94 Hiccups cured, courtesy of a hobo

94) “I hate to seeeeeeeeeeeeee, that sun a-sinkin’,” sang the white-haired beauty and the Sourpuss Ninja as Great Smoky Mountains matriarch and all five players in the Strollin’ Bluegrass Band. Dorie Doorslam’s hiccups were cured for the nonce.
“Another niiiiiiiiiii-iiight to toss and turn.
“Another niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight . . .”
They were on the bridge over San Anselmo Creek, strummin’ and fiddlin’ just behind all the Little Leaguers and the cute tweener following who were still pressed to the window, and the six re-lovely ladies of San Francisco crowded next to them. But the Sourpuss Ninja didn’t for a moment take her eye off the ball, i.e. her mission to support the Frisco Ninja. She would let the mature sensualist sing six songs, or sixty, until baby Drew’s business, thus Ross Valley’s interest, was done. The old hottie-to-trotty didn’t sing badly, anyway. She must have had training, getting every change the talents from Fairfax mustered. “Ah so,” Sourpuss vibed to Frisco in a manner he understood. “Explains! Jumps up! Joins in! On stage in younger day!”
This was so much nicer than the original plan of plopping down at the small table, then pinching in her features, further and further, to shame the white-haired one away from her colleague in frayed student disguise. So much nicer to sing “In The Pines,” inevitably, than give a scolding to “Act your age!”
“What will I doooooooooooooo . . .”
“Everybody!” instructed the Sourpuss Ninja, like any cheerful bandleader, with a smile resembling one that accompanied a free piece of candy for every pound sold at See’s. To her surprise, all the Little Leaguers knew all the words exactly. “Little multi-tasking imps – so like mom and dad,” she blessed them.
The six lovely ladies of San Francisco were jolly and bobbed in time with the mid-century song written by Hobo Jack Adkins.
“Only in San Anselmo,” the Patron of the Arts marveled. The roundtable saw her announcement finger twirl, and they pitched in with the Little Leaguers and the Strollin’ Bluegrass Band. “Like the Harmony of the Spheres,” added the Patron, her referent correct for once, word for word. She knew it, and was gratified. The weight of being unsure was lifted. “‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life,'” she quoted silently to herself, about herself, secretly. It was her favorite of all sayings, although she knew it fit best on posters and bumper stickers, not on a learned palate. It was her hope that sincerity absolved her, as she stood before her own worst judge. “If only,” she allowed a mutter, “I could say it in Greek!” It was a fond wish, immediately clarified for the subjective trial she put herself through: “The Harmony of the Spheres! Not the turn lemons into lemonade thingy saying. Chewed up, worn down cheap old shoe.” She clasped the table’s edge with both hands.
Aunt Kar, not for a second unprotective of baby Drew, nevertheless snapped thumb and finger and bobbed knees like the six, who now shook their hair in ways they were just remembering.
“Boss!” whispered Alain de Tochigi, the Frisco Ninja. “Should see Auntie Kar! Ring a ding ding!”


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