City Lights
By James Oliver Bulls
Cool night air blankets the city, and the day’s sour heat rolls off the blacktop. Somewhere, a dog is barking. Sarah’s red cocktail dress reflects tail lights and she waves a tired goodbye to the black sedan as it prowls back into the sleeping city. “I love what you do, but you’re killing my feet.” Holding the mailbox for balance, Sarah picks up her feet one at a time to pull off the three-inch heels. “That’s a helluva lot better.” Sarah’s tired feet gingerly cross the concrete driveway up to the parked Malibu – sweet smoke leaking out the cracked passenger window catches her eye. She opens the door, reclines on to the leather passenger seat, and looks at the young lady sitting in the driver’s seat whose washed-out hair spills carelessly over the headrest.
“I just bought you this car and it already reeks of ganja – is that how you thank your mother for her support, Georgina? Roll down your window, it’s thick in here.” Street lamps illuminate the girl’s gentle face and she waves to clear the air. “You know I hate it when you call me that. Besides, I didn’t think you’d be back this weekend anyway.” Georgina punctuates her statement with a long draw from the fat blunt in her hand before cracking the driver-side window.
“You’re right, Georgy – I didn’t get back this weekend. It’s early Monday morning right now. Are you going to class today?” The heavy air swirled under an outside breeze, and unspoken words waited for expression. “Let me hit that; where’d you get it, anyway?” Georgina passes the blunt and looks away to watch moths dance around the lamplight. “It’s called hashish, mom, and all I’m gonna say is the cab drivers from Morocco sell more than taxi rides. I got a call from the modeling agency today; they say they know a guy who needs an actress next week.” A dog barks in the distance and a far-away car alarm chimes in.
Sarah takes a drag on the blunt before crushing it on the dashboard and stuffing the remains into a half-empty bottle of Sobe. “What the fuck, mom? That Arab shit ain’t cheap, you know.” Georgina’s anger falls on deaf ears: her mother is leaning back in her seat, looking through the windshield at the house. “It’s got a garage, a porch, a yard, separate bedrooms, and a good kitchen. It’s not big, but it’s mine. And I’ve got you.”
Georgina frowns at the steering wheel. “And what’ve I got, mom?” Sarah leans forward to open the door and looks her daughter in the eyes:
“You’ve ‘got’ to go to school so you don’t have to hustle like I do. And you better pass this semester, or I’m gonna make the Malibu disappear.” She slams the passenger door behind her and crosses the warm, dry lawn up to the porch. Somewhere, a dog is barking.
- - -
James Bulls is a professional cartomancer whose primary goals are the unification of mind, body, and spirit through martial arts; expression of the 12 noble virtues of the Zodiac; and observation of the three important things: truth beauty and love. He doesn't like burnt toast.
By James Oliver Bulls
Cool night air blankets the city, and the day’s sour heat rolls off the blacktop. Somewhere, a dog is barking. Sarah’s red cocktail dress reflects tail lights and she waves a tired goodbye to the black sedan as it prowls back into the sleeping city. “I love what you do, but you’re killing my feet.” Holding the mailbox for balance, Sarah picks up her feet one at a time to pull off the three-inch heels. “That’s a helluva lot better.” Sarah’s tired feet gingerly cross the concrete driveway up to the parked Malibu – sweet smoke leaking out the cracked passenger window catches her eye. She opens the door, reclines on to the leather passenger seat, and looks at the young lady sitting in the driver’s seat whose washed-out hair spills carelessly over the headrest.
“I just bought you this car and it already reeks of ganja – is that how you thank your mother for her support, Georgina? Roll down your window, it’s thick in here.” Street lamps illuminate the girl’s gentle face and she waves to clear the air. “You know I hate it when you call me that. Besides, I didn’t think you’d be back this weekend anyway.” Georgina punctuates her statement with a long draw from the fat blunt in her hand before cracking the driver-side window.
“You’re right, Georgy – I didn’t get back this weekend. It’s early Monday morning right now. Are you going to class today?” The heavy air swirled under an outside breeze, and unspoken words waited for expression. “Let me hit that; where’d you get it, anyway?” Georgina passes the blunt and looks away to watch moths dance around the lamplight. “It’s called hashish, mom, and all I’m gonna say is the cab drivers from Morocco sell more than taxi rides. I got a call from the modeling agency today; they say they know a guy who needs an actress next week.” A dog barks in the distance and a far-away car alarm chimes in.
Sarah takes a drag on the blunt before crushing it on the dashboard and stuffing the remains into a half-empty bottle of Sobe. “What the fuck, mom? That Arab shit ain’t cheap, you know.” Georgina’s anger falls on deaf ears: her mother is leaning back in her seat, looking through the windshield at the house. “It’s got a garage, a porch, a yard, separate bedrooms, and a good kitchen. It’s not big, but it’s mine. And I’ve got you.”
Georgina frowns at the steering wheel. “And what’ve I got, mom?” Sarah leans forward to open the door and looks her daughter in the eyes:
“You’ve ‘got’ to go to school so you don’t have to hustle like I do. And you better pass this semester, or I’m gonna make the Malibu disappear.” She slams the passenger door behind her and crosses the warm, dry lawn up to the porch. Somewhere, a dog is barking.
- - -
James Bulls is a professional cartomancer whose primary goals are the unification of mind, body, and spirit through martial arts; expression of the 12 noble virtues of the Zodiac; and observation of the three important things: truth beauty and love. He doesn't like burnt toast.
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