122 The Organic Elvis

It was the Lexus that got him aroused, especially after he saw JoJo steal the Saab and tear off in broad daylight.
“I don’t know what’s the biggest surprise,” screeched John Guss. He’d taken on the timbre of his blenders. “Seeing him steal my car – his own brother’s! – or seeing him awake.”
A San Anselmo teenager was strolling by the Guss house, and heard. The windows were open.
“Bigger!” she shouted back, just to the level which enabled her correction to be clearly discerned. “The comparative form! Not the superlative!”
Children were wonderful, John thought, especially the multitasking teenagers abounding in the little valley town.
“I wish I’d had children . . .” he said wistfully, then remembered he did.
The Lexus rolled slower and stopped.
“Reliability, comfort . . . Lexus,” John said ingratiatingly.
The mayor stepped out, pressed the fob lock, and primped in the driver’s side window.
“The Mayor of San Anselmo,” he mused. “At noon.”
As she walked up the cracked and dislodged stone path, John stared and could think nothing but “Reliability, comfort . . . Lexus.”
The mayor brought her strong right hand with her, which could sweep his project forward with full city approval. John brought his handle on Elvis. One hand, so to speak, wash-a the other. It was the way the old Italians spoke on the porches along Alder and Yolanda.
John sang “Lord You Gave Me A Mountain” full-throated Elvis in Vegas while he boinked her. He was on automatic, because his mind was somewhere else specific: “Reliability, comfort . . . Lexus.”
Afterwards, the mayor helped herself to John’s big chair, and sat straight up while the waves continued to roll from head to toe.
John talked, and the mayor listened in suspended time. She was feeling the glow; he was touting plans and concepts that would inspire more adulation than Roxanne’s raw food restaurant had until the candle flame of her well-being revolution was pinched.
“Nothing will bust up the act! The Guss family is intact!” It wasn’t exactly a true or relevant slogan, but as soon as it was out of his mouth he could feature it in future speeeches. A few more lines just as catchy and he wouldn’t again consider warming up foodie tent shows with “Viva Las Veggies.”
“And so, for the crux concept . . .”
The mayor was all attention, not hearing a thing he said. Anything would keep the smiled pumped while she was on her flying carpet.
John Guss closed in on the announcement by standing up, naked.
“Blended dinners! An Osterizer at every place setting! Because who has time to chew? And face it, eating in the traditional way is unattractive. Puree de Entree! And how can Ferragamo resist a concept like this, a new step up . . . with the Ferragamo signature on each straw . . .”
He continued: Part of the charm is the absence of parking! Slow, neck-craning drives through Yolanda and Landsdale and even onward onto and off Butterfield Road for a legal parking space, and the long walks to his restaurant after after finding one.
“In and out! A proven idea! See and be seen! Slurp! A table turned . . . every fifteen minutes!”
The way he rubbed his hands was voracious, his voice pitched up. He reminded her of that little sleaze the swami who worked the Plip Plop cafe. Transparent mojos, but John wasn’t luckless.
“Let him talk,” the mayor thought, her smile not changing. “I’ll break it to him gently . . .” that it was the stupidest idea of any kind of all time.
She knew how to make things happen. The Administrative Assistant probably was on the lawn of City Hall still playing handsie, getting little tingles like that. That’s why she was an assistant, and why the Mayor was mayor.
“. . . after the next rush of orgasms.”


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