124 Containing an aside to the Reader

The elderly near neighbor pointed to the disintegration spot, the last site of the pushy BMW. Baby Drew hoisted the bazooka himself, and goo-gooed with a ripple that meant “Rocket, please.”
The result was that a gold mist Chevrolet Suburban which had raced and braked behind – in all truth, had harassed – a law-abiding Buick became smoke.
The elderly Mrs. clapped her perhaps too slender hands with glee, and once again, her naturalness didn’t go unnoticed by _____ _____.
Huancho de la Vega, thinking as a baseball player rather than one of Ross Valley’s secret operatives, was in awe of the precision. It rivaled his own throwing accuracy, and he wondered if it might translate to the baseball diamond; furthermore, whether the San Anselmo Little League rules could be changed, bent, or overlooked to allow baby Drew into the Majors the following season to play with the most talented ten, eleven, and twelve year olds, although, next April, the toddler would be just age three and a half.
“Yay!” all the other Little Leaguers cried once again.
“Yay!” echoed their little girlfriends and friendly fans.
Like ladyfinger firecrackers from Chinatown!
Baby Drew noticed.
Dear Reader: Remember the neglect suffered so far, two years, ten months of it, confined mostly to his crib, a father away from the home to woo a mealticket, a mother away as in Up Up and Away! Only the living saint, Aunt Kar, had taken more than passing notice of him, had extricated him from the crib when she could, had taken him for strolls to Memorial Park and tried to teach him to talk. It has been mentioned that without the limited personal attention, entirely from Aunt Kar, notwithstanding Granny Guss’s unquantifiable spurts and enthusiams across their shared carpet, he was likely to have been bereft even of his ability to form hard g’s.
Sudden, unmitigated, completely unexpected positive attention has turned the heads of persons equally as canny as little Drew, and quite older, and more sophisticated. Thus baby Drew basked in the cheers of the victory contingent from Memorial Park. And he turned to the other baby.
“Php’g’g’drwqn’pp’g’g’g’g . . .”
He was understood, by his contemporary, to say, “I just can’t believe this! My whole life, I’ve idolized these people! They are by far so much smarter and better and more talented than I am. I mean, they’ve accepted me and have even come over to my stroller to say hello between innings, but I feel shy to even be in the same company with them now. Like, I don’t even deserve to be in the same space. But – they’re cheering for me! I mean, you’d think it would be that I would be cheering for them!. But they’re cheering for me!”
The other baby groaned, “Knock it off.”
“Kk-k-k-k-k-k-k-kk!” laughed Drew.
“Lebbenty thousand million two three!”
Their sentiments were along the lines of “Caught in the act” (of false modesty) and the old, not very funny quip about how it’s hard to be humble when you’re great. To which baby Drew added, self-mockingly, “It’s hard to be humble when you have a bazooka.”
The seeming gibberish moved into a worthy discussion of hubris, and one saw that the other wondered, with the vast lawn, the unheard-of acreage, the momentous views, the affable and influential neighbors, the movie star, the skillful ninjas, and the superior lemonade, how Ross Valley, seemingly, avoided it.


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