When I Was Alphie

Chapter Two / Nutmeg Motel

Author's note: this chapter contains explicit content. I'm not planning on having many chapters like this but felt it was relevant for the overarching plot and understanding of Alphie. If you want to skip it begins 1/3 of the way down and ends about halfway through.

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Chapter Two / Nutmeg Motel

On September nineteenth, eighteen years ago, Gemma Hopkins was born at six thirty-four in the morning. Even though her parents had found out her gender months earlier via ultrasound, I always imagine that with the final push her father shouted aloud in sheer joy, "It's a girl!"

I like to think that the world changed on that September day. Perhaps the world changed on a molecular level, stopped spinning, spun the other way, maybe the birds outside ceased to sing or began to sing louder upon her arrival. Either way, Gemma was born exactly four hours before me, bringing joy instead of confusion. Her new body was perfectly intact, the mottled skin stretched over the perfect formation of a baby girl. She was born pink, squealing, with blue eyes and a tuft of blond hair on her head; two X chromosomes had done their job perfectly.

My parents chose not to find out my gender; I think they liked the surprise. Why play God when in nine months your question will be answered? When I was in the womb, my mother had a feeling that I would be born a boy, because she had violent morning sickness that mirrored how ill she felt when she was pregnant with my older brother. Not only that, she prayed fervently for a boy, her sudden devotion to reciting prayer more of an incantation than a plea to god. My parents wanted a boy, they believed they needed a boy, and that for the grief they endured two years before my conception the universe would reward them.

I was conceived out of grief and birthed in a joy that swiftly turned to dismay. My birth was a relief at first, as my mother developed gestational diabetes and had extremely achy joints while pregnant with me. Then, of course, that relief subsided as soon as the midwife wiped me clean of blood and mucus. When thrust into my father's arms, his first words about his newborn child were, "What happened to it?"

I wonder the same thing that he did upon first seeing me as I dismount my bike in the parking lot of the Nutmeg Motel and wheel it to a bike rack by the lobby. The motel sign flickers, which I should take as a foreboding omen, but I hardly notice this or the McDonald's takeout bags littering the cement. If I looked very closely I would see the cigarette butts, the out-of-state license plates, and the bra hanging limply over the curb. My mind is set on one thing and the world around me is simply a backdrop to my motives at this point.

There are few things that make me feel bold on nights like this. I run my finger through my hair, letting it flop softly over my forehead. In the reflection of a window where the curtains are drawn, I push out my lips slightly and make a sultry expression while straightening my posture. As I gaze into my own eyes I try to generate bravery, femininity, and sex appeal.

I glance down at my body and my gangly limbs betray me. I'm like a colt still discovering how its legs can move in tandem. My awkwardness is a noticeable attribute of youthfulness, which deep down I know is part of my appeal but chose not to dwell over the fact. I'm the type of person that is unremarkable from behind or to the side, my facial features only stunning upon closer inspection. My jaw isn't very strong and my chest is shallow (developed enough for a boy, the doctors said), though my eyes are a nice color and my skin is clear of acne since I stopped taking hormones.

The sound of my knocking resounds within Room 2E. My knuckles are tapping loudly and I don't let off until the door is opening wide, revealing the man I have been conversing with for the past week. Broad chested, barrel stomach, salt-and-pepper hair, golden wedding band glinting on his left ring finger; all of this expected by me. Most of the men I have met with are all caricatures of one another, people who live out their fantasies in pay-by-the-hour motel rooms.