In this creative non-fiction series, staff writer Dean DiLuzio takes you on his journey to Florida, where a chance meeting turned an otherwise ordinary night into a symphony of music and friendship.

I remember the night clearly; the exact month evades me. The season, however, does not. That entire year was one long summer, interrupted by no cold. In February, it was a pleasant seventy degrees. This persisted that entire winter.

Nights were the best time, you had real options. Long sleeves, short sleeves, didn’t matter. You’d be comfortable as long as you weren’t wearing a coat or gloves. My eyes were turned up at the uncharted black firmament above, I was lost in the performance on stage, but my thoughts drew my attention elsewhere.

What was on stage was complimentary to enjoying that night, and as I stared up at the moon, I was eventually finding myself staring at the stage. Whoever was up there was good, he was with a few people. Whoever he was seemed like a big deal.

On stage he was wearing an American flag as a scarf, the clothes he and his compatriots had thrifted were clearly from the 60s or 70s. In an area full of well to do retirees, thrift stores are a goldmine; or so I’ve heard. They looked like something out of archival footage, and for a brief minute I genuinely believed I was sleep deprived or somehow had been deceived by my eyes.

I wasn’t, however. They had a genuine love for the music of the period, for the spirit of the era. More importantly they had to express themselves, by the time they were finished I found myself walking over out of morbid curiosity. Something about the singer reminded me of my buddies I had left behind in New York, also musicians of a similar inspiration and aesthetical philosophy.