44 Baby Drew sings Rogers and Hammerstein

“Oh, look at the pretty cupcakes, Drew!”
Aunt Kar picked him up so he could see for himself.
As more bicylists crowded into line, the burble among them became nasty about two of their own falling at the hands and flyswatter of baby Drew. And there he was, plainly.
“Uh oh!” whispered the Frisco Ninja into his cell phone.
Baby Drew sang “This Nearly Was Mine” in singsong proto-language: “‘bg’ ngbh h-h-h’ bbgnhppp’p . . .” The other baby heard, and granted an A for consistency: Drew’s au courant cabana clothes had a “South Pacific” look for the new century (albeit the only century either baby ever knew). Little Drew’s plaintive yet exuberant tones, a serious emulation of Granny Guss’s soundtrack record album, concerned the christening day cake that might have been.
“Did you know that that little boy slew two of our comrades,” one bicylist who had his eye on a banana lemon low-fat muffin said to another.
“I didn’t know!”
“Now you do!”
For some reason, they both giggled.
The baby with numerical mastery, up to a dozen, gave baby Drew a thumb’s up. Drew smiled an acknowledgement as he continued through his crescendo.
“Something up, honey?” the woman with thick and flowing white hair said coolly to Frisco.
“Forward!” he thought.
Monsignor Quinn sensed the presence of Satan. He counted at least thirty bicyclists in line or already at tables in the cafe. “Same thing,” he murmured.
Uncle Joe had arrived and tried to shoulder his way through the front door, just to see whom he could tap for a cup of coffee.
“Excuse you!” a bicyclist said with arch indignation.
“Go f___ yourself, douchenheimer,” returned Drew’s uncle, a San Anselmo anomaly with “Armageddon It” hair and TOTAL LOSS cotton t-shirt and his beaten up jeans among all the corporate logos on lycra and Captain Gosh! crash helmets.
“Cute kid,” the Plip Plop owner said to Aunt Kar, now that baby Drew was on full display in her arms instead of lost among knees. With a smile like a grimace, Kar shrugged off the come-on.
“Baby Drew at four o’clock!” Frisco informed Ross Valley. “Almost believe he is Rossano Brazzi!”
“High praise coming from the master disguiser,” Ross nodded.
“Listen, boss!”
The timbre of the cell phone changed, and they heard sounds more distant.
“G’ g’ ss’n’y gg dpds! . . .”
A rustle, then they heard clearly “I translate goopy g’s for you. Rogers and Hammerstein required! Baby talk too! Top ninja academy! Okay: ‘Still sayin’ that paradise, Once. Nearly. Was. Mine.’ Big crescendo, then very quiet ‘Was. Mine.’ Poignant! In baby language! Plip Plop Coffe Shop in danger! Turn into puddle!”
“You have GOT to introduce me to this ninja,” _____ _____ sighed.


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