Playing Coy
I’m from Crawford County, IL — rural, oil, and agricultural.
Born at Crawford Memorial in Robinson, at the same hospital, delivered by the same doctor as my father and brother.
My brother was the last baby Dr. Salesman delivered before entering retirement.
When I worked as a busboy at the country club in my teens, Dr. Salesman was dining in the 19th Hole restaurant, and he called me over during a busy Friday evening and whispered to me, “Do you remember the first ass spanking you ever got?”
I nodded no, with confusion.
”You were two minutes old, it was from me,” he said.
Although I claim and represent Oblong, I spent the first five years of my life in Palestine, IL.
My mother’s side of the family can be traced to Palestine for multigenerations, dating back to 1800. It sits on the banks of the Wabash River, is flat, dilapidated, and stereotypically midwestern.
I unofficially lived part-time with my grandmother, whose mobile home was just 150 yards from our apartment on the same block.
I spent my time trying to dig to the center of the earth under a Hackberry Tree at the back corner of my grandmother’s trailer. My uncle teased me constantly, saying, “If the hole gets any deeper, the trailer is going to tip over.” He even drew me a diagram on paper with a marker to explain how it was impossible to reach the center of the earth because, once I got deep enough, I would not be able to get the dirt out of the hole.
There were a few neighborhood boys I would play with: Patrick, Buzzy, and Coy.
Patrick was a crybaby and would hide under the couch pillow whenever I attempted to play with him. Buzzy’s real name was Brad, but I assume he got his nickname because of how much energy he exuded daily. He and I would throw glass bottles into the air and watch them crash onto the sidewalk while cars drove by and honked at us.
Coy lived across the hall from us in an upstairs apartment on Franklin Street, and his mom was friends with my mom, so we had playdates together, and at other times, our moms would take turns babysitting when the other was working.
He had red hair, freckles galore, a sunburn in January, a speech impediment, and a sister named Crissy, whom he called Chris, which meant he referred to me as Cwistafer, to avoid confusion.
Coy liked tractors and things with motors, pistons, and tires, while I preferred listening to Billy Joel, dressing up like a miniature rock star, beating on pots and pans, and playing with Cabbage Patch Kids dolls.
I don’t recall my first erection, but I do remember being three years old, watching Lethal Weapon at my grandmother’s house, and seeing breasts. I remember the odd sensation in my lower abdomen — standing in awe as the actress fell to her death, shirt flapping wide open and exposed. My uncle’s girlfriend rushed to the VCR to shut off the movie.
I also think back to being with my mom at a bridal party one evening and asking her friends what their bra sizes were. Most of them laughed and thought it was cute, but one of them acted concerned and replied, “That’s none of your concern, little man!”
Sometimes, when my parents were asleep, I would sneak into the living room, turn on the TV, and put on The Patty Duke Show. I thought she was gorgeous. I would get my face as close to the TV as possible and try to look down her shirt, as if the show were in 3D. Oil marks were left on the television from pressing my greasy face up against it.
Coy and I sometimes played in the dirt in the common area at the apartment complex, and our downstairs neighbor, Ina, often threatened to call the police on us.
”Boys, that’s my dirt! Stay outta there! I’m gonna call the authorities!”
It wasn’t her dirt — who calls the police on three- and four-year-olds?
Other times, Coy and I would play a game called Family, where he was the husband, and I was the wife, or I was the husband and he the wife. I pretended to cook and clean, and he would come home from work and ask if dinner was ready. We were acting out Mid-America domesticity of the early 1980s.
Sometimes I would be a firefighter who just saved children from a burning building and would come home to him and tell him about my strenuous day. He would sit on the bed and listen, and with his lisp, he’d say, “Cwistafer, you should relax!”
One afternoon, Coy was over, and my dad was watching us. We closed my bedroom door and decided to play Family. That afternoon, Coy chose to be the husband, and I was the wife. We took Family further and unbuttoned the tops of our jean shorts.
Coy then lay on top of me on my twin-sized bed, with my Sesame Street barn and farm animals displayed in the corner. I still have the cow with the hinged legs.
There was no kissing or hugging, just two pre-schoolers exploring.
My dad opened the door, saw Coy on top of me, and said, “What are you two doing?”
Coy jumped off me.
”Coy, your mom said to go home, she’s back.”
Coy started to button up his shorts, and I was still lying on the bed.
”Why are your pants unbuttoned?” my dad asked.
”We’re just playing,” I replied.
Coy sprinted through our living room, across the hall, and went home. My dad didn’t say another word about the incident, but I sensed the impending doom.
My mom mostly worked nights during my childhood, so I didn’t see her until the next day.
She’s always been the type to use the silent treatment when something's wrong, but you know that when she’s ready to talk or vent, it’s going to be a dramatic scene.
Mom spent the morning quietly avoiding me, holding back tears. Finally, she called me into the living room.
”Christopher, please come in here.”
I began the walk of shame from my bedroom.
She swooped me up like a baby, sat down on the couch, and kissed my forehead. While in her arms, I felt a few tears drop onto my small head, near my cowlick. She started to rock me while crying. This went on for a few minutes, and I asked her a few times what was wrong.
Eventually, she said, “Dad saw you and Coy yesterday playing with your pants unbuttoned. He said Coy was laying on top of you. What were you doing?”
”We were just playing a game, Mom.”
”Playing what? What kind of game requires you to unbutton your pants with the door closed?”
”It’s called Family.”
She asked, “The game is called family?”
”Yeah, one of us plays the husband, and the other one is the wife.”
”Which one were you?”
I felt like I had to lie and said, “I was the husband.”
She started intensely sobbing.
”Christopher, why?”
”Why, what, Mom?”
”No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Why, Christopher, why?”
Her mascara was smeared all over her face, and she smelled like cigarettes.
The rocking back and forth became more intense, and she said, “Jesus, please. Jesus, I ask you, in the name of the Lord. Please. Please, I beg. Do not let this precious little boy be gay.”
Her arms around me tightened up, like a blanketless swaddle.
”Christopher, please do not be gay. You cannot be gay. Jesus, I ask, and I beg. Do not let this boy be gay. Jesus, I beg.”
I wasn’t allowed to play with Coy any longer after that. I’m not sure whether my parents alerted his mom to the event or were too embarrassed.
Coy and his mom moved a few months later, likely to my parents’ delight.
I held that story close to my chest, not something I shared even with close friends throughout my adolescence and teen years. I was ashamed.
The event never fully left my mind, but my feelings about it diminished over time.
The lingering shame came rushing back on my first day of high school — Coy had transferred to my district.
My high school was small, fewer than 300 students, but Coy and I never interacted. I’m not sure if we ever even said hello to each other. Perhaps he didn’t remember, but I highly doubt that. We spent the next three years looking at each other’s shoes as we passed each other in the halls.
It wasn’t until my early twenties, high as shit on cocaine, with my friend Pauly, that it finally came up during deep, revealing discussions. Pauly had a Darth Maul throat tattoo, purchased his produce at the Dollar Tree, loved Nine Inch Nails, and kept a brick of gold hidden in his closet in preparation for the end times.
He confided in me about how he wished he hadn’t married his ex-wife so early and how they weren’t ready. He also hated how mousey she was, that she dyed her hair pink, and made a remark about how every girl with colored hair has “child trauma.”
”I have to admit something. Something I have never told anyone before, dude. So much shame,” I said.
”Go. Tell me. Safe space. Safe space.”
”This one’s a doozy, man. When I was three, my next-door neighbor and I were playing pretend family. I think I was the wife. We unbuttoned our pants and laid on top of each other. We were pretend fucking, but didn’t kiss. My dad walked in on us — we were busted.”
”Oh, dude. No way! Your dad saw your dicks touching?” Pauly asked as he snorted blow off the end of a key.
”No, we still had underwear on. My mom made a huge stink about it. Crying and shit. Begging Jesus not to let me be gay. It was awful. I can still remember the scene like it was last week.”
”Dude, your pee-pees didn’t even touch?”
”No, our pee-pees didn’t touch. We kept our pants on, just unbuttoned. I remember thinking what we were doing was natural. You know, the role-playing, but also felt wrong. Like, I knew I was in trouble because of how my dad asked what we were doing. And then my mom’s reaction.”
Pauly said, “That shit’s not even gay. You were just kids.”
”It’s not the gay part that necessarily bothers me. It’s the oversexualization. I was three, dude. But yeah, my mom bawling her eyes out, begging Christ not to let her baby boy be gay, was pretty traumatizing, I guess. I held that in for years. You know what’s even more fucked up?”
”What?” he asked. Pauly always spoke with his hands, but in a forced and unnatural way. As if Geppetto was controlling his movements.
”Me and that kid wound up going to high school together. I had to see him every day.”
”That’s so fucked! But like I said, that shit’s not even gay. Me, my brother, and my cousins used to compare the sizes of our dicks when we were that young in the pool. It’s normal, dude. Not sure why your mom was tripping so hard,” said Pauly as he sniffled and tugged at his nose.
”Wait, really? You don’t think the story was that bad? That has been crippling me my entire life. Always in the back of my mind.”
”Nah, dude. That was just regular childhood shit.”
An enormous weight was immediately lifted off my chest. All it took was two decades and some shitty Uptown Whittier cocaine.
