Wanna read the latest from Clever Magazine?
Click here and return to the coverpage!

J. L. Bramble

JL is a Philadelphia-based writer currently pursuing a Master's degree in Liberal Arts (with a concentration in Creative Writing and Anthropology) at the University of Pennsylvania. 

There is something odd about a 5-star hotel in the middle of the rainforest, wouldn’t you say? I know it’s not Michaela’s fault entirely, her father is the one paying for us to be all arse-about-tit upside-down here in Australia for two months. And he’s the one who is going to be controlling my future when we return. For Mick, it’s a present for graduating from university with highest honours. For me, coattails? An extended job interview?

***

"Look"
“Where?”
“Darby MacKinnon."
“Who?”
“The actress, Ian! Look!”
“Huh? Her? Over there reading?”
“Yes! That’s Darby MacKinnon.”
“I don’t reckon I’ve seen her in anything.”
“Oh yes you have. She's in that crap movie about horses.”
“Hmm. How’s your stomachache? I wanted to take a peek about the grounds.”
“Hurts.”

***

Look, I know that Ian thinks there are too many blue-hairs in these kinds of uppity places, all whining about the temperature of their steak and the firmness of their mattresses. But I didn’t book any of this. Poppy’s travel agent did. It isn’t as if I’m all that keen on complaining geriatrics either, but I’m not here with them, I’m here with Ian. So a little gratitude perhaps? He’s making me defensive and I don’t feel very good anyway.

***

Mick has been a strange brew ever since we landed in Cairns. That is to say, stranger than her usual brew, which is often rather charming in its strangeness. Now she’s all snippy and demanding. I don’t know if she picked up some kind of bug or if she ate a bad prawn or if I’m just starting to see her true nature. What’s that they say? Never know a body till you go on holiday with ‘em.

***

We’re in this bungalow that sits up high on bamboo stilts. There’s no lift, but there are loads of windows and a lovely view and a verandah where they serve tea and biscuits. The lounge has a thatched roof and is open on two sides, so one may watch for animals while one sips their Shiraz. It’s environmentally conscious luxury. It’s eco-posh! I actually think it’s quite beautiful, and rather a welcome change from the snotty hotels we’ve been in till now. I would never bother telling that to Ian though. He thinks that just because I don’t enjoy “roughing it” that I’m some kind of stick in the mud, but what’s wrong with experiencing nature and room service? Anyhow, I’m damn glad that I’m not in some tent somewhere just now because my stomach happens to be killing me.

***

“The Daintree Rainforest is approximately 120 square kilometers—”
“Stop reading that rubbish and listen to me, would you?”
“Home to the largest—Michaela this is interesting—the largest diversity of flora and fauna in the world. Fancy that! In the world!”
“Balls, Ian! I don’t feel very well at all. I want to go back and have a liedown.”
“You can’t take a walk with me? Not even a little walk?”

***

I am well aware that I ought to be grateful that I’m here at all, but I can’t help feeling as if this whole holiday has just been a giant tease. You could be experiencing this or that hands-on, but you’re never actually allowed to escape the confinement of fluffed pillows and air-conditioned suites…and high-maintenance girlfriends. I would never say this to her, but here we’ve traveled all these thousands of kilometres and don’t have anything to show for it but tiny soaps from uniformly elegant hotels. I just wish she’d, I don’t know, thought this out a little better. Or I had.

***

“Mick? Did you say something?”
“Free pass. Have you ever played it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s a what if game. For example, if you were to meet your favorite celeb you would have a free pass to shag them even if you were married.”
“But you don’t actually get to shag them?”
“Don’t be daft Ian, of course not. It’s just for fun.”
“I’d imagine so.”
“Anyhow, who would you fancy?"
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“I’m just making convo.”

***

Finally, a week of total relaxation with no interviews, no fans, and no paparazzi. A week of healing. I’ve been dying to come back to Australia for four years now, last time I was here for a grueling two-day re-shoot that I basically sleepwalked through. Awful to not be able to leave your set. Happened in Prague too. But Australia! It’s an evolutionary wonder. Especially in the rainforest, where it feels like the earth has been shaken up and down so that the most unusual plants and animals that could never make it anywhere else had no choice but to roll down here.

***

Why Poppy thought this would be a good graduation present instead of, I don’t know, a diamond bracelet or new car is a mystery. He knows I’ve never been one much for travel, the bother and risk, the crowds, the lines, the disorientation of it all. Did he do it as much for Ian as for me? An intro to the kind of hoity-toity life he can expect once he starts with the firm in September? Well Ian’d better change his bloody attitude then.

***

I brought a flower press with me. Yes, it’s kind of embarrassing, but if I happen to get inspired I want to be able to preserve it and take it home with me. I have a stack of field guides and a new journal too. But right now I’m just going to plop myself down here in the lounge and watch the birds and not talk to a soul. Then I remember the pile of Aussie tabloids I picked up in the airport.  

***

“You don’t want to look about some more?”
“No, darling. I told you I want to go back to the room."
“Well, I was going to head in to the lounge for a drink. Come with?”
“Why can’t you just go back to the room with me?”
“Because we’re on holiday, Mick!”
“The pain is moving!”
“Then meet me after you take an Asilone tablet.”
“Don't badger the starlet while I'm not around.”
“Who?”
“Don’t.” 

***

Whatever you hear about American tourists being obnoxious, the English are so much worse. There are two of them just outside the lounge right now arguing about a stomachache. Though if it weren’t for the lack of walls, there wouldn’t be the endless parade of creatures—lizards and bandicoots and things that just march right in through the open sides as if they were patrons themselves. There are geckoes climbing on the ceiling, frogs in every imaginable shade, and a marvelous scent hanging over everything, like roses but more tropical, full of water and heat. It’s really the perfect place to heal.

***

Ian is officially bringing out the worst in me. And just knowing this makes my entire outlook bleak.  My hair seems frizzier, my skin spottier, my hips wider. I think I could’ve even warded off whateverthehell is happening in my stomach if only I felt good about him again. What is that old saying? You never know a body till you go on holiday with them.

***

They torment me from inside their gift shop bag, like nagging mosquito bites. I know what other actors say about never reading their own reviews, but not me. I always hold out a crazy bit of hope that whatever someone has to say about me will actually be about my work and not about my love life. But most critics just like to abuse actors.

A Star is Lovelorn! We won’t be hearing wedding bells for jilted Darby MacKinnon, whose gawk-worthy relationship with director­ Red Buckner came to a cataclysmic halt last week, just in time for the premiere of the twentyorthirty-something star’s disappointing coming-of-age romp…

***

“What can I get for you, love?”
“Whatever’s on tap, thanks.”
“We’ve got Four-X and VB.”
“Four-X, please.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ian.” 

***

God I wish he didn’t upset me like this. I’m just knackered. I lie down and imagine all sorts of Ian-running-off-with-The-Actress scenarios, including red carpet premieres, Oscar acceptance speeches, tabloid drama, etc. etc. and I’m telling you, the pain began behind my navel and is now traveling like Magellan circumbloodynavigating the globe. I can’t go to the loo, I feel like I might be sick right here in the bed but then nothing happens. It’s a sharp, searing feeling that I could swear is actually sizzling. It’s heading toward my side. I’ll curl up. Curling up will help.

***

You would think that after all this time I would be able to ignore the nasty ones.

The weak plot points, boring action sequences, and hackneyed dialogue were not helped by the appearance of MacKinnon, whose lukewarm performance can perhaps be excused by the very public breakup of her engagement to Buckner…

***

“So, Ian, where else've you been in Australia?”
“All about. Just flew in from Alice Springs yesterday.”
“Good onya. The red centre.”
“Right.”
“You know who that is over there?”
“Where?”
“The only other person in here.”
“Is that the actress? So it’s actually her then?”
“It’s actually her.”
“I wouldn’t have recognized her.”

***

This is where I curse my rotten agent and the producer and the crew and all the morons in costume, my dialect coach, trainer, therapist, the caterers, the sound editors, the stunt doubles, and most of all, him. I seethe and clench and think about lighting up a cigarette, I begin my exercise in self-admonishment: it’s actually my fault and I obviously can’t act let alone manage a successful relationship with a man. If I had any brains at all I would go to college and do something meaningful like become a marine biologist or a librarian.

***

“So wherabouts you from?”
“Just outside of London.”
“I like your accent.”
“Thanks. Erm. I like yours too.”
“What brings you here anyway?”
“Holiday.”
“You don’t say.”
“Well, alright. You want to know what brings me here? I’ll tell you what brings me here.”
“Fire away.”

***

“Hi, um, I don’t mean to interrupt your holiday, but are you, um, Darby MacKinnon?” “No, no. Well, actually...” “So it is you!” “Are you disappointed?” “Heavens no. I'm quite a fan of your films.” “Oh?” “And you’re even prettier in person.” “Ohh?” “And in case you were wondering, that girl I was with is my sister.” “Ohhh?” “Fancy a drink?” “I’d love a drink.” “Fancy a shag?” “I’d love a shag.” 

***

“Hello? Hi. I’m in the Goanna Bungalow. Listen, do you have a staff doctor? I think my appendix is going to burst. No, I don’t want directions to the nearest bloody clinic, I want a doctor!”

***

“Well, I used to have this wonderful girlfriend at university and we were very happy going to parties and dinners and cricket matches. Are you with me?’
“Yes.”
“Ok, so we’re just happy as duckies and then her father offers me this job in his investment firm.”
“Ooh la la.”
“Right. So then he sends her on this grand first-class holiday for a graduation pressie and tells her she can bring a friend. So guess who she chooses?”
“Sounds like a bonzer deal to me.”
“Well it is. So why do I feel like this? I had no idea that this posh holiday would make me feel so horrible.”

***

He hasn’t looked over here once. Why do I care? I never considered that going on vacation alone would make me feel so horrible.

***

“So we arrived Sydney where Michaela shopped the week straight through, then we made our way down to the Four Seasons Melbourne for more of the same, then flew business-class to Alice Springs, where we dined on emu medallions in demi-glace under a crystal chandelier in the Heavenonlyknowswhat Luxury Resort.”
“Another Four-X?”
“She was keen on the idea of us getting couple’s spa treatments and I wanted to explore so we had a row over that, then I decided the hell with it and went to watch the sun rise over Uluru.”
“Bet she was thrilled.”

***

I’ll book an appointment at the spa for some kind of guava scrub or stone massage or…no, I’ll take a stroll. Or rent a bike. Do some yoga. Oh he’s having a fine time chatting it up with the bartender. She’s dressed somewhat nice now because she’s working but I’ll bet underneath it all she’s a real cheap beer and cut-off shorts type.

***

“Anyhow I boarded the shuttle to go to the park and I tell you, it was as if I had reconnected with my long lost people, it was a homecoming, you know, with the backpackers and artists and all sorts of nomadic folks drinking coffee from canteens and singing, and we’re in this crazy time zone you know, so it’s nine and a half hours ahead of England and I’m just fit to burst, right?  Then I think about Mick and I say to myself that I’m not going to go about mollycoddling her anymore and I don’t care if Poppy were to blacklist me from every firm in the UK and I’d have to work as a janitor at McDonald’s.”

***

Notice me. Notice me.

***

“Are you listening? I said I’d work as a janitor.”
“I’m listening, love.”
“So anyway I assumed I wanted all this because that’s what everyone wants when they study economics at university. But I don’t think I—say, what is that thing you’re holding?”
“A frog.”
“Yes, heh, I know. A poison frog, I hope not?”
“No, no. Just a tree frog. See the white lips? Not poisonous.”
“They just come in here?”
“All the time.”
“It’s not some health violation?”
“Buggered if I know.”

***

She’s got this thing up on her shoulder like a parrot, and I worry that I’m boring her until she gives me another beer and I get even chattier, rather like a monkey let out of its cage. She is easy to talk to, and I suppose that’s why she’s a bartender, she probably sees sorry sacks like me on a regular basis. When she turns toward the cash register, I can make out the lines of a tattoo peeking out from the neckline of her top.

***

Ouch. Deeeeeeeep breaths in. Slowwwwww breaths out. Oh my GOD.

***

“Darling, what was that beer I just had and can I immediately have another?”

***

“Hi there. Um, excuse me. Can I see that frog?”
“What?”
“Can I hold it? The frog?”
“Oh, of course. Here you are. Can I get you a drink?”
“Are these the ones that like, have sex and then eat their mates?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not a praying mantis.”
“Sorry. I just, I was just curious.”
“Are you—?”
“YES! I am. It’s me!”
“Going to order a drink?”

***

What time is it? I am sweating cobs, virtually stuck to the sheets. This humidity is vile. Where’s the doctor? Where’s Ian? Ian is not here. Oh Ian! Oh Darby bloody MacKinnon!

***

I can give a decent interview and function well enough at auditions, but put me out here with regular people and I’m a spazz. This is what happens when you spend the best goddamn years of your life on movie sets. You end up getting dumped by arrogant directors and having your romantic prospects picked apart and evaluated by magazines like Dish and Buzz and then you try to have a moments’ peace when before you know it you are trying to approach English college boys who would rather talk to frogs and barmaids than to you.

***

“The pain is where? Ok, how about when I touch it?”
“Echhhhh!”
“Hmmm. I think you’re right. Appendix.”
“Will I be ok?”
“No worries, love. The most important thing we can do is get you to hospital.”
“Does he think I don’t know that the only fun he’s had was looking at the big rock with the hippies?”
“Shh. I’m going to have to get your temperature and other vitals, ok?”
“And now he’s trying to get into some slag actress’ knickers as if I’m not even around and I’m about to die right here in the bloody rainf—”

***

“I’ll just, um, actually no. I don’t want anything to drink. Thanks.”

***

“Did she say she’d meet you here?”
“Heaven knows. She’s probably asleep already.”
“Oz is pitiless, you know. Even 5-star Oz.”
“Oz or anywhere, Michaela wilts in the sun, she becomes all knotty and irritable in lines and crowds, she is always twisting her ankles or losing her wallet or dissolving into tears. She’s like an English rose who ought to stay in the hothouse.”
“Well I think she’ll be apples. It’s you who aren’t who you thought you were.”

***

“Darling, let’s calm down and get an ambo for you, shall we?”
“Isn't Australia enough? Even without the bloomin’ job that he would never be able to get on his own?”
“Hmmm. We’ll have to get you down these steps somehow. Ok. Hang on tight.”
“Isn't the Sydney...Opera…House…enough? The mountains? Aren’t they enough?  The fucking kangaroos? Enough?”
“Who are you on holiday with, love?”
“What?”
“Is there anyone travelling with you that we can get in touch with? We’re going to have to skedaddle to get you to the ER and ought to notify your—”
“No.”
“You’re all alone?”
“Yes. I’m traveling alone.” 

Home | Contributors to Clever Magazine | Writers' Guidelines 
The Editor's Page | Humor Archive | Acknowledgements | About Clever Magazine | Contact Us

© No portion of Clever Magazine may be copied or reprinted without express consent of the editor.