Mertzes to someone else’s Ricardos.

We’re not polite Canadians, occasionally acting out by cross-border shopping or calmly accepting two-minute penalties for high sticking.  We’re big, bad Yankees, driving F-350s and smoking foul-smelling cigars while blaring Kid Rock out the truck windows.

You get the idea.

“Island Boy, put on your coat.”

“No.  You have a stinky butt.”

“You’re the stinky butt.  Now put on your coat please.”

No coat.”

“Okay.  I guess they’ll be no TV tomorrow.”

“I’m telling Mom.”

“Good.  She’s at work.  I hope you remember to tell her later.  What do you think she’ll say to you when you tell on me?”

“She’ll say you have a stinky butt, and I don’t have to wear a coat.”

These acts of overt aggression are not personal.  Island Boy is just trying to take over.

That’s his thing.  He wants control.

Some folks might speculate that IB’s need for dominion stems from his years in the orphanage.  He seeks control as a means of security.

They would be wrong.

The boy’s an alpha.  Straight up.  No frontin’.

He wants the lead dog status.  Period.  Won’t stop til he gets it.

If he can’t be Numero Uno, he doesn’t want to play.

But, he’ll be back.

He’ll find your weak spot.  Wait for his moment.

Then, when you least suspect it — a shiv jammed into your ribs.

“Island, let’s go.  I have to be in court at nine.  The judge is a real stickler.  I can’t be late.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why not?  You’re all ready.”

“There’s no school today.”

“Yes, there is.  Please don’t do this again.  I really need your help today, buddy.”

“I’m not going.  No school!”

“Yes you are!  I need to get to work.  You need to go to school.  There’s no room for negotiation here.”

“I punch you in the face.”

“No you won’t.  You know we don’t talk like that, Island Boy.  I would put you in a time out if I had the time to do it.”

Out of time and out of good options, Papa picks up a crying and screaming Island Boy and forcibly places him in the car.

The Major’s blood pressure is elevated and he is wondering to himself how he got sucked into this miserable situation again.

A sullen car ride ensues.

IB’s back-seat silence is neither remorse nor regret.  He does not trade in those commodities.

He is plotting his revenge.

— The Major

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3 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by lisa on January 29, 2011 at 11:04 pm

    🙂

    Reply

  2. Posted by Cecily on January 30, 2011 at 1:53 pm

    I broke out laughing histerically at the stinky butt comments! Not sure what that says about my maturity level.

    Reply

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