My Weird Weekend in Fiji

Susan Beinart tells this story through the voice of a disgruntled teenaged boy! And she manages, furthermore, to illustrate thematically the universal via the particular! We’ve all known a Leon or someone similar to him, I’m sure!

We’re at a doctor’s conference paid for by a drug company. Dad’s brought me to Fiji to lecture me ’cause Mum wrote to him about my trips into the world of drugs. It sucks that I haven’t dared bring my pot stash with me.

Doctors lie on silk cushions at this hotel, sipping martinis while referring to patients as viruses or infections. Older folk with chronic aches don’t know that by buying legal drugs they’re financing a holiday for Dad.

Dad’s usual idea of bonding is two strangers lying on parallel beds in front of a blaring TV. And this is how I like to spend time with Dad too. Anything more intimate, like actually talking, ends up with two stiff bodies eyeing walls and carpets.

This arvo Dad’s typing notes in our hotel room and getting rid of me. ‘Find some fresh air while I work, Leon.’ Two of Dad’s pale fingers are tapping worn keys.

Dismissed by Dad, I prowl the hotel, looking for an amigo to talk to.

I settle poolside, hoping my latest drawing, a pumped-up version of Jesus off his cross, will gain respect from a pair of lounging doctors. The medics peer and smack their lips at the ropey muscles of their icon, Christ. One flexes a flabby arm and they laugh. They’re both dripping pool water. They turn away and saunter after a saronged waitress carrying a drinks tray.

Telling myself they’re drunk and can’t appreciate art, I drop my pencil and smile at a saggy face on the chair next to mine. ‘You look familiar. Are you an actor?’

The man’s huge belly engulfs his lounge chair. His head turns and lips drag on a long cigarette. Unlike Dad this dude’s got heaps of hair and might even dig my art.

‘Yes, actually, I’ve featured in many TV dramas. My name is Lance Mansfield.’ Glancing at my sketch and grinning. ‘So apt, your Jesus. Such a powerful being.’

‘Thanks. You’re English, aren’t you? What were you in?’

‘You might have observed me in a British soap or perhaps a film. Where are you from?’ Lance’s clipped accent’s up itself and his hooded eyes peer at me like at a child.

‘Australia.’

‘I have appeared on a lot of Australian television.’

‘I don’t watch much TV but I love good movies.’

‘Are you familiar with Stanley Kubric’s A Clockwork Orange? I was in that.’

‘Which character?’ My palms moisten with excitement.

‘Oh, I was…’

I don’t recognise the character Lance names, yet my cheeks warm up. ‘Kubric’s a genius.’

‘Really? You do like good films, then. What’s your name?’

‘Leon Shabason. You must be famous.’

A grin grows on Lance till his chins vibrate. But is this hero-worshipping truly worth it? Yeah, cause I’m hanging out with a real legend. I nod keenly when Lance introduces his slumped wife who’s probably witnessed this scene too often and is sick of meeting peasants. Or is this sprawled grey woman tired of life? She gives a brief smile and returns to her previous state, eyes glazed, lips clamped shut.

‘Have you seen Six Degrees of Separation?’

‘Well, Leon, I have viewed both productions, one on stage and one in film.

And, I have to say, the film was a great source of disappointment.’

‘The movie was cool. It was Will Smith’s only good performance.’

‘Oh yes, that Will Smith is very common. If you were to compare his Six Degrees of Separation performance to his other films, I suppose you could give him some merit. I just thought the character should be more shaggable and Will Smith is anything but.’

‘I get you don’t fancy him but what about his acting?’

‘Well, in the Broadway performance, the actor was both charismatic and attractive. Mr Smith should have stuck to sitcoms. At least then his audience was on his level.’

I eye Lance, searching for a hint of shaggability, and find none. If Lance’s torso belongs to a world of tight pecs and hard butts, it’s only in Lance’s mind. Will Smith would beat him any day. I change the subject: ‘True art is ageless, don’t you think?’

‘True, my boy, and good to hear it from a lad of your age. It comforts me that one of our youth isn’t bombarding society with hard-done-by, anti-conformist views.’

‘Yeah, I’ll give society a good bashing when I have my first art exhibition. I’ll just do it subtly and won’t get put behind bars.’

Lance lifts the corners of his mouth and gives a staged chuckle. His cheeks go pink. Me, I relax in the creamy chair. In this way we spend two hours together in which I continue, unbelievably, to shine.

The café where I end up drinking orange juice with Lance and his wife is a huge upturned basket woven with bamboo shoots and palm leaves. Five Fijian men carol on a stage, swaying grass skirts, clapping massive hands in beat. They’ve got halos of hair and full cheeks. ‘Bula,’ they sing, making me gulp into my juice. I shiver at their sad uniformity and look away.

The corners of Lance’s mouth start drooping. Maybe my host’s hoping for a meal alone with his silent wife and is sick of me, this freak whose wild words dried up when I first saw the robotic singers.

Lance turns his back and chats to a svelte lady at the table behind. I watch as the rear of Lance’s eager head bobs. Without finishing my juice I say goodbye to the slumped wife and leave, ignoring her muted protest. I sit alone at the hotel pool for hours afterwards, watching dark water move while hurt runs through my veins.

I creep back to our room in the dark and Dad, half-asleep, starts to rant from his bed. ‘Where’ve you been, Leon? I’m sick of worrying about you. The drug company paid a fortune for your meal, and your ma’s just beginning to trust me.’ Dad’s shaking something – is it a fist? – in the air.

‘Yeah, a multinational that uses sick folk so you and your mates can eat prawns.’ Though hungry I’m glad I missed out on the meal. I can sense Dad’s scowl in the dark. Dad’s upset, I tell myself as my head drops on my pillow.

‘I too was angry at the world once,’ says Dad. ‘If you keep fighting it, you’ll never be a winner.’

‘Yeah.’ My words gush out. ‘You gave Big Brother a head job and sold your soul for a pay packet. I want a life filled with meaning and fun.’

But where does Dad really fit in during our weird weekend in Fiji? I’m trying like mad to place him in the picture. Dad’s fist-waving ’cause his son’s always late, his long nose, his silences. Did I pursue Lance to avoid Dad or was Dad escaping me?

We do end up spending time together that night. His deep voice begs me to sober up. His words falter. ‘You’re killing your ma, you know,’ he grunts as we lie side by side in the yolk-toned hotel room. Like always our years of estrangement stretch between us.