It was the Saturday of the Homecoming dance, and Wyatt was the chauffeur for the evening. He rang the doorbell around 5:45 and waited patiently.
“Hello, Wyatt.” My sister politely answered the door.
“ I’m here to steal your lit…. Younger brother,” Wyatt smirked as he paused his statement, realizing the comedy of calling me little.
“Come in. My ‘Little brother’ will be down in a minute, “ my sister mockingly answered as she walked Wyatt into the living room, and Mom came in from the hallway. Mom had just hung up the phone and smiled as Wyatt stood in front of the mantle of the fireplace.
“You look sharp tonight, Wyatt,” Mom said with a smile as she straightened Wyatt’s tie and collar in the mirror.
I came down the stairs and ducked halfway so as not to hit the ceiling in the stairwell. I had my black pleated slacks, a white collared shirt, and a black tie. The outfit was framed by a blue-and-red paisley vest. Wyatt and I slapped hands and hugged in the living room.
“Ok. Ok. Boys, let me get a picture.” Mom said happily as she grabbed the old Kodak from the hallway drawer.
I stood to the left of the fireplace, and Wyatt to the right with his elbow on the mantle. Smiling, we posed for Mom.
We backed out of the driveway in the old wagon, the suspension giving its usual creak as the tires rolled over the cracked concrete. The air was calm and cool, the kind that made the whole neighborhood feel as if it were paused. Inside the car, there was a low, electric tingle. The sense that even a small plan could tilt the night in our favor.
Mom stood in the porch light, watching us with that patient half‑smile. We waved, and she lifted her hand in return, already fading behind us as we headed toward the lake. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the smell of water and cut grass, the breeze slipping through the cabin in thin, cool threads.
Florida Ave opened up in front of us, wide and mostly empty, the streetlights spaced far enough apart that the dark had room to breathe. The radio hummed something forgettable, but it didn’t matter; the sound filled the space between us, smoothing out the quiet.
By the time we hit the bend near the oaks, the night felt bigger, like it had loosened its grip. Maas Brothers waited across town, bright and over‑air‑conditioned, a place that always felt a little fancier than we were. We weren’t going to buy anything; we didn’t need to.
We had our own ritual.
We’d walk straight to the cologne counter, past the racks of clothes we’d never wear, and drown ourselves in the free tester sprays of Lagerfeld, Stetson, Polo, or Obsession. Bathe ourselves in sharp, clean scents that were a little too grown‑up. A few clouds of it, and suddenly we weren’t kids in a tired wagon. We were versions of ourselves we had curated. And for that short drive, with the windows down and the night settling around us, it felt like we were ready for anything.
Wyatt stopped at the red light at Orange Ave., and we waited while listening to ‘Cherry Pie’ by Warrant on the radio. The light turned green, and Wyatt smiled as he slammed the throttle and the old wagon did a screaming one-wheel peel through the intersection. Wyatt loved to drive the old wagon every chance he got. His father custom-ordered it in 1975 and optioned it with the 454 big block, quadrajet carburetor, and TH-400 transmission combo for towing the family boat. With Wyatt at the wheel, it was a burnout monster. The old wagon fishtailed and sped off towards Megan’s house to pick up Megan and Blaire.
We slid into Megan’s driveway around 7:15 in a cloud of dry chalky dust. Wyatt and I waited until the cloud settled before we got out. Megan lived at the end of a clay road down in the orange groves on the north side of town. Megan’s parents owned the surrounding 250 Acres of Orange groves.
Megan was a sophomore and the catcher for Jesuit Catholic. Softball team, and Wyatt was hopelessly in love with her. She and Blaire had been friends growing up and knew each other through their parents' affiliation with the Growers Association before Jesuit Catholic. If I were to think back on it, Megan and Blaire were best friends throughout most of high school.
Megan’s Mom answered the door as Wyatt knocked, and I stood behind him on the brick-lined porch, in the Fall Florida heat.
“Good Evening, Wyatt,” Megan’s Mom said as she answered the door with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. “Oh, you boys smell good,” she said. Megan’s Mom was always cooking something, and the smell of garlic and spices wafted out of the front door as we walked in.
“Good evening, Mrs. Griffin,” I replied as Wyatt, and I sat on the sofa, waiting for Blaire and Megan.
“They’ll be out in a minute, fella’s,” Mrs. Griffin whistled as she walked back to the kitchen and the various boiling and steaming pots on the stove.
“Wyatt,” Megan’s Mom hollered from the kitchen.” You have those girls back by 12 tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wyatt and I replied with a smile as Blaire and Megan came into the living room. Wyatt and I stood up from the couch, smoothing our pants down more out of nervousness than necessity, glancing back and forth at each other and the girls.
Blaire wore a strapless dress with a mid-thigh-length, puffy skirt in solid red that complemented my paisley vest. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail with a poofed-up bang, a simple black flat, and she was not wearing her glasses tonight. Wyatt and Megan looked at us as Blaire adjusted my collar.
“Ahh-Hmm,” Wyatt cleared his throat, and we all just laughed at the moment.
“Ok, let me get a picture.” Megan’s Mom said as she posed us in the living room and took our picture with the same style Kodak my Mom had.
We arrived around 7:45 for the 7:30 start time of the dance. The gym was decorated with blue, gold, and white streamers, and balloons arranged into a series of arches that formed a corridor from the outside parking lot to the gym door.
The music and lights were pumping through the gym as ‘Ice, Ice Baby’ by Vanilla Ice played over the speakers. We checked our tickets at the door.
Blaire whispered, “Come on,” pulling me to the dance floor with her arms raised in rhythmic twists. I did my best interpretation of the running man and various silly dance moves. Laughing, we made our way to the punch and snacks, where Tim, Randy, and Liam were standing. They were the crew that went stag to Homecoming.
Liam waved me over. “ Hey man, we got a little after-party at ‘the grove’ later, if guys are down,” he questioned and motioned as he covered his mouth, sharing his secret intel. He shrugged as I responded with a smirk and a nod in his direction.
I got two punches and gave one to Blaire. I took a sip and immediately spit it back in the cup. Holding my hand out to Blaire.
“Easy, those guys spiked it,” I yelled over the music.
Blaire frowned and put the punch down as we made our way back onto the dance floor. ‘I’ll never let you go’- Steelheart came on, and we slowly danced in the dimly lit gymnasium. Blaire put her arm around my neck. My hands held her close, and her perfume tickled my nose with hints of lavender and Rose. Smiling, I leaned in. She looked up as our lips met, and the guitar solo filled the gym. Every sense in my body tingled as I kissed Blaire for the first time that night.
The dance died down around 9:00, and we decided to split around 9:30. We all piled into Wyatt’s wagon, Wyatt and Megan in the front seat, Blaire and me in the back seat, and Tim and the others in the back. We bounced down Memorial Blvd. as ‘Fire Woman’ by the Cult played on the radio. The windows on the old wagon were down, and Wyatt took every advantage to sling the old Caprice in fishtailing skids as much as possible.
We made it to ‘The Grove’ around 10:00 and piled out of the car as the seniors had circled their cars and trucks around the bonfire. The fire was just getting going as we got there, and the music was bumping from a guy from school, Kyle, Blazer.
His dad used to own the Chevrolet dealership on Bartow Highway, and his older brother ran Southern Sound on the Boulevard. So Kyle had the best of whatever he wanted, and what he wanted was a stereo that would make your ears bleed.
A grooving rock song thundered out of his truck as we settled in by the fire. The flames flared and danced in the fall night to the jubilant chants of twenty teenage voices.
‘The Grove’ was a neutral territory out by the old dump that nobody cared about. It is all warehouses and highways now, but back then, it was a refuge during a time of cultural adjustment between old and new. The cops ignored it if you didn’t shoot guns or make too much of a mess.
Tim piled out of the back of Wyatt’s wagon and made his way over to some other seniors who were sitting on the tailgate of Davis Miller’s Chevy Scottsdale 4-wheel drive. Davis Miller was the starting quarterback for Northeast Polk High and had played with Tim and some of the others from Jesuit in Little League as kids.
Blaire and I found a quiet log by the fire and sat down. She leaned into me as we watched the fire and listened to the drone of music from Kyle’s truck. The red and orange hues of the flames danced in Blaire’s eyes as we sat silently. The noise of the music and the commotion of the festivities fell quiet as she smiled at me. Her arm was around my back as she leaned in, kissing me, she whispered. “Does this?” she paused sheepishly, looking at me with grinning eyes. “Does this mean we are a thing?” Her words were punctuated with hesitation.
“Yes, I chose you,” I replied. The soft moment was broken as Tim shoved a bottle of ‘Boone’s Farm’ in between us.
“Drink, Freshman, drink,” Tim exclaimed as he swatted my back with a concussive slap.
Blaire laughed and grabbed the bottle, tipping it up. She took a swig of ‘Strawberry Hill’ as Tim roared with excitement.
Blaire smiled as she bit her lip and wiped her chin with a shrugging motion of her shoulders. I could tell she wasn’t sure if I was going to take a drink.
“Watch out, Bigun! Those Auburndale girls know how to get down.” Tim howled as I grabbed the bottle and guzzled a slug of carbonated strawberry wine.
“Y’all keep that,” Tim whispered, his voice a soft murmur against the symphony of crackling flames, as he tottered off, back to Davis’s truck.
Blaire and I sat there, sipping Boone’s Farm, the sweet nectar lingering on our tongues. The bonfire’s warm embrace enveloped us, casting flickering shadows that danced around The Grove. The night air was cool, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of Florida fall and the faint aroma of smoke.
"Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd blared from Kyle’s S-10, the haunting melody weaving through the night like a spell. The music resonated with the very essence of the moment, echoing the welcome escape of life and friendship.
Wyatt drove us home around 12:45 and arrived at Megan’s house around 12:58, two minutes to spare before one. The air was cool and breezy, and the groves around Megan’s house had been watered that day, so the air was damp and smelled of fresh-cut grass and freshly stirred earth.
Megan’s Father answered the door in his faded Levi’s and old clasp-button patterned Wrangler shirt. Mr. Griffin had worked in the sun all his life, and the leathery skin on his hands and neck reflected those years. His grip was like a vise, and his hands were as coarse and chiseled as rock. Even with my height advantage, I would never want to end up on the wrong side of Mr. Griffin.
“Boys.” Megan’s dad whistles in his Central Florida southern accent. His squinted eyes were a dark blue, and he held eye contact with each of us long enough to know he was cool, but not to be crossed.
“ Did you have a good time, Baby girl?” Mr. Griffin asked Megan.
“Yes, Daddy, he was a perfect gentleman,” Megan exclaimed in a Scarlett O’Hara exaggerated drawl that curled into a mischievous grin.
“Well.” Megan’s father paused. “ I’ll let y’all say your goodbyes,” he added as he looked at me, puzzled.
“Are you Aaron Dowling’s boy?” Mr. Griffin asked with curiosity.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “He’s my father.”
Mr. Griffin’s tone changed as he rolled his tongue under his bottom lip, looking at me out of the side of his eye.
“Hmmm, thought so.” He responded with a tinge of contempt in his reply. He looked me up and down and added, “Well, he must have had your run through the fertilizer when you were a baby.” He half-smiled as he shook my hand, his tone brightening.
We stood on the porch, saying goodnight as the crickets and frogs chirped and croaked in the dark distance that swallowed the yellow light that shone out into the yard..
“See you Monday,” I whispered in Blaire's ear.
“ I can have my mom take me somewhere? The mall. Can we hang out?” Blaire said as she looked at me from the top of her eyes, her arms around my neck.
“I want to.” I timidly responded. “I promised my dad we could do something before church tomorrow night.”
“Are you going to the six o’clock service?” Blaire asked with excitement.
“Yeah, I am,” I replied with a crooked smile.
Blaire pulled me closer and kissed my lips gently. “Then I’ll have my mom drop me there at 5:45?” She asked as she bit her lip and touched my chin.
“ I’d like that,” I responded, as we separated and Blaire and Megan went into the old brick house.
Wyatt and I rode home that night. The radio in the old wagon played 95YNF. The lights and sounds of the Boulevard were magic that late at night. The orange mercury vapor lamps hummed above us as we drove under them, and then their buzzing dopplered off into the distance as we made our way into the glow of another. The old concrete section clicked rhythmically beneath the old wagon as we turned onto Florida Ave. and then around the lake to the house on South Blvd.
“See you Monday at School. Bro,” Wyatt said as we hugged. The yard was welcoming under my feet as my shoes crunched the fresh, damp grass to the brick-covered steps that went up to the green columned front doors. The doors were illuminated by the single ornate light fixture that hung over the middle of the entrance, which I had helped Dad install when I was around nine years old.
I waved as Wyatt pulled off, speeding up the hill to Jefferson Ave. and doing a burnout at the stop sign as he headed home.
Mom had left the light on in the living room for me. I felt the carpet, soft and welcome under my feet, as I kicked my patent leather shoes off. Gus, my old dog, plopped down the stairs to greet me with a ‘huff’. I turned off the light with a click and bounded up the stairs, more out of tradition than fear. Smiling as I got to the top. Safely avoiding the imaginary monster that chased me up in the dark.
My sister was in the hallway when I got to the top. She had been crying and was leaving the bathroom as I stepped up the landing to the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Rene with a furrowed brow. Her eyes were puffy, and she sniffled as she hugged me.
I patted her back and listened.
“Vince broke up with me.” She replied through sniffles and tears. I was not surprised. My sister and Vince were the textbook definition of a toxic relationship. We sat on her bed in her flower-wallpapered bedroom, and she cried as we talked until the sun came up that Sunday.