Bali James The Stories Book Two- When Greatness Prevails

By Bali James

The stories continue in the second instalment of short fictional works by Bali James. The global nature is ever-present. This second installation of stories deliver a concise and thoroughly engaging read with an underlying emphasis on attaining (however unconventional), and in some cases unabashedly revelling in personal heights of greatness. These narratives continue in the author’s familiar style, which intends to speak to the reader in a manner that is completely relatable however detailed in nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bali James
• Release date: Dec 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463875759

Bali James

Bali James is best described as a Creative Professional. Originally from the UK, she now resides in Los Angeles, CA.

Book preview

1

MAGNIFICENCE

May marked the sixth month Johnny had failed to rise from his bed before noon. The mornings were still cool in his first-floor apartment. Large draughty floor-to-ceiling windows graced most of the stone-cold walls. The dramatic reduction in temperature Johnny experienced upon leaving the warmth of his bed’s goose feather–filled duvet into his bedroom’s unheated morning atmosphere proved the most unpleasant part of his day. For this reason, getting up was prolonged—sometimes until past noon, on occasions as late as 2:00 p.m. The well-constructed duvet could well have used the aid of a blanket in such conditions; however, Johnny preferred a hot water bottle. Thirty minutes before retiring each night, Johnny filled the rubber bottle with boiling hot water from his electric kettle and placed it beneath the bedcovers, dead center on his king-size mattress. The inviting sensation experienced as he first entered beneath the covers felt like childhood in the most inexplicable way, considering Johnny grew up in a warm humid climate far from his present-day reality. He had come across the bottle two years before when clearing out the home of his now deceased mother. The task turned out to be a brief undertaking, for, as a devout Jehovah’s Witness, his mother had donated a large portion of her unimpressive salary and later equally meager pension to the church without fail on the first of every month. When Johnny came upon the bottle nestled in a torn cardboard box under the staircase, its discovery felt like the sweetest gift and ended up being one of the few items from his mother’s belongings that he decided to keep. It was such a plain, albeit rather large, unassuming house, void of any comforts or ornamentation. By morning, the bottle would be completely cold, although his silky woolen pajamas and handknitted cashmere socks managed to retain some heat. If Johnny left the heating on all night, he awoke with a blocked nasal passage come morning, the feeling being as miserable as waking up to a cold space except that the blocked nose lasted for days and proved a real drag.

The thermostat, located in the hallway, seemed an incomprehensible distance away from his bed, when in fact it was located immediately outside the bedroom door on the left-hand side directly opposite the bathroom located on the right. The kitchen, at the farthest end of the hall, stood opposite the bedroom and received the most sunlight even though it was the smallest room in his home. The living room, to the left of the kitchen, was committed to being the coldest room in the entire place.

The apartment looked on to a garden that by right belonged to Johnny’s residence only. It was a handsome space, well designed, with the first section and entrance being a sunken area fitted with a rich brown decking the entire width of the space. The garden furniture remained covered since the winter. The second third of the garden was a short stretch of lawn. A small trampoline sat off to one side, which was also still covered even though it was May; it was well into spring. The rear section was divided off into compartments for growing vegetables. This year Johnny had wanted to focus on the planting of beetroot, tomatoes, and a variety of lettuce, but the weather had hindered his plans considerably. Johnny was worried that he just might lose interest altogether if he didn’t have someone come in and turn over the hardened winter soil to begin the planting process. He could do it himself but considered such tasks so arduous and unfulfilling—similar to lying in bed for the better part of the day but less strenuous. With the sale of his mother’s home, Johnny had decided not to work for an unspecified period of time, wanting to focus on attaining a higher level of satisfaction in his life. Having invested the proceeds from the sale of the property wisely, Johnny was free to explore a less determined life and embrace a casual approach to whatever he pleased.

One Wednesday afternoon, Johnny decided to spend what was left of his day with a visit to his favorite museum, where the terrace’s tea pavilion served impeccable coffee with an endless selection of pastries. He had been awake, lounging in bed for the better part of the morning listening to the radio with a movie playing silently on the flat screen TV opposite his bed, sending out emails and monitoring stock market activity. By 11:00 a.m., feeling restless, he decided a little earlier than usual that it was time to get up. The bedroom felt cool but not as cold as it had been. Outside the sky was clear and blue. As he opened his bedroom door, sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows. He set the thermostat to comfortable, then prepared himself for the day.

Johnny dressed well, he always had. He purchased clothes conservatively, preferring expensive items, acquired when suitably marked down on sale. One morning a little over a year ago, an ex-lover of his had unintentionally left a kimono at his home, forgetting to pack it with the rest of her overnight belongings before departing in the morning. This kimono was of an exceptional length, navy blue with an overall black (with dashes of white) abstract motif that was almost undetectable. Johnny was approximately five feet ten inches tall, yet the back of the kimono still trailed on the floor a good foot or so. Johnny occasionally wore the kimono when getting ready for his day. He would often wear it when reclining atop his bed or when stretching out on a yoga mat on the floor. He enjoyed how it billowed and swirled around with his every movement. The kimono was decadent, which suited this new phase well. Johnny felt regal wearing it; the kimono inflated (or should I say satiated) his ego. He put on some music in the form of an actual vinyl played on his decks in the front room and left the door open so the entire apartment could reverberate from the sound. The TV was still on in the bedroom, and with the bathroom door left ajar to allow the music to waft in, one could still hear the shower running from the kitchen, where Johnny was making a quick morning super green smoothie. Johnny felt energized.

The museum was a mere brisk forty-minute walk from his home. He had seen the latest exhibit three times and had no interest of viewing it again. Johnny’s intention had been to head straight for the tea pavilion for a caffè latte and a little people watching. As he strolled along the west side of the building before turning left toward the museum’s entrance, Johnny stumbled upon a small gathering around a male musician playing the steel drums. The man’s efforts were accompanied by a speaker playing a background melody, and in front of the speaker sat a collection basket with a few notes trapped at the bottom by a few coins. The man played intensely, attempting to create as large a sound as possible so as not to be drowned out by the music that was supposed to be no more than an accompaniment. Johnny stayed on the corner, enjoying the music for at least an hour. People generally passed by with a jig in their step or swing of the hips. A mother or father would acknowledge the music, and within a couple of steps, an entire family would be laughing and keeping in time with each other or taking selfies with the Calypso Man (who seldom looked up from his instrument) before throwing a few coins in the basket and casually moving on. Perhaps it was the slightly warmer temperature that attributed to the fact that Johnny was thoroughly enjoying himself. He left a fiver in the basket in front of the speaker and decided not to go to the museum but to walk the city instead. He grabbed a coffee and a ploughman’s cheese sandwich to go from Mabel’s, a humble although reputedly one of the finest eateries in the neighborhood. A mint-green imperial woolen sweater that Johnny had had his eye on for months had finally gone on sale at Owen’s, a small boutique on Hartley Street.

Hello, Johnny! said the salesgirl, flashing a genuine smile from behind the sales counter as he came in. Haven’t seen you in a minute. How have you been? Well, you know, can’t complain really, Johnny replied confidently as he circled the establishment, making an observer’s note of every item that graced a shelf or hanger. It’s Samantha, isn’t it?

Yes, that’s right, she said. I’m surprised you remembered. Ah, well, there are some things a man doesn’t forget, Johnny replied, still circling the interior. Oh. Samantha looked inquiringly. Not much in the mood for small talk, Johnny let the exchange end abruptly as though it had never started. The green sweater in the window, said Johnny after a brief silence. I’ll take it, thank you. Samantha wrapped up the item with care in an effort to relay that she couldn’t give a solitary moment as to whether Johnny cared to engage in nondescript conversation with her or not. Johnny took note of her long fingers and expertly manicured fingernails. The countertop rested just below the waistband of her pencil skirt; her silk chiffon blouse was unabashedly unfastened four buttonholes down to reveal an ample cleavage. Three delicate gold necklaces adorned the immediate vicinity; full shoulder-length hair rested on her shoulders and encased an inviting face. Nice enough girl, he thought, nice enough place. Don’t be a stranger, Johnny, said the salesgirl as she handed him his purchase wrapped and boxed, however without a bag, which struck Johnny as rather contemporary for some reason. He wedged the box under his arm and reentered the street. After ten minutes, he got tired of walking and hailed a taxi instead. As Johnny walked up to the entrance of his beautiful vine-covered stone building, he came upon his neighbor Antonio leaning out of his second-floor front-room window with a cigarette in his mouth. Johnny! Angelo welcomed his friend generously. Wanna come up for a drink? The wife’s out. Come up, he beckoned. Before Johnny could respond, he retreated from the window to appear a moment later at the main entrance to usher his neighbor upstairs to his home. Angelo’s apartment was nothing like Johnny’s. Light streamed in even on most dull days. The space felt like a home, as in there was evidence of a woman, and the slight disarray felt inviting. The walls were painted a crisp white, and the wooden furniture was the same brown as the floors. The main seating was a Parisian blue sofa with accent chairs in a pinkish sable. Everything was haphazardly placed, plentiful and worn.

How have you been, man? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Johnny. Patio furniture is still covered in the garden, and I see you have not begun planting any vegetables. I was going to drop by this weekend, to be honest, to check on you, said the neighbor.

Awe, thanks, Angelo. No, I’m all right though, mate. It’s just that the cold weather is hanging around for a little longer this year, and I guess at this point I’m fed up with it, you know.

Don’t I know it. it’s been freezing—much warmer today though, said Angelo as he led Johnny into the kitchen for a couple of beers and a smoke next to the open windows. They sat in open thought for a while, exchanging volumes of sensitive information via telepathic interpersonal frequencies, all the while savoring the stillness of their immediate airy surroundings and the city view outside the large windows.

Hey, Angelo, do you know what a steel drum is? inquired Johnny of his friend. Of course, I do, compadre, Angelo replied. What a bizarre question. I was a music professor back in my country. It’s not as though I particularly enjoy teaching English as a second language, you know that. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause offence. It’s not exactly a common instrument, you have to admit. I had to give up so much to be with Jeanetta, who is now larger than ever by the way. I’m not convinced it was at all worth it, said Angelo in a manner that was characteristically matter-of-fact. When you say large, asked Johnny carefully, do you mean as in achieving greatness or…? No, I mean as in fatter, snapped Angelo. She certainly didn’t look that way when I married her! Jeanetta’s weight gain had been an ongoing source of consternation for Angelo. It was true he had given up a comfortable existence in his home country, but his life was better now and he knew it. Even with an overweight wife and lack of title, he was still better off. Well, said Johnny, deciding it best to completely avoid the subject of his wife entirely, today I came upon this guy who plays the steel drum close to the museum I frequent on Eastbridge Road. He was playing his heart out, I mean thrashing around. I think he was attempting to create an illusionary effect of more drums than there actually was. He was very good, mind you, and everyone lit up instantly upon hearing his music. People danced a little, took pictures, and tipped him a little. It was quite something. Angelo looked at his friend inquisitively. It’s just that I sat there listening to that man for well over an hour, and I could have stayed longer. It was the first time in quite a while that I actually felt something that resembled happiness. After a long pause, Johnny continued, I don’t know why I said that, silly really; forget I mentioned it. Do I know what a steel drum is? scoffed Angelo, responding finally as he disappeared into the living room. Bet you don’t know this one, he called out as he blasted some first-rate soca from invisible speakers hidden in the apartment walls and ceilings somewhere. Angelo returned to the kitchen and beckoned