The Cooksville ChroniclesThe Mural November 1999 I was driving east on Illinois Highway 165. Don’t misunderstand me. Illinois 165 is not a major highway by any stretch of the imagination. The State of Illinois tends to number their highways conversely to the numeral. That is, the primary numbers are the important highways. Illinois 1 runs the entire eastern side of the state from Cave-In-Rock to the Chicago area. Illinois 9 runs east and west from the Indiana border to the Mississippi River, passing through Bloomington-Normal and Pekin. The Illinois highways numbered in the triple digits are the forgotten highways. They are the afterthoughts. Illinois 165 is no exception to this rule. It begins at an intersection with Illinois 9 about seven miles east of Bloomington-Normal and then travels northeast connecting the tiny town of Cooksville, Colfax, Anchor, until it ends in a junction with Illinois 47 just east of the equally tiny town of Sibley. I was driving east on 165 towards Cooksville. I was heading home. Or what used to be home. Cooksville was only home for my family for three years, but it had a huge impact on my life. The impact of living in Cooksville for three years still reverberates through my life today. It was the day after Thanksgiving, but you’d never know it from the weather. The sun was out and the temperature was forecast to peak at 70 degrees. This couldn’t be Illinois in November. There should be snow swirling on cold north winds. The only wind this day was a gentle breeze from the south. Yet, the plants knew it was winter. All the deciduous trees had obediently shed their leaves. The farmers had harvested their fields of corn and soybeans and the farmland was now naked to the elements. Because of the unseasonable weather and the fact that there were no tall stands of corn to block my view, I had an unobstructed view of the landmarks on the flat-as-a-plate prairie all the way to the horizon. I had the driver’s window open and the radio up. I always had to readjust to the local media when I returned home. I live in Chicago now, and I’ve become a lot more media-savvy. To me the local radio, newspaper and television stations in Central Illinois seem a decade behind the times. Plus, there’s a lot more diversity in Chicago. There’s a radio station that plays only songs from the eighties. No such selection here in Central Illinois. I slipped The End of the Innocence by Don Henley into the CD player. By now, the CD was ten years old, but it was one of those I could listen to a million times and not tire of it. I remember seeing Henley interviewed on VH1. He talked about how he collaborated on the song with Bruce Hornsby. Images of the video flash through my mind. The video was filmed in black and white and slow motion, and depicted small-town Americans in everyday pursuits: A woman sips a cup of coffee near an open window; children chase each other around a picnic table; a young man is given a military haircut and his locks fall on the barber’s shoes. Remember when the days
were long I thought the song perfectly matched
my little journey that morning. I was visiting my family in Bloomington. We had a lovely Thanksgiving. I slept like a baby in the bedroom I had occupied when I was in high school. My sister and I got up early to watch the Macy’s Parade. My brother-in-law slept in. The distinct aroma of celery filled the kitchen as I poured myself a cup of coffee. My mom was chopping celery for the stuffing. “I thought you were going to bring your friend.” Your friend is our family’s codeword for boyfriend. “He was welcome to come.” “I know.” In her usual direct manner, Mom asked, “So, why didn’t he come?” “He was uncomfortable, I guess. He’s only met you once before.” She grinned at the cutting board covered with crisp, green crescents of celery. “Never stopped you before.” “No, I guess it hasn’t.” My parents are perfectly comfortable with my gayness. There was a time when I was younger and more militant about my gayness. I brought various boyfriends to various family functions. Back then I liked to cause controversy. I once took a boyfriend to a cousin’s wedding. I brought another one to a picnic. But the plan to stir up controversy backfired. The question to me afterward was not, “Why did you bring a man as your date?” but “Why are you bringing different men each time? Can’t you maintain a relationship?” After that I decided that I wasn’t bringing any boyfriend home to meet the family unless I was really sure. And I wasn’t really sure about Chris, yet. We had only been seeing each other for six months and living together for two. Friday morning, my sister and my mom went to shop some of the early-bird Christmas sales. I hate shopping; I always have, so I declined to go with them. Besides, I wanted to take this drive out to Cooksville to see the old homestead. And to attend to business. I was born in Bloomington at St. Joe’s Hospital. My mom was a nurse there and my dad worked at State Farm. I was never really sure what he did, but as I grew up, I decided that the narrow corporate life wasn’t for me. My sister was born eighteen months later. We lived in an old house on East Grove that had been divided into two apartments. I’ll never forget how small that house was. My twin bed literally took up half the floor space in my room. My sister’s room was equally cramped. In addition, my grandmother was going to come to live with us. She had recently retired from her years as a secretary at Illinois State, but was far from ready for a nursing home. At the time, she was still active – bowling, volunteering at the library once a week and taking a ceramics class. So, my parents decided to buy a house in Cooksville. The price was right, and it was only nine miles from Bloomington-Normal. My sister and I would attend Cooksville School. They took us out to see the models. The subdivision was called Americana Estates and it was on the south edge of town. There were six models named after famous American figures. I still remember the crisp interiors – clean and cool in neutral colors. The two-story model had a huge arrangement of eucalyptus. That scent reminds me of moving to this day. My mom and dad were starry-eyed at the sheer space that could be had for a mere $32,000. In 1972, the dollar went a lot further. Serious inflation was yet another year away. Energy crises were still looming in the future. Lumber and wood products were abundant and inexpensive. Most of the models had partial front facades of real brick. The houses were mass-produced, shipped by train to Cooksville and assembled on concrete foundations. It was a real coup for the village of Cooksville as well. The small town was dying like many, many other rural towns. Had it not been for the vision of two mayors, father and son, Cooksville would be no more than a slight widening in Illinois 165. I slow down as I pass through the hamlet of Myrna. There’s not much left of the tiny village. A tornado passed through the town in 1979, destroying the Catholic Church and several homes and businesses. The town continued it’s downward spiral a little faster after that. My Eclipse glides over the long-dead railroad branch. It never ceases to amaze me how nature can so completely obliterate railroad lines once they are abandoned in the countryside. In the city, there are concrete abutments and inclines and bridges of steel to testify to the remains of a dead rail line. But in rural areas, air and earth and rain and time conspire to erase any remnant of old railroads. The highway almost parallels the dead line, and though my car windows, I follow the abandoned railroad with my eyes. I can still discern a raised rail bed here and there. There’s a concrete bridge over an irrigation ditch. Here’s an old-fashioned crossing sign where the railroad once crossed a dirt road. It’s the same line that runs to Cooksville. Actually, there were two parallel lines at one time. One was a freight line; the other was an electric interurban line. Actually, the Bloomington, Kankakee and Eastern was no more than a glorified branch of the Bloomington-Normal streetcar line. And it never reached Kankakee, the other city in its moniker. In fact, it never got much further than Chatsworth, and then only for about a dozen years until the inevitable cuts in service began. The rickety interurban survived the Depression – barely – and served well during World War II, only to be put to sleep a scant month after VE Day. The Bloomington-Normal streetcar line followed the BK&E in death a year later during a strike by motormen. Across the flattened farms, I see the grain elevator, the large tower for cable TV and police communications, and the water tower. COOKSVILLE, ILLINOIS 61730. My parents used to say that the reason they put the Zip code on the water tower was to lord it over the nearby smaller towns: Ha, ha, we have an operating post office, and you don’t. It would be so typical of the Ed mayors to do such a thing. Goosebumps rise on my forearms. It’s been several years since I have been here. First, I was too busy with college, then getting my career going, and now that I am established in my career, I can hardly find the time to get away. But, now I have a very special reason for going back. I have a business deal with the town. It will benefit both of us. I admit that seeing the old homestead was a convenient excuse. I had several ulterior motives. I was looking for my past, that much is true. I was hoping to show off to the townspeople that remained. I wanted them to accept me and view me as a success. And I was looking for signs of my first love. I glance at myself in the rear view mirror. I tried to strike a balance. Yes, I did want to give the impression I was a successful gay businessman, because that’s exactly what I was. My hair was short and cut just perfectly. My fashionable goatee was trimmed to perfection. My face still had a slight golden glow from the tanning bed I visit regularly. Yet, I didn’t want to look too hip, too urban. I wanted them to see me as the same old Steve who graduated eighth grade with their sons and daughters, their grandchildren, and in some cases, with their parents. I was the same kid who rode bikes on the dusty gravel roads outside town; who skinny-dipped in the Mackinaw River with the other boys; who trick-or-treated on Halloween as a Cooksville cop. You see, it was still perfectly safe and acceptable in the early 70’s for a seventh grade boy to trick-or-treat in Cooksville. As I drove down Oak Street – small towns always devise creative names for their streets – to the “Central Business District” my brain was flooded with memories. That’s the house Jack lived in. Wonder if his parents still live there? There’s the house Diane and her family lived in. Her dad passed away when we were seniors in high school, her mom remarried and lives near Kankakee. The corner of First and Main is ground zero. At the intersection, there were four almost identical buildings. They were brick two-story buildings with stores on the first floor and apartments on the upper floors. The building that used to be Cooksville State Bank now houses an antique store. I remember my parents doing their banking there. The bank was always somehow affiliated with Champion Federal Bank in Bloomington, and in the early nineties when the State of Illinois finally revised their antiquidated branch banking laws; it simply became a branch of Champion. When Champion itself was purchased by a succession of ever-larger banks, they finally closed the unprofitable branch. The only banking concession they left to the community was an ATM installed into the side of the building. Across the street from the bank was the Cooksville Tap. It was still in business, and I was glad of it. The Tap was perhaps the only business to survive intact with the same owner since the time my family lived here. It was a bit different from big city bars in that kids were allowed in. Let me clarify that – we weren’t allowed in to drink. And we couldn’t just waltz in the door without an adult, unless we were getting change for the pay phone. Cooksville lacked a restaurant, and the Tap was the only place to get a hot meal. They had good food, too. Perhaps later I’ll stop in for lunch and ask Trudy about former classmates. The third corner is a small park now, but it used to be Hoffman’s. Old Man Hoffman – I never knew his first name until years later – ran the precursor of a convenience store. He sold bread and milk, Popsicles, and butter, an occasional head of wilted lettuce and dusty cans of green beans. I could never remember a time when he wasn’t perched on a chair behind the counter watching a Cubs game. He had lost his right leg to diabetes and with it went most of his will to live and keep the store. His wife had passed away several years before we moved to Cooksville, and he was rumored to have estranged sons somewhere. Old Man Hoffman was a character. You had to bring the money for your purchase around the counter and hand it to him. He kept the cash till in the display case, because he couldn’t operate the cash register from a seated position. He would pull the till out of the display case and make change. Then, you had to bag your own purchase. He did all of this while taking his eyes off the TV screen for only the briefest of moments. If you dared to leave the money on the counter, he would yell at you. Some of my classmates made a habit of doing just that to get a rise out of him. The store was dusty and dirty because Hoffman couldn’t afford to pay a helper and because he couldn’t negotiate very well with his prosthesis. My mom said that the deliverymen were required to stock and maintain their own displays. The bread, milk, ice cream, potato chip and snack cake displays were always filled. But the rest of the store displayed Hoffman’s disinterest in his own enterprise. He died suddenly in 1976. The store sat vacant while lawyers searched for his sons. Meanwhile, vandals broke in and stole the remnants of the canned goods. The building was left open to the elements. And still the lawyers searched. In the record snows that blanketed the Midwest in late 1979 and early 1980, the roof caved in. The town officials had had enough and obtained permission to demolish the building. They created little Hoffman Park for the sesquicentennial of the town in 1983. The fourth building is my first destination. It currently houses The Christmas Store, but previously had many other incarnations. At times the building had housed a dress shop, a coffee shop and a video store. The wind had picked up as I parked my red Eclipse on First Street and walked in. The sleek car looks incongruous next to the old brick building. My Eclipse looks like it had been transported from the future, or perhaps it was a prototype car that had escaped from the Auto Show in Bloomington. Bells tinkled as I opened the door. I was overwhelmed by the scent of candles that they had on display. Christmas music was playing softly through speakers hidden throughout the sales floor. I was the only customer. “Stevie!” Monty squealed as he held his arms out to me. “Oh, Ben!” Monty called to his lover and business partner, “Our boy is here!” Monty embraced me and kissed me with just a bit more than fatherly affection. “Oh, you look so good,” he gushed. I wished I could say the same to Monty. He had gained a lot of weight. Everyone tends to get a little careless about their looks when they’re in a long-term relationship, I think to myself. Ben appeared behind him, pulled off his reading glasses and hugged me. “You shaved your head,” I point out to him. “Oh,” he gestured with his hand, “It was all falling out anyway. You look fabulous!” I blushed. “You’re just saying that.” “No, babe, you do. Come on in back. I have some coffee on. We can catch up and talk about your project.” Seated behind the sales counter, we sipped our delicious coffee. “How’s business?” I ask. “It’s been fantastic, until now,” Ben answered. “The weather is hurting us. No one is thinking about Christmas yet. What we need is some snow.” “We got a ton of business after The Pantagraph and Channel 25 did features stories on us.” “That was two years ago,” Ben reminded Monty. “And it’s been steady ever since,” Monty answered his husband in a rather bitchy tone. The Village Board was so desperate to fill it’s downtown buildings, including the two unoccupied corner stores, that they offered them rent-free for two years to anyone who would open a business in one of them. They filled the two corner stores and the former IGA grocery store. Several other buildings on First and Main, including the small theater, remained closed. “I wish you were reopening the theater,” Monty said wistfully. “I looked into it,” I replied, “But the market’s not here. Bloomington is saturated with theaters. They have a second-run theater and the Normal Theater is doing art and independent films. There’s no way this little theater could compete for first-run movies.” “It’s so good to see you,” Ben said as he changed the subject yet again and gave my hand a squeeze. Ben and Monty were like my favorite gay uncles when I was growing up and living in Cooksville. We never talked openly about being gay – in fact, they never used the word ‘gay’ in my presence until I was an adult. But I could talk to them and ask them questions. They would give me advice and encouragement. My parents loved me unconditionally, but they couldn’t understand the struggles I was going through when I was a teenager. They wouldn’t have understood my crushes and they certainly didn’t want to hear about the first time I had sex and the first time I fell in love with another boy. They were like a second set of parents to me. We talked for hours in the trailer they owned near Highway 165. They advised me and loved me like their own son. Today, I have to remind myself that Ben is only twelve years older than Monty and me fifteen. Back in the seventies, when I was a regular visitor at their home, they would have been in their late twenties. “How long have you been together?” I asked them out of curiosity. “It’ll be thirty years next April,” Monty answered. “If you don’t count the two years in the eighties we were separated.” “How are your parents?” Monty inquired. “They’re fine. Dad’s going to retire from State Farm next year. Mom switched to home health and she’s much happier. She had enough of ICU.” Monty had worked for years at ISU. Ben had worked at State Farm. The world headquarters for the insurance behemoth are located in Bloomington. It was only when Ben went to work that he hid his sexuality. Perhaps ‘hid’ is not an appropriate term. ‘Toned it down’ is more like it. Unlike ISU, which had established many gay-friendly policies, State Farm was not, and still is not, an ideal workplace for homosexuals. Discrimination was never overt but it was there nonetheless. When Ben was offered early retirement, they took a risk and started the year-round Christmas store. Monty continued to work at ISU and even with his income and free rent on the building, they struggled to make ends meet. They began to refinish the apartment upstairs while continuing to live in the trailer. Eventually, business began to pick up. With some free publicity from local television, radio and newspapers, activity finally returned to Cooksville’s moribund central business district. As for the couple living in Cooksville -- it was a small town. They were tolerated as the town queers. Like any other eccentric or oddball person in a small town, they became the village pets. As long as they didn’t break the law or molest boys, they were dismissed with the standard small-town phrase, “Oh, that’s just so-and-so,” as in; “Oh, that’s just Ben,” or “Oh, that’s just Monty.” Translated, it means that they were accepted and viewed as part of the community but still somewhat odd or different. Ben and Monty were lumps in the melting pot. I boldly asked, “Did you ever find anything out on the Coopers?” Monty clucked his tongue. “You just will never give up on Andy, will you?” “Monty,” Ben chided him. “No, sweetie, we never did find out where they went.” He put his arm around my waist. “Well, I think it’s about time you let go,” Monty huffed. “That was more than twenty-five years ago. Honestly, Stevie. I mean, it was cute and sweet when you were in eighth grade.” "Monty! How could you be so insensitive?” I thought to myself: Insensitive wasn’t the term I was thinking of. Asshole was more like it. Ben put his right hand on the back of his neck. With his left hand, he raised my chin so that my downcast eyes met his. “You never forget your first love, do you?” he said to me quietly. My eyes started to sting. Not trusting my voice, I shook my head. The bells on the front door tinkled as they announced the arrival of a customer. Monty swished to greet the two older women. “Maybe this is the reason why you can’t maintain a relationship now,” Ben offered. “Ben, you know I hate it when you try to psychoanalyze me.” “I know, babe, but it’s a thought.” After offering his help, Monty returned to the counter area where we were seated. “You really should come up to see the apartment.” I glanced at my watch. “Well, I’ve got a couple things to do.” “We understand. You are a busy person. Perhaps later this weekend before you go back to the city?” I smiled. “Yes, definitely.” The front door tinkled again. “Well, looks like you’ve got customers. I won’t keep you anymore.” “It’s been wonderful to see you,” Monty hugged and kissed me and went off to greet the next set of customers. Ben draped his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the front door. “Don’t mind Monty. We’ve been together so long; he probably doesn’t even remember his first time. Hell, sometimes I wonder if he remembers what love is.” He kissed me. “Be happy, my boy.” As I exited the store, the air seemed even warmer. I opened the sunroof in the Eclipse. I turned right, then left. Then, I arrived at Holly Lane. On either side of the street was a short section of rustic fence at a 45-degree angle to the intersection. At one time, the fence announced in big white letters Welcome to Americana Estates. It was the main entrance to the subdivision. And it was a portal to the past. I felt a huge wave of nostalgia wash over me. Perhaps it was just my longing to go back to a simpler time. Nostalgia is just our longing for the past when the present becomes too complicated. People also retreat to the past when they want a refuge from the present. That may include me. All of a sudden, it was 1973 again and I was in eighth grade. Richard Nixon was in the White House for the time being. The Watergate scandal was in full bloom. Gas prices were still below $1 a gallon, but very shortly Americans were going to get a huge reality check courtesy of OPEC. Disco had not yet swept the country; but the seeds had been planted in the gay discos in major cities. The Exorcist, The Sting and American Graffiti were playing in theaters. The last movie had touched off a wave of nostalgia for the fifties. Some bands did covers of fifties songs like Grand Funk did with The Locomotion. One could hardly turn on the radio without hearing something from Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road or Band on the Run by Paul McCartney. Inflation was rampant. Candy bars that had cost a dime at Hoffman’s one week were fifteen cents the next, and twenty a month later and three months later cost a quarter. Immediately to the right of the subdivision entrance was a dead-end cul-de-sac. This was the location of the model homes. The contractor built a huge barn like building to house the sales offices. They promised the building to the Homeowner’s Association as a clubhouse once the subdivision was completed. The contractor was going to have to live up to his promise much sooner than they originally planned. I park the car in the crumbling parking area just outside the sales office. All the trees are grown and mature now, but I remember when they were mere twigs in the ground. All the windows in the sales office are smashed out, and the front door is agape. My heart aches to see it in such condition. Maybe I should do something about this, too. The models were sold to individual owners long ago. They installed basketball hoops on the garages and swing sets in the back yards. I wonder what happened to all the furniture. Was it part of the purchase? Whatever happened to the huge eucalyptus arrangement in the Madison? My parents had purchased the Jefferson, a four-bedroom ranch with a full basement. The basement was optional and I recall that the model was built on a slab. The builder didn’t understand that Midwesterners consider basements essential. I stand in front of the Jefferson model and imagine myself at twelve running into the front door. I grin to myself. Wonder if I was wearing those elephant bell-bottom jeans my mom hated so? Still grinning, I get back into the car. I negotiate the curving streets with botanical names – Holly, Jonquil, Garland to Laurel Drive. There it is. My heart is thumping in my chest and tears fill my eyes. The current owners have painted it brown. My mom hates brown. The siding was always painted blue while we lived there. The garage door is wide open, which my dad would have disapproved of immediately. “Anyone driving down the street can see what we have in here,” he’d tell us. And so, we were commanded to keep it closed at all times. There’s a bike on its side in the driveway, too. Better put that bike in the garage before your father gets home. And close that garage door. But the trees are huge. I remember sunning myself on the deck before we were told that overexposure to the sun could cause skin cancer. Now, the deck is completely shaded by the trees my dad planted. In the back yard of that house is an ash tree that started life in a Folger’s can. The new owners would have no knowledge of the photomural wallpaper I put on my bedroom walls in 1976. Whether it was nostalgia or sentimentality, I started to get teary-eyed again. My face felt warm and flushed. Suddenly I remembered the small-town suspicion of strange cars. I would have some explaining to do if I were seen crying in front of the house where I grew up. I started the engine again, drove to the end of Laurel Drive and turned onto the next street. Abandoned concrete house foundations poked out of the brown weeds like the ruins of an ancient city that had encountered a natural disaster. I stopped the car and took a seat of the concrete steps of a foundation of a house that was once destined become a Franklin – a three-bedroom raised ranch. There was something heart wrenching about the silent concrete sentinels. It was almost like sitting in a graveyard. In a way, the abandoned, forgotten street was a graveyard. It was a burial place for dreams. The dreams of a mayor named Ed Fahey II who only wanted to save the town he loved so were interred here. The dreams of a builder named Gold & Capodice to make money on the homes and to be lauded with saving a small town were buried here. The dreams of homeowners who thought their investment would increase in value have graves here. And the hopes and dreams of an entire community were buried here amidst the concrete foundations, the lawns that were never planted, the trees that grew where basements should be and the stairs that lead to nowhere. Gold & Capodice opened Americana Estates in 1971. Cooksville was only ten miles from Bloomington-Normal and an easy commute. Their subdivision would save the dying village. Sure, they would have to help the town improve their original water system and install a new wastewater plant, but it would be worth it. For four summers, the building continued unabated. In those days, builders didn’t continue almost year-round as they do now. Unless the house was completely weatherized, construction halted until the spring. Gold & Capodice built just over 100 homes and almost doubled the population of Cooksville from 830 people to almost 1500. Then many factors beyond their control conspired against the builders. Energy prices spiraled to unprecedented levels. The cost of raw materials skyrocketed. Most of all, labor became very expensive. My parents bought their house in 1972, and we moved that summer. I was entering seventh grade and my sister was entering sixth. We had several happy years in that house. My mom always had a talent for spotting trends that lead to future events. She is not psychic in any way; just very astute. She read the newspaper articles about Gold & Capodice struggling to obtain financing. She was the first to notice that they were using cheaper materials and trimmed the number of models that they offered from six to four. Trouble was on the horizon. Fearful that the house might actually depreciate in value, they put it up for sale in the summer of 1975. That same summer, the builder built these foundations. This street was to be called Kingston Drive. Mom and dad sold the house just as Gold & Capodice announced that they were filing for bankruptcy. Most of the homes on Kingston Drive were not yet sold, but some were. Prospective homeowners lost their deposit money. The mayor, Ed Fahey II lost face, lost the next mayoral race and then blew his brains out. It seemed like Cooksville lost its will to live. The houses never did depreciate in value, but they also didn’t appreciate as fast as a similar house in Bloomington. My parents found a nice, newer four-bedroom house in Normal and we moved back. My sister and I would be attending Normal schools this time, but we were back in town. Cooksville survived this catastrophe, as it would survive others. It survived the railroad closing in 1980. And it survived the closing of the school. My cell phone rings. I hate cell phones but they are a necessary evil in business today. I think of my cell phone as an electronic umbilical cord to my work. I’m sorry, but there are times I want solitude, I want to be out of touch, and I do not want people to be able to reach me. This is one of those times. I wanted to fling it into a nearby basement filled with brackish water. “Hi, babe. Where are you? You sound far away.” It is Chris, my current lover. I am aggravated with him. He is constantly checking up on me. Not because he doesn’t trust me but because he is insecure. He has to be constantly reassured that I love him and care about him. I usually select boyfriends who are fairly independent. But Chris was a rebound relationship; I was desperate and lonely at the time. Besides he’s thirteen years younger than me, blond, beautiful, handsome and hung. He’s the very definition of a trophy boy. “I’m in Cooksville.” I answer shortly. “I can hardly hear you. It sounds like you’re outside.” I grit my teeth. “Because I am outside.” “Oh.” In that tiny utterance I can tell I have hurt his feelings. “What are you doing?” He asks timidly. Now, I am not normally a cruel person. But he has interrupted my thoughts and the fact he is calling my cell phone irritates me. It takes all my self-control not to respond with a smart retort. “I’m in the neighborhood where I grew up,” I explained after I counted silently to ten. “I’ll tell you about it when I get home.” “OK. I can’t wait to hear about it. How was your Thanksgiving?” “Good,” I answer tersely. I wanted to get him off the phone. He is lonely; I can hear it in his voice. But he has a healthy circle of friends and a whole city to keep him occupied. I simply want to be alone for a while. “How was yours?” I decided that if I engage him in some conversation, I might be able to get him off the phone. “I ate too much. The usual family fights.” “Uh huh.” “The cable bill came in the mail.” And? I think to myself. You know where the checkbook is and – hopefully – you remember how to write a check. “Oh. OK,” I all I said. I knew what he wanted from me. He wanted validation and reassurance once again. I hate his dependency. No matter what I attempt, he won’t stop clinging to me. He sees me as a father figure. The wind gusts a little harder. It blows across the small phone and makes his next line difficult to hear. “I miss you.” I’ve been gone a little more than twenty-four hours. “Same here,” I mumble without conviction. “Gotta go, now. Talk to you later.” His voice quavers when he says, “I love you.” "Me, too, sweetie. Bye, now.” The phone beeps as I flip it closed. I reprimanded myself; you were way too mean. You could have given him a little stroke. What would it have cost you? Angry tears fill my eyes. I glance up to the clear blue sky and shake my fist. “I never wanted this!” I exclaim to a passing cirrus cloud. I never wanted to be a daddy. Not in a million years. I’m all about fairness and equality. My ideal relationship was with a man who was my equal. There might be some skills I might have or some knowledge he might possess that I don’t. But in the end it would have all evened out. Instead, I find myself cast in a role I detest. I wound up with a series of ever-younger lovers – each one more emotionally fucked up than the last. They see me as the father they never had; loving, creative, and confident. They want to be my little boy. And the last thing I want is a son. If I wanted a son, I’d adopt one. I don’t need or want my lover to act as a son. I can’t stand clinging, dependent men who need my input on their every decision from what they should order at a restaurant to what clothes they should wear. I hate this. I loathe this. I despise this. Yet, that’s what I end up with. Why? Why? What’s wrong with me that this is the type of man I attract? How did love get so complicated? Why can’t it be simple? Then, suddenly, I am crying. I crossed my arms, placed them on my knees, and placed my forehead on my arms. I sat in the graveyard of shattered dreams and cried my frustration out. I might have cried for two minutes or twenty. When I was done, I wiped my face with my hands and got back into my car. There, I blew my nose in a McDonald’s napkin I fished out of the glove compartment. I glanced at the clock. It is almost noon. I decide to save the visit to the Cooksville Tap later. My next destination is the school. Or what was left of the Cooksville school. Actually, the school was three buildings that were interconnected. The original school was on the corner of Second and Chestnut. The school building stood directly on the corner. The entire rest of the block was owned by the board of education for future expansion. Until then, the large block made an ideal outdoor play area, with enough room for a baseball diamond and playground equipment. The original school was built in 1896. It was a classic two-story, eight-room schoolhouse with a ‘daylight’ basement. Although the exterior was sturdy red brick, the interior was mostly wood. The main entrance was under a graceful brick arch that faced east on Second Street. On both classroom floors, the main hallway ran east and west. There were two classrooms on either side of the hallway. Grades one to four were on the first floor and five through eight were upstairs. The office, the massive coal boiler, and later, the kindergarten, were in the basement. So were the huge rest rooms. For many of the first students at the beautiful new school, it was the first indoor plumbing they had ever seen. The school was the cornerstone of the community. It was the pride and joy of Cooksville. Generations of students passed through its halls and graduated from there. Early in the century, it was all the education most of them would receive, although a precious few would go on to the consolidated high school in Colfax and then even to university in Bloomington. Cooksville mayors weren’t the only ones to have ambitions for the little community. In the depths of the Depression the Superintendent of Schools, Jerry Franklin, secured a prize for his little town. He and the school board prepared a proposal for a gym for the school and submitted it to the Works Progress Administration. But the townspeople were flabbergasted that the WPA not only accepted the plan but also added to it. The WPA said that the whole community could use the gym as a gathering place. So they added more square footage to the plan, as well as a stage, dressing and shower rooms, and a vestibule. The whole building was built out of brick in a handsome Art Deco style. An arch on the east side marked the front entrance. The new arch mirrored the arch on the original school building. On either side of the arch were slim towers that doubled as flagpoles. The windows in the gym were long and narrow. Between the windows, the bricks were placed in a vertical pattern that looked like streamlining. Inside, a false soffit hid recessed lighting. Most astonishing of all, there were no ninety-degree angles in the new building! All the corners were rounded, even the exterior corners of the building. Inside the Federal Artist Project placed murals in the vestibule and above the bleachers on two walls and over the stage. They were done in bright colors and the human forms depicted in them were abstract and idealized – much like the Art Deco building itself. I was especially fond of the mural on the south wall that depicted shirtless athletes in pursuit of excellence. To connect the two buildings, a hallway was built on the west side of both buildings. The late fifties and early sixties saw rapid changes in society and educational theories. Americans questioned the efficacy of their public school system when the Soviets placed the first satellite in space in 1958. There was a need to catch up with the Soviets educationally. Part of this change was the appearance of separate junior high schools. The Superintendent of the district at the time, John Foley, was a forward-thinking man who also had ambitions for his little district. Smaller school districts all over Illinois were consolidating. Demographic studies showed that Cooksville and the surrounding small towns were going to level out in population until the city of Bloomington-Normal reached their doorstep sometime in 2010. Already, the high school students were bussed to Colfax. Unless Cooksville suddenly became a metropolis, it would never have a high school. So, Mr. Foley decided that Cooksville should have a junior high. He reasoned that if the smaller districts in the area were going to consolidate, then Cooksville would be the home to the junior high. Additionally, Foley said, the junior high would be separate from the main school so that the bells that signaled the changing of classes wouldn’t disturb the primary students. It would be self-contained. The two buildings would continue to share the magnificent gym. Cooksville passed the referendum and taxed itself to build the addition. In the style of the fifties and sixties, the building was one story. It was faced with yellow brick instead of red. It was situated west of the main building on Chestnut Street. Unlike the main building and the gym, it was pushed back from the street. A curved drive led to the front door. This would allow for busses to discharge students off the street. There were six classrooms, although only four would ever be used as actual classrooms. One immediately became the school library and the other became the main office. The hallway that was built in the thirties was torn down and rebuilt to connect all three buildings. In a stunningly bad move, the architect had made a walkway of floor-to-ceiling safety glass to connect the three school buildings. The idea was that a transparent walkway would detract less from the architecture of the buildings. However, the glass hallway was impossible to heat during harsh Illinois winters and became oven-like at the first sign of spring. It was a bad idea from the start and would cause problems later. The school enrollment stayed almost flat throughout the sixties, but absorbed a sudden surge as Americana Estates opened south of town. Many of the families who bought houses had children. My eighth grade class -- the class of 1974 – was the largest ever to graduate from Cooksville. There were twenty-five in my class. My sister graduated the next year with twenty-three in her class. The Bicentennial class had twenty graduates. As the builder of Americana Estates filed for bankruptcy and construction halted abruptly, the influx of new families stopped. Some even moved back to Bloomington. From 1970 to 1980, the population of Cooksville declined a third to 1000 in the 1980 census. The decline of students continued as well. Anchor, Colfax, Cooksville, Saybrook and Arrowsmith finally consolidated into one district in 1981. Tough decisions had to be made about school buildings. The Cooksville School survived – barely. The 1896 building was deemed hazardous and past it’s prime. It was given a stay of execution with one proviso – the citizens of Cooksville had to come up with a plan to replace it if they wanted to keep their school. This was easier said than done. The freight line closed in 1982, therefore reducing business prospects. Small storeowners could no longer compete with the malls and discount stores in Bloomington. No town wants its school to close. There was nothing else in town to rally around, to show off with pride. Cooksville had a library and a post office, but somehow they didn’t inspire confidence, pride and affection like the school did. After a long battle, Cooksville School closed in 1986. The last eighth grade class to graduate had but five students. Like a monument to failure the building loomed on the corner. Kids who tried to vandalize the building were treated firmly. The message was – the school may be closed, but the spirit lives on. Eventually, vandals smashed the tempered glass in the Glass Hallway and gained entrance to the buildings. Faced with the possibility of lawsuits, the village had the oldest section of the school demolished in 1995 – just one year short of its centennial. I parked the Eclipse on the driveway in front of the newer junior high part of the school. Weeds have grown in every crack of the pavement. Glass crunches under my shoes as I approach the front door. From my pocket I remove a key. I insert the key into the padlock on the makeshift plywood door and enter. The board-up company I have hired has done a good job. The windows are all sealed with plywood, so my eyes take a few moments to adjust to the dim light. It is tragic to see this part of the building like this. It was in use for less than thirty years. I spent two years here. Many consider their junior high years to be hellish – mine were wonderful. The teachers here had time to encourage me, to help me as an individual. I loved school, and looked forward to it each morning. We had a team of teachers who did miracles on a shoestring budget. They recycled and reused long before it became politically correct to do so. All the furniture has been removed. The drop ceilings have mostly fallen to the floor. Memories flood back to me. Here is the spot I stood when I was ejected from a classroom for acting up. In this classroom, I dissected a frog and learned about open and closed circuits. Suddenly, I hear music. It sounds like it’s coming from the gym. I retrace my steps out the front door and lock it behind me. I walk around the corner to the front entrance of the gym. The music is louder now. I’m certain it’s coming from inside. I also hear voices and the sound of skateboards. I open the door with another key, and sneak into the vestibule. There are two boys skating around the floor. An unseen boom box blares thrash music. Despite the fact it is November, they are both shirtless. “Hey!” I shout. “Oh, shit! Come on, Jesse!” I see a brown-haired boy exit toward the stage. He turns off the boom box and carries it. They must have gotten in through the back. The other boy doesn’t move. He stares at me defiantly. “You aren’t supposed to be in here,” I told him simply. I guess that he is fourteen, fifteen, tops. He had blond hair and blue eyes. His face looks familiar. No, it can’t be, I tell myself. That’s impossible. He ran his hand over his chest. There is that adolescent defiance in his eyes. He is challenging me. “We can skate in here. We’re not hurting anything,” he says in a surprisingly deep voice. “Still, you’re not supposed to be in here.” “Why? You don’t own the building.” "Yes, I do. I just bought it. That’s why I had it boarded up until the construction crew can get in here.” A smile spread across his face. “Yeah, you’re Steve Somebody. I heard about you. You’re going to turn this into a community center.” I can’t resist smiling back at the handsome boy. “Yeah, I’m Steve Somebody. Actually, I changed my last name to Baity. Next year it will be Steve Nobody. Then maybe Steve Anybody!” “Oh, a comedian!” I laugh despite the fact he is trespassing. “What’s your name?” “Jesse,” I shake his large hand. “That’s Mark.” Mark gives a half-hearted wave. Is it just my imagination, or is my gaydar picking up signals? He flipped his long blond bangs out of his eyes with an expert toss of his head. The rest of his hair is cut close to his head. He looks so much like a Cooper. He’s got to be related. There’s so many Coopers around here. I want desperately to ask him if he is related to Andy. I’ve got to be smooth, though. Don’t need the kids going home and telling their parents that I was asking about them. My stomach rumbles. “Hey, how about some lunch? My treat.” Jesse looks like he’s ready to go right that instant, but Mark looks wary. He slowly approaches Jesse and I like a lioness stalking a gazelle. “What’s it going to cost us?” Mark asked. “Just this: you have to stay out while the construction crew is in here.” “Deal!” Jesse answers for both of them. “Where we going for lunch? McDonald’s? He asks hopefully. “No, I don’t want to drive to Bloomington and back. How about the Tap?” It is clear from their faces that the Cooksville Tap is not their first choice. They carry their skateboard out the front door, which I lock behind us. I open the trunk so they can place their boards in the miniscule space. “Shotgun!” Jesse calls. Mark punches him in the arm. “Ow, bitch! Watch it!” Instead of being irritated by the exchange, I am amused and energized. I like kids, I always have. One of the drawbacks of living in Chicago’s gay ghetto is that it’s so age-segregated. Not many gay couples have kids, therefore, one doesn’t see many kids in the stores, public buildings and on the street. I miss that. They are both open and spontaneous and fun. Even Mark seems to trust me. That’s the way it is in small towns. They trust me because they know I could never have gotten away with anything less than honorable behavior. A city kid – or even a kid from Bloomington – would have never gotten in a stranger’s car let alone go to a tavern for lunch with him. But I am Steve Baity. Most of the people here know me, know my life story, and know that I am gay. I grew up here. I am still a part of the town and it is still part of me. “Dude! You are way cool! I love this car, too!” Jesse exclaims. I smile at his unvarnished enthusiasm. As I turn the corner and park the car on the side of the Tap, I catch a glimpse of his chest. He is still shirtless, and his stomach muscles ripple perfectly in the sun. They both slip on their shirts as we enter the Tap. Trudy greets me like a returning war hero. “Steve!” she exclaims. She hugs me tightly. She smells like Dial soap, beer and hamburger grease. “So good to see you.” We are the only customers this afternoon. We seat ourselves at the bar. “I see you brought your friends,” she gestures toward the boys. “Uh, actually, I just met them. They were – um – helping to me to inspect the school.” Trudy spoke to them sternly. “Were you two skating in the gym again? You know you’re not supposed to be in there. I’ll tell your parents…” “It’s cool, Trudy,” I interrupted her. “I have it under control. We have an understanding.” I wink at Jesse. He flashes me a grateful smile. She sighed and took a long drag off her Marlboro Light. “So what’ll you guys have?” “I’ll have the Fatass Burger. And whatever these guys want.” The Fatass Burger was aptly named. It was huge. A full three-quarters of a pound of ground beef topped with anything you could desire. Trudy always toasted the bun on the grill before she served it. “Really? We can order anything?” Jesse looked at me incredulously. “Except beer,” Trudy added. She started preparing the food. “You don’t live here in town, do you?” Jesse boldly asked the obvious. “No, but I used to. I went to school here. We lived in Americana.” They nod, absorbing the information. “You might be related to some of the people I went to school with.” “They probably are,” Trudy interjected as she tended the burgers on the grill with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Maybe that’s what makes them so good. The cigarette ashes give them extra flavor, I muse to myself. Trudy turned away from the grill, and with a spatula dripping grease, she points at Mark. “That’s Mark Pelletier. His grandpa was the custodian at the school. Probably about the time you were there. And that,” the spatula moves over to Jesse, “is Jesse Cooper.” I was right! He is a Cooper! I smile at him. “So tell us what you’re going to do with the school,” Trudy said. “I announced it when I bought the buildings.” “I know,” she grinned at me. “But I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” “The junior high part is for community meetings. The village is going to lease two of the classrooms for offices. The other four are for groups – religious education for the churches, 4-H, scouts, or any public non-profit use. The gym will be repaired and renovated into a recreation center. Cooksville will probably be the smallest town in America with a complete exercise gym. The new library will be built where the old school was and connected to both buildings.” “That’s a cool idea,” Jesse said. “The trailer sucks.” “And it stinks,” Mark held his nose to emphasize the point. Since the creation of the library district in the 60’s, it has been housed in a converted trailer – I mean manufactured house – on the edge of town. The reason it stinks is that some critter got trapped underneath and died there. I am partially funding the new building. My staff also obtained some grants for the project. Along with the donation of the building, I required the village of Cooksville to establish a taxing body to support the public buildings, even if subsidies were still required. The new library will be a stunning, miniature version of Grand Central Station in Cincinnati. The Art Deco building will look like an old-time radio with a rounded arched roof and a grille on the front. In our building the ‘grille’ will be comprised of tall, narrow, alternating bands of windows and brick. There were two other requirements. I did not want my name on any of the buildings. I am not that vain. But the gym had to be named after my best friend in junior high – the Andrew R. Cooper Gym. We left out the word “Memorial,” because no one is really sure if he is alive or dead. Of course, we have hired private investigators to hunt him down. We don’t think he’s dead – his Social Security number is still valid and does not come up in the Social Security Master Death File. He may be in a different country, but considering his family, this is unlikely. We simply can’t find him. “What are you doing with the murals?” Trudy asked. “They are being taken down. Art restorers are going to remove them from the walls, pack them up and ship them to Chicago. I’m going to have them cleaned, restored and reassembled in my offices.” My architectural firm is located in a loft on the Near West Side. The murals will add class and a sense of history to the space. The mural over the stage will go in the main reception area. The other two will be placed in the work area. In a way, I am taking a piece of Cooksville with me. “You know they won’t put the gym on the National Historic Register if you take them.” She raised her eyebrows at me like a disapproving schoolmarm. I sighed. It has been the only point of contention between Cooksville and me. Perhaps it was selfish of me to want the murals, but it was, after all, my building. I want something that had been close to Andy, close to me. “Hey, could we play the jukebox?” Jesse interrupted us. Grateful for the distraction, I pull out my wallet and handed him a dollar bill. They stormed the jukebox. Trudy turned away to finish the hamburgers and fries. “Boys,” she called, “it’s ready.” She set the plastic baskets, which were lined with paper and filled with deliciously greasy food, on the bar. “He looks like a Cooper,” I gestured with my head toward Jesse. “Sure does. I think they’re doing cloning experiments out there.” I laughed. “Which branch is he from?” “The Ken and Shirley branch.” Shit. Wrong part of the family. Andy would be a cousin. Or maybe a second cousin. I could never keep that straight. I had to ask. “Whatever happened to the George and Paula branch?” “They’re all gone. What a white trashy bunch they were. Good riddance. They’re probably in Kentucky again.” This part of the family always had connections with Paula’s family in Kentucky. George and Paula had seven boys. They lived on a farm about a mile north of Cooksville off a gravel county road. They constantly struggled to make ends meet. George drank and alternately abused and neglected his family. They grew vegetables and chickens. The boys were always dressed in hand-me down clothes that Paula mended in the hopes that the garment would make it through just one more season so the next boy could wear it. Almost all the boys had been held back in school. The two oldest never graduated high school. It wasn’t that they were slow or stupid. It’s just that formal education wasn’t a priority in the Cooper household. The Cooper boys all attended the School of Hard Knocks. And they had a reputation as hellions. They were constantly in trouble with the law for drunk driving, for trespassing and vandalism, even for robbery. They all started drinking and smoking early. But they did have two saving graces: they were all natural and gifted athletes and they were all stunningly handsome. Cool and blond, with high cheekbones and square jaws and crystal blue eyes, they could melt any heart. Andy Cooper certainly melted mine. The boys have been eating in silence all this time, absorbing the conversation. As they finish their food, they grow restless. I pay the tab, and say good bye to Trudy. She embraces me. “Now, you listen to me, young man. You do the right thing and keep those murals here in Cooksville. That building needs to go on the Illinois Historic Register. It will help preserve it for future generations of Coopers.” I smiled wryly. “When did you get to be such an expert on historic preservation?” “The internet, babe.” She gave me another hug. As she released me, she wagged a playful finger at me. “Remember what I said.” The wind has picked up once again. It is a steady wind now, from the west. That means that the weather will probably change within forty-eight hours. Gusts pick up the few dead leaves and carry them across the street, as well as stray pieces of paper. An empty pop can noisily clatters across the street. “See you guys,” I said as I shook their hands. “Thanks for having lunch with me.” “Are you coming back?” Jesse asks sincerely as if he wants to see me again. “Yeah, I think I will be back before the weekend is over. After that, who knows?” “Cool! Hey – you’re pretty dope. For a grown-up, that is.” “You are too – for a kid, that is.” Jesse threw his head back and laughed. He understood the humor, and I wasn’t surprised. I hoped he wouldn’t go the way of his cousins. Like all the young Coopers, he was bright and perceptive and open. And he was handsome. Somehow, all the Cooper men seem to lose their way in drugs and alcohol. I hoped Jesse would be the exception. I pass them as I drive back down Oak Street to Illinois Highway 165. I have one more stop to make before I head back to my parent’s house. But it is not here in town. I am going to make a stop at the abandoned Cooper farm. I cross the highway and drive north on a county gravel road. The dust that is kicked up by my wheels is blown toward the barren fields by the gusty wind. I recall vividly riding my bike down this road a hundred times to get to Andy’s house. I spent a lot more time at his house than he spent at mine. My parents liked him. But they kept tabs on us. We could never achieve any privacy except at bedtime when he slept over. Then, finally, my parents would stop bombarding him with friendly albeit nosey questions. We never slept over at his house, because, as his mom put it, “I got enough sleepin’ and eatin’ here without havin’ the whole neighborhood over, too.” Still, even with six brothers, it was a lot easier to be by ourselves at Andy’s house. They had sheds and a barn and other outbuildings. Even if one of his other brothers did get a notion to spy on us, we could usually see and/or hear him approaching. I pull into the weed-choked driveway. The farmhouse is gone. My mom informed me that it burned about ten years ago. But all the outbuildings are intact.
In seventh and eighth grades, we had to change for gym. It was the rule. And you had to shower afterwards. Never mind that for most of the boys, the shower consisted of running under the water for a microsecond. I was petrified. I knew I liked other boys. I also knew that if I were to pop a boner during the time I was naked, it would have meant disaster. As fate would have it, his locker was near mine in the locker room. It was a big locker room. The gym teacher simply assigned lockers alphabetically by last name. Not very creative, but efficient. Baity and then Cooper. Since there was only one gym teacher, Mrs. Whitely, the whole seventh grade had gym at the same time. Mrs. Whitely, of course, never came into the boy’s locker room. It was up to our homeroom teacher, Mr. Fretty, to make sure there was no horseplay. But this was his planning hour, and after the first week of school, his appearances in the locker room were rare indeed. It was just him and me in this little U-shaped alcove with a changing bench in the middle and little or no adult supervision. I’ll never forget the time Andy demonstrated his interest in me in a very bold way. It was early October, and we had played flag football outside in the crisp air. Some of the other boys called it fag football because of the presence of the girls. Naturally, we couldn’t tackle. All we could to was pull off the vinyl flags that were attached to belts around our waists by Velcro. We both took our shower, and we were talking about something. He was sitting naked on the bench. I remember thinking Why isn’t he getting dressed? He straddled the bench facing me. He had a boner! It stood proudly at a ninety degree angle from his light brown pubic hair. He looked down at it and then at me. He was grinning and then he winked. The farmhouse was only a concrete rectangle in the ground. Someone must have hauled away the debris after the fire. I recall it was a white, two-story classic farmhouse. I had only been inside a handful of times. Andy shared his bedroom with a younger brother who wet the bed – another incentive for him to stay overnight at my house. Nothing really happened between us in seventh grade, except we became the best of friends. I could talk to him like no other friend I ever had – then or since. I could be open with him. He never criticized me, he never belittled me, he never made me feel inferior because I was not an athlete. He always defended me and stood up for me, even when I was wrong. I remember once when he took the blame for me cheating on a test. Mr. Fretty caught me. But Andy took the blame by saying he was getting the answers from me. I still got in trouble, but not suspended like he was. He shrugged it off later. He said to me, “People around here expect it from a Cooper. Not from you. You live in the Estates. You’re one of the good kids. They don’t want to believe a kid from the Estates would cheat. It’s no big deal. If this is the smallest thing I get in trouble for in my lifetime, I’d be surprised.” The wind is really whipping around as I slowly stroll back to the other remaining buildings. The first sexual encounter occurred in eighth grade. He was staying overnight at my house at the time. “Mine’s big enough for two,” he bragged to me after the lights were out and the TV turned off. “Bullshit.” “It is,” he insisted. “Show me.” He sat up, pulled down his navy blue underwear – colored underwear was still unusual at the time – and displayed his hard cock for me. “Do you want to touch it?” DID I? Did I want to eat? Did I want to breathe? I reached out a trembling hand and wrapped it around his shaft. It was hot steel covered in smooth velvet. “Pull yours out,” he commanded. When I did, he wrapped his had around mine. “Do you jack off yet?” “No,” I lied. “Everybody does it. No reason to lie about it. Do you want me to jack you off?” Without waiting for an answer, he repositioned himself on the bed. We were facing each other, our legs spread. His thighs rested on top of mine. Since we were both right-handed, this position seemed to work best for us. Andy’s gentle but insistent touch brought me to an orgasm first. I was so wrapped up in my own orgasm that I forgot to get him off. With his trademark grin, he finished himself off. All through eighth grade, we masturbated each other this way. There was another advantage to the position. We could watch each other’s face as we did it, so we could gauge our success or failure. I lost track of how many times we did it that year. We did it at my house, while swimming at the Mackinaw River and once even in the locker room at school. But, most of all we did it in the stable behind his house. I am standing in front of the stable. I am overwhelmed by the emotions I’m feeling. I miss Andy. I tried and tried to find him. I didn’t realize until years later that he really was my first lover. And I have an erection in my shorts. Andy once told me they did have a horse, but he was very young when the horse was sold. His older brothers used to tease him that they sold the horse to the glue factory just to upset Andy. It was a wooden building about the shape and size of a two-car garage. The door creaked as I opened it. Inside, the sunlight filtered between the gaps of the outer boards. To my left is a ladder. That ladder leads to the hayloft. There used to be a 55-gallon drum in the corner. But it is right here – right inside the door – that I gave my first blowjob ever. It was the summer of 1974 and I was fourteen. Andy and I had graduated grade school and were going to high school in the fall. I had ridden my bike out to see Andy. Andy had barely stepped inside the door of the stable and he already had his erect cock out. That excited me even more. He was so hot for me, he could hardly wait to get it on. "Wanna suck it?” he whispered to me. I nodded and sank to my knees. To this day, I’m not sure how I did it or how I instinctively knew how to give a blow job. I know why I did it. I wanted to please Andy. As I took his cock in my mouth, I knew that this is what I was meant to do. I sucked on him for what seemed like an eternity until he grunted and shot his first load in my mouth. It was my first taste of cum. Andy had produced it just for me. We continued sucking each other all that summer. Mostly we did it in the hayloft. Like I said, we were safe there. His brothers had all the stealth of a pregnant elephant in a minefield. We could always tell when they were approaching. Once high school started, we drifted apart a bit. Still, we managed to get together. It was a hot September Saturday when Andy introduced me to anal sex for the first time. He looked so sexy that day. He was wearing a pair of hand-me-down jeans that were too big for him and he was having a time keeping them up. He was shirtless and he wasn’t wearing underwear! He bent me over the 55-gallon drum and produced a small tube of lube from his jeans pocket just before he let them fall to the ground. I felt his hand pass over my smooth ass before he inserted a lubed finger into my hole. He never told me what he was doing – he didn’t need to. I knew. And I was ready for him. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt at all when he entered my hole. It just felt like he was stretching it out a bit. He fucked me a short time before releasing his load inside me. “Thank you,” he whispered to me. “Why are you thanking me?” “For letting me do that. Did you like it?” “Yeah. Did you?” “You have a nice ass.” I was now a queer. I was a faggot. I had been the passive partner in gay sex. The mutual masturbation was perfectly acceptable in this rural village. One was just “helping a friend out.” Andy was right when he said that everyone did it. I guess I could have done it with many other boys, but I only wanted to do it with Andy. I trusted him. I wanted to please him because we were emotionally attached. Or at least that’s the way I saw it. “Where did you learn how to do that?” I asked him as I pulled my own jeans up. “My older brothers,” he answered shortly. I didn’t want to know any more details. He had already given me too much information. As I rode home on my bike that hot afternoon, I could feel the cum ooze out of my asshole. I climbed the ladder to the loft. Most of the hay is gone. I lie down on the floor of the loft and pull my cock out of my jeans as I replay my favorite scene with Andy in my mind. Andy sat on the floor of the loft with his back propped by a bale of hay. I sat next to him. He pulled his cock out of his jeans and stroked it a few times. “We’ve got to stop this pretty soon.” “Why?” “It’s not normal anymore.” This was unusual coming from Andy. He was always the one encouraging me and egging me on. He was usually the instigator. Where would he get such a thought? Why should we stop something we both like so much? Without further comment, I leaned over and buried my face in his lap. By this time, I could deep throat him without pausing for breath. As I swallowed his full shaft, he did something he’d never done to me. He began stroking my hair very gently. It was almost as if he was petting a cat. He allowed me to suck him a while longer, but as he neared orgasm – also by this time I had learned when he was close to cumming – he put a hand on my shoulder and lifted my head out of his lap. He must have seen the puzzled look on my face. He had a hand on the back of my neck. He pulled my face toward his and we kissed. Our lips parted again. I gave him a questioning look. What are you doing? Slowly and gently he pushed me back onto the floor of the loft. He lay on top of me and kissed me again. This time, his tongue pushed into my mouth. Without touching my cock, I came in my jeans. He knew I had just shot my load because I was inhaling and exhaling in short bursts. I thought he would laugh at me, but he didn’t. Instead, he took my right hand, and placed it on his own cock. There, I could feel that he was wet with cum also. We kissed again. His comment ‘we’ve got to stop this pretty soon’ turned out to be a prediction. We did get together a few more times our freshman year in high school, but it was never the same. I wanted to love him, but he simply wouldn’t allow it. I wanted more than sex, but he was satisfied to use me to empty his seminal vesicles. So we drifted apart. That didn’t stop me from loving him or wanting to be near him. He was the only masturbatory fantasy I had my freshman year. Just before the end of the school year my freshman year, my parents announced we were moving back to the Twin Cities. And they dragged their anguished son with them. Thank God I had Ben and Monty to talk to all through this. If I hadn’t had them I might have fallen into the abyss of drugs or alcohol. I might have even attempted suicide, so deep was my depression. Ben and Monty talked me down, so to speak, and kept me grounded. But I never completely let go. Andy was always a part of me. And he always would be. I grunted as I shot my load. I looked around for something to wipe my cum on. Finally, I settled on some hay as a cum rag.
Outside the stable the wind was almost howling. I started to feel drowsy, as I usually do after sex. Or it might be that Fatass burger putting me to sleep.
Suddenly, I am aware that I am not alone. But I am not frightened. Rather I feel comforted and loved. I was lying on my right side. When I opened my eyes Andy was lying next to me in the hay. He looked to be my age – that is, he looked as if he were in his early forties. He had aged well. Although his hair was darker and his face starting to develop wrinkles, he still looked good. He smiled at me. His smile was gentle and genuine and loving. "Hi, there,” Andy whispered. “Hi,” I managed to croak back. For a long moment, we said nothing to each other. We just studied each other as if there was going to be a quiz administered later on. Finally, he spoke in a gentle voice. “I’m very honored that you’re naming the community center after me.” He paused again. “You can add the word ‘Memorial’ to the title.” My eyes filled with tears. “How? When?” “I died in ‘94. It was AIDS. Hey, don’t cry. I knew what I was doing.” Finally resigned to the fact that I had succumbed to tears, he pulled me close and embraced me. “That’s why I’m here,” Andy whispered. “Why?” I managed to croak out. “So that you don’t make the same mistakes. I’ve watched you and your relationships. I’ve seen you hold back from every man that you’ve been with. You hold back because in the back of your mind you hope that you’ll find me again. It’s time to let go, Steve.” I’m crying even harder. He holds me a long time before continuing. “You know, I looked for you, too. I tried being straight, but that was a failure. I turned to drugs. The drugs eventually took over my life.” He stroked my hair like he did the afternoon he kissed me for the first time. “I had a man, once, that I loved. His name was Matt. I met him when we were in college. But like you, I kept this hope that I would find you and we would get together again, and all would be right with the world. Instead, I ended up sabotaging myself. I fucked around behind his back and he eventually left me. I needed to let go. Just like you do now.” “I’m in love with a dead man.” "No, you’re in love with the past. The past is holding you prisoner. You’ve got to let go before you can move on.” “Since when did you become a psychotherapist?” “I didn’t. In fact, I never became anything but a loser.” “But – why do you look like this?” “So you would accept me. And so you would understand the point I’m trying to make.” I burst into tears again. He pulled me close, holding me and stroking my hair. “Why?” I asked between sobs. “Why are you telling me this now? Why couldn’t you have told me then?” “I didn’t know it then. I know it now. That’s why I was sent. The One who is All-Powerful sent me to you.” He continued to stroke my hair. “Are you ready to let go?” “I don’t want to,” I wailed. “Don’t worry. You have people in this life who love you. Your parents and your sister. Ben and Monty. And Chris. And I’ll always be with you, watching over you. You can always ask for help. And you can also ask The One Who Has No Name for help as well. “You never forget your first love,” he continued. “I didn’t. Most people don’t. But most people let go and move on with their lives. That’s what you need to do.” “I think I can.” “Of course you can. Believe in yourself, because the power is within. When you feel like you can’t go on, simply repeat to yourself, ‘It’s going to be OK. Everything is going to be OK.’ Can you say that with me?” “It’s going to be OK. Everything is going to be OK.” “Good, Steve. You’ve taken that first step,” he whispered. “Please be kind to Chris. He loves you so.” “It’s going to be OK….. “We’ll be together again, Steve. We missed this life, but there will be others. Be happy, my love.” And then he disappeared. By embracing Andy, I was embracing myself. By letting go of the past, I was setting myself free. By trusting the Almighty, I was trusting life. And I was learning to trust myself. I sat up, wiped my face and took a few deep breaths. I am not the kind of guy who believes in ghosts or angels. Hell, I stopped going to church years ago. I believe in God, but only nominally and not enough to participate in any organized religion. I am a businessman and a pragmatist. Yet, Andy’s visit was definitely a spiritual experience. It didn’t matter to me, and still doesn’t. Whether Andy was a spirit or an angel was not the point. The point was his message to me. Andy had come back to tell me that I was in love with the past. I was in love with the Andy that existed in my memory. That Andy is dead. And ultimately, that love would lead nowhere. Andy came back to tell me that my place was in the present. Later on, I would tell few people about the incident. I’m still not sure it really happened. I doubted my own experience. However, I do remember climbing down out of the loft, walking back to my car. I rummaged through my glove compartment to find another McDonald’s napkin and was rewarded with a crumpled one at the bottom. I dialed my cell phone. For once I was grateful I had it. I placed a call to my secretary – oops, I mean assistant. Of course, she had the day off but I left a message on her voicemail for Monday. “Christine, hi, this is Steve. I would like you to call the contractor who was going to remove the mural from the gym in Cooksville. I would like you to cancel that project. The mural is going to stay in Cooksville. I’ll tell you why when I see you on Monday. It still will need to be restored, so see if they can handle the job. Hope you had a great weekend. See you Monday.” I was driving west on Highway 165 toward Bloomington. Like the wind, I was free. I was no longer a prisoner of the past. As Don Henley expressed in the song, the small town would live forever in me. I didn’t need a physical reminder. I no longer needed their approval or acceptance.
Who knows how
long this will last I dialed the cell phone again. “Hi, Chris. I’m glad you’re home. I have something to tell you….I love you. Yup, that’s it. I love you. I’m sorry if I’ve been sort of cold….What?….Ok, yes, you can say that I’ve been an asshole. I apologize. I think I can explain. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. Yes, I mean home to Chicago. No, Cooksville is not home anymore. It never was. It was just the place I grew up. In more ways than one. “Yes, hon. I love you, too. See you tomorrow.” I was free.
ă 1987 Cass County Music/Zappa Music ASCAP. The End of the Innocence, Geffen Records.
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