- BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE Magazine San Francisco [ Tap here for Most Recent FREE MAGAZINE EDITIONS]
- SPECIAL MUSIC EDITION 2017
- LITERARY 2016 EDITION
- SPRING 2016
- SUMMER 2015 EDITION
- ASIAN EDITION 2015
- LITERARY SPRING EDITION 2015
- FALL EDITION 2014
- WINTER EDITION 2014
- BUREAU EDITORIAL
- BUREAU ICON ESSAYS
- NEW FICTION
- BUREAU NEWS
- SUBMIT BAY AREA EVENTS
- WRITER J. A. TRILIEGI
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
NEW FICTION : They Call it The City of Angels / CHAPTER FOUR / A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
They Call it The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter Four: Jordan
Jordan is a bus driver, it didn't define him, he's also a bass man,
a basketball coach, a bit of a poet too. He is the youngest bus
driver in all of Los Angeles County. Came out here to get away
from a seriously tragic family history. Born in Detroit, the week
of the famous riots, his dad was a serious player and took the fall
for being a member of an elite crew of dudes who actually helped
to start it. His Mom was in and out of town so much, he hardly
knew her. Came out here alone on a one time musical scholarship.
Recently, he ended up hocking his bass, a red fender given to him
by his uncle, still had the pawn ticket in his wallet, been meaning
to get over there to extend the loan voucher another ninety days so
he could get it back after paying up in full. Wanted to buy his girl
a pair of earrings and figured he could always get the bass back,
but with his car payment, rent and all the rest, he just let it drift.
He was two weeks away from getting off probation from
the transit authority. Six weeks of training and almost a
year driving and finally he would be able to exhale. His first
route started near LAX Airport, up La Brea, over to Crenshaw,
past Leimert Park & around Rodeo, down Martin Luther King
to The Sports Arena and back around again. He liked it.
reminded him of his parents, his heritage, his people.
But now, they had him driving from Venice Boulevard onto
the 405 freeway, up through Santa Monica onto Pacific Coast
Highway, past Pepperdine University and all the way up to
Malibu Pier and back again. Most people would have loved
that route but Jordan always said the drivers were snobs, the
kids crossed the street without looking, carrying surfboards,
lawn chairs, tourists from all corners of the world, asking
directions to places he never heard of, in languages he never
knew. He was hoping to get his old route back, but as the odd
man at transit authority, the chances were mighty slim. Most
of the drivers, managers, supervisors and radio dispatch persons
were steeped in the Jesus thing: Baptist, Christian, Catholic,
Protestant, you name it. Jordan was a third generation Muslim.
His Daddy, his Granddad, his Uncles, some of his Aunts and him.
He had already made his four rotations by seven o'clock that
evening, grabbed a cup of coffee and was looking forward to
seeing his lady for a late dinner at her place. Just past the
Malibu Pier, an area where he was always extra careful, he
slowed down a bit and coasted around the curve through to
the next straight away stretch, the sun was setting a golden,
peach - like glow, palm trees silhouetted in an all black design
that looked like a postcard. It wasn't Crenshaw, but it could of
been worse. Some routes were very tough on a driver, others
were easy street. Looking down the highway, he noticed a small
dark circle along the horizon line, couldn't figure out what it was.
A trash-bag? A backpack ? As he got closer, the object came into
view, it was a turtle, a rather large sized turtle crawling from
left to right, he swerved to the right avoiding the turtle, as he
did so, a camper van parked on the right pulled out in front of
him, and as it did, that is when he noticed the beachcomber
standing directly in his path, hit the brakes, skidding several
yards and slamming into the beachcombers several bags and
eventually knocking him to the asphalt, he turned to ask the
lone passenger if he had seen what just happened, but not a
soul was on the bus. " Could have sworn that cat was still on."
The first thing you are supposed to do is call it in. But Jordan,
just on reflex jumped off the bus to see what happened. He
looked down and splayed across the highway were several
small packages wrapped in brown paper and masking tape.
He looked closer at the corner of one of the small bundles
and noticed it was full of currency, unmistakably dollar bills.
All day long he had to watch people putting bills into the slot
on his bus, the corners always bending, creating a problem.
If anyone knew what the corner of a dollar bill looked like,
it was Jordan. The beachcomber, was out like a light, but
when Jordan put his ear to the mans chest, he could hear him
breathing. He could also smell his breath, whiskey and onions.
Why a man does what he does is always a mystery, mostly to
the man himself, so when he reached to pick up one of the
bundles and put it in his inside left pocket, it seemed pretty
natural. He got back on the bus and called it in. By now the
sun was down. The highway was closed. Ambulance, cops,
transit authority, the whole shebang. When radio reporters,
traffic helicopters and the local television stations came out,
He figured that he was not only going to be late for dinner.
There was a good chance he was going to be fired, even if it
wasn't his fault, even if the guy was drunk. To top it off, the
turtle was no where to be seen. That was his whole defense.
Wanda heard about it on the radio before he even got home.
MAIN SITE : www.BUREAUofARTSandCULTURE.com
CONTACT : JOHNNYMILWAUKEE@EARTHLINK.NET
LA : www.BUREAUofARTSandCULTURELosAngeles.blogspot.com
BAY AREA : www.BUREAUofARTSandCULTURESF.blogspot.com
NEW YORK : www.BUREAUofARTSandCULTURENY.blogspot.com
Joshua Aaron TRILIEGI 1282 W. Sunset Bd Los Angeles
California USA 90026 Phone Direct : 213 975 0067