Twenty or so years ago, my sister went to our local antique store, Baron’s Antiques in Islip, Long Island, to buy me a birthday present. She found a creepy coconut man (or perhaps a monkey) and thought it would be a funny gift. My mom’s good friend Alan owned the store and told my sister to take it for free… it had been sitting in the store way too long (I wonder why) and he just wanted the creepy—possibly haunted—thing out of there.
I thought it was hilarious, and Mom joked I should wait a while and then go back to the store and hide it in a random place for Alan to find. Time escaped and Alan passed away, so the coconut man eventually got boxed and forgotten… until a few months ago.
I’d opened the box, which contained the coconut man among things from my high school and college days. As I recounted the story to my husband, my two-year-old daughter squealed and said, “I love him! I want him in my room!”
So coconut man went on top of the bookshelf in her room that night. I forgot about him again, until she walked into my room with him last night. She had climbed the shelf to get him.*
Daughter: “I love him sooooo much! He is my favorite Coconut Boy!”
Me: “What’s his name?”
Daughter: “Coconut Boy. Let’s go to sleep together, Coconut Boy. You can sleep on my chest. I love you, Coconut Boy.”
So now the creeper is in my bed. My husband finally convinced her instead to put it on my vanity. She laid back down and yelled, “But he isn’t looking at me!” She got up, readjusted him, and now he is staring down my bed with those empty, painted eyes. She’s thrilled.
A million stuffed toys. Yet she chooses THIS as her bedtime companion. I bet you Alan is out there laughing somewhere.