77 The fighting field

The prodigious scanning glance that baby Drew achieved in a pirouette, which cleared the fighting field one length of his little arm, saw a microcosm of San Anselmo, yea, of San Anselmo and its bucolic neighbors, Ross and Fairfax, perhaps more, besides the invaders from Despicaville.
There was the charlatan yogi, but there was no Uncle Joe. A county sheriff seemed to bide his time, and there was a court surrounding a chic but not imperious lady who lunched, little Drew guessed, and clearly was prepared for cafe appearances, as well.
Aunt Kar remained in the safe place where he’d escorted her before the hostilities activated. The man from behind the counter with an air of proprietorship now moved toward the only remaining safe seat, beside a woman with white hair so pure that it glowed. It was Uncle Joe’s life story that he vacated such a situation.
He saw the Little Leaguers who were his idols, known to him from strolls to admirably green Memorial Park with his auntie, spring and summer. There were six women who shared the large window. Little Drew, at two years ten months old, couldn’t begin to guess why they looked much lovelier so soon after arriving. The little fellow thought, with his “‘g’s” and “bgdd’g’kbygg’g’s,” that improvement shouldn’t equate with metamorphosis, yet the six women at the window had an aspect he could only call transformed, in his googooing way.
There was a frog the size of an Apple computer, who seemed jolly, the salt of the earth, yet radiant, and the priest was still there whose presence had made his beloved aunt shudder briefly. And there were all the lie-abouts from his home, who were friendly enough to him back there, with offers of odd smoking cylinders and button-shaped objects from beyond his crib. Though just an infant, perhaps with some tacit disapproval from Aunt Kar, he’d always felt they were basically a bad lot, but they never intruded on his and Granny Guss’s six feet of common carpet, and he had never swatted them, nor would he snub them now, if he survived. There were more than twenty dead bicyclists on the Plip Plop Coffe Shop floor.
Baby Drew’s pivot was complete, and he faced those who still wanted to murder him.

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