15 It’s Madison time (You’re looking good)

Aunt Kar took little Drew's hand to stroll the neighborhood and enjoy baby's christening day. Perhaps it was as God intended. "Things happen for a reason," she said lightly, aware of the pinch of didacticism. There was still time for the christening party to begin, but perhaps there was a reason God intended it not to. A lesson by inference, if Drew was listening. "We can amble gently o'er sidewalks of cement and stone, past friendly facades, yea, within earshot of normal wicker chat on proud porches." Believing the bicyclists had been gunned down, she pronounced the prospects for the stroll safe.
"U's'k b'g f's 'd," Drew said with an expectant look at his aunt. He meant [though by now the interpolations may be evident] "It was 'Gunsmoke.' The big flies aren't dead."
He thought bicyclists, because of their shiny and flamboyant sleekness, were merely much larger specimens of the pests he killed daily, previously by any means possible, presently with his gift from Granny Guss.
"Then the neighborhood isn't safe!" Kar declared. They would have to wait to see them ride away, out of the other conjunction of Yolanda and Alder. Or, Kar wouldn't be surprised, they might find an easement or even trespass to make their way to the creek, there to smoke their pot and have sex after admiring each other's bottoms during the course of the bike ride. "And that's public property!"
She thought her nephew was quite the little man about San Anselmo in his natural hemp shoes and drawstring trousers. His suede tunic fit perfectly. He was dressed for comfort and style and – a sudden twinge – his baptism, rather his latent baptism. No one brought a present, Monsignor hadn't shown up, JoJo forgot the cake; grievance upon grievance upon grievance.
Yet Aunt Kar forebore, and to turn lemons into lemonade, she thought a little dance lesson would be a delightful pastime on the front lawn, as it were, until the neighborhood had an all-clear about the bicyclists.
"It's Madison time!" she twittered. "Get up!"
Uncle Joe had returned to his grounded Olds but hadn't gotten into his seat. He stood facing the driver's side window, and carefully observing his reflection in it, he snarled, "I love my country." When Kar made the Madison call, he turned around.
Did she ever forbear! he thought. His brother's wife was a fox. Kinda blond, not too tall, not prissy about her looks but careful about her health and dressed like she cared about someone besides herself, she kept that sexy thing.
"Step . . ."
Drew was an adept. He'd taken to solo dancing like Switzerland to hospitality.
"Clap," Aunt Kar called. Uncle Joe was offended at first, then quickly understood.
Drew clapped his little hands, and when Aunt Kar called "Turn," he turned on the beat and exactly copied the brief shimmy she threw in.
Uncle Joe tried to join, with the excuse of making a longer line. It was, after all, a line dance.
"N' sh' g'bf!" This time the baby didn't copy perfectly. Nevertheless, it was two against one, and Joe retreated to the driver's seat, lit a Kool, and thought about Kar's shoulders shaking.
Uncle Joe French-inhaled and yearned to dance with her.
Dance? I know that you, esteemed Reader, have already deduced that the soul-saving euphemism is a veil for "boink."
Uncle Joe wanted to boink Kar although she belonged to his brother JoJo, who sometimes did, and always wanted to, boink her. Pretty much everyone in San Anselmo wanted to boink Kar, from the cafe scruffs to the burgermeisters and many of their neglected wives – the wives who would be frisky, to paraphrase Kipling. They'd give up their BMW X5's for it, some with their children inside.
"You're lookin' good."
Drew pirouetted, much as he did when he swatted flies, but with a barely perceptible bob, more properly a wobble, a move peculiar to infants, and becoming to them.
"Those adjustable ankle straps giving you the boss line!"
Clapping hands, Drew sang, "'s 'e 'd'n" on and on.
It's The Madison, it's The Madison, it's The Madison . . . until the bicylists were seen swooshing away.


2 Responses to “15 It’s Madison time (You’re looking good)”

  1. Peter Smith Says:

    Jo Jo sitting sideways in the Olds, looking at his reflection and saying what he says is a great image. Great image.

  2. Trudy Hale, The POrches Writing Retreat Says:

    Hey, coolshake,
    Please see me in my office.

    trudy hale, director

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