50 Gelato in San Anselmo

Jo Jo slept, baby Drew’s mother snored and crusts of dust rattled from dark old mahogany panels, his father blended more Oodles of Noodles, Granny Guss cursed at Whoopi in particular along with the other telegenic shrikes, and the Mayor of San Anselmo, dwelling in the majesty of office, compulsively polished the Trophy of Virtue. Ms. von Masters’ husky SUV powered into the Sir Francis Drake Boulevard exit, and Huancho de la Vega, the Good Hustle Ninja, and his giddy teammates ran as fast as their young feet could carry them to the gelato vendor near the Plip Plop Coffe Shop. _____ _____ begged Ross Valley to drive to San Anselmo rather than remain in The Woodlands Market parking lot. She’d thought “Apocalypto” was bogus (“But what can you expect from a bigot who’s lost his surface beauty?” she decided, thinking of the producer’s liver spots and silly-looking hair and bad publicity), and for the verisimilitude she could lend to roles with which a shimmering future beckoned, wanted to see the real thing.


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