Last Night

It’s our last night; we repose in the hot tub at dusk. We have the pool area totally to ourselves. The sky is pink, no stars out yet. The birds on the point are doing their dusk toilette, each group separately splunking their heads and bodies in the water, fluttering their wings, then settling down to groom their feathers.

We spy 3 little boys scooching under the large gazebo party room that protrudes into the lagoon. They all look younger than 11, dressed in sloppy tees, shorts and sneakers, the uniform of kids everywhere. They remind me of the boys in Stephen Kings “Stand by Me.” They’re sneaking along the grassy bank when one strawberry blonde head pops up; he makes eye contact with hubby, ducks, then slowly stands, knowing he’s been made. “Hello,” he says. “We’re just lookin’ for shells,” he says apologetically, shyly. I think to myself, he’s been caught at this before. I also know there’s no shells to be found around this lagoon; clam shells, maybe. His bigger dark-haired friend asks enthusiastically, making good eye contact (not shy, this one) “Can we hot tub too?” The third, the littlest blond, says nothing replying on the first speaker who looks to be his older brother.

In that instant, we’re faced with choices all “for their own good”:
· Reprimand them and send them on their way, remind them this is private property and they’re not supposed to be here. (We’re well aware the condo board is contemplating gating the entire community, a move we are against should we ever own here.)
· Tell them no children are allowed in the pool or hot tub without their parents.
· Warn them to stay away from the water; there might be alligators in there that would find a little boy a tasty morsel.
· Do nothing.

I well remember what it’s like to be a kid, to be in a place you’re not supposed or allowed to be, the fear of adults, of being caught. I well remember looking for stuff along the river’s edge, the adventure of it all. And that is my undoing. I don’t do the responsible adult thing, nor does my husband. We all pretend they might actually belong in the complex when I say “You can’t come into the hot tub without your parents. Are your parents around?” Knowing full well their parents are likely many blocks away and totally unaware of these kids’ whereabouts. “Nahhh,” says the biggest boy, and they slowly edge away toward a fence overwhelmed in white honeysuckle, where they stop, remove their sneakers and duck through a boy-sized hole in the fence barely visible through the honeysuckle camouflage. We watch them meander around the lagoon, round the point and go out of sight.

Hubby says, “I’ll bet those kids have done that a thousand times.” I worry that I’ve failed them. I should have done the adult thing: walked them safely out through the gate. What if something happens to them? Too late now.

Once home, we’re busy cleaning out cupboards, packing. It’s now dark but through the open door I hear boys’ voices. “Hey guys!” I shout out the screened patio door. I go out. Not a boy to be seen. But they’ve heard me. They reappear around the corner of the carport. Quietly,“Yes, ma’am?”
I usher them into the kitchen. Can your families use some groceries, I ask. More scuffling of feet and shy replies. I show them what’s in the bags I’ve filled. Rice, Gatorade mix, Quik, jello, rice, spaghetti and so on. The biggest boy takes the two bags, hefts them. I could take the Gatorade and the Quik he says, his self-interest obvious. Couldn’t you use it all? I persist wanting to unload these goods, thinking times are tough and anyone would be glad of a few free groceries but of course of our own self-interest: it’s shameful to waste. But, ma’am. Do you know where Wendy’s is? (I don’t.) Well, I gotta walk all that way home. These bags are too heavy. But my mom’s on foodstamps...his voice dies away.

I briefly consider driving them home. Not a wise move – I’ve made enough mistakes for one night. Well, I tell him, you guys take what you can carry, ok? Ok. One spots the golf balls hubby has accumulated in an egg tray. “Golfballs!” he oogles them like he’s spotted gold. I give him some making him promise not to throw them at anyone or anything, particularly windows, wondering at the same time if I’m contributing to juvenile delinquency. I’m such a worry wart. He solemnly promises.
They shuffle out the door, laden with their bags, into the darkening night. Hubby misses this whole exchange as, wonderful husband that he is, he was vacuuming the bedroom rug.


I feel relieved. Relieved that they’re all ok. That they’re on their way home. That everything turned out ok. That we didn’t fail them after all.
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But back to the gator thing. It’s a very real consideration down here. People have often told us of the gator that used to live in the lagoon. It got so big, they had to call the gator handlers (whoever they are). A. Tells me they arrived in a boat, put a dead chicken on a line into the water and before long, along comes Mr Gator looking for his chicken dinner. They noosed him, hauled him into the boat, duct taped his dangerous jaw, then hog-tied (well, gator-tied) him, and boom, they were gone. Whole thing took 15 minutes, A. said. She didn’t know what the handlers did with him after that. A gator farm? The abbatoir (for one can order gator steaks down here)? She didn’t know.

The Lady Lakers (the condo’s group of women golfers) also told me of a big ole gator who resided at Forest Hill Golf Course where they golfed. Ya never had to worry about him, they said. Biggest gator they’d ever seen, they said. He’d been a resident of the golf course for years when someone up and killed him. Everyone was sorry for his loss. They still talk about him; I think they miss him.

Shortly before we leave, the talk around the condo project is the 8-foot gator found sleeping under a demo car at the Toyoto dealership which is just one street over from us. Turns out a lady went to take a spin on a car only to find the gator taking a snooze. Coulda been a real ankle-biter, I thought, imagining the lady’s foot and ankle from the gator’s perspective. I hope he was facing the other way. Anyway, she discovered him before he discovered her, thank Heavens! The Toyota dealership got some free publicity – good or bad – it’s still good publicity when your dealership name is plastered across the news. I guess the gator got rustled up by the gator handlers, and the lady, no doubt, needed a valium. And I can’t speak for others in the condo project, but I’m a lot more careful when we trot down to the hot tub at night. You just never know....

Now I'm sorry I've written this as I'll never get my dear gator-fearing sister-in-law to come down to visit again!