Blog post only for those who have seen Shutter Island. For everyone else, there’s wikipedia plot synopsis. SPOILERS AHEAD! So if you haven’t seen it yet or had your movie spoiled by Bryan Tran standing up in the theatre yelling DUMBLEDORE DIES, skip this post.
SO today I had uni. Rare occasion, amirite. We’re just chillin’ and shiz, in the upper Qlounge - watching fatties wearing swimsuits on TV walking down a catwalk. Seriously. Trash that’s daytime TV. Even worse than Toasted TV. But it was fun, just us ruse kids catching up. Our lives move so fast (mid sem’s already!) that by the time you blink, everyone’s gone into their separate lives and careers. What we needed to slow us down, was an adventure into the depths of the city, onto route 104 (we tried to get Marcus to use FLY to get us there, but he was out of PP. And we didn’t have enough badges to control him). So Lean’s like:
Let’s go watch Shutter Island.
And so off we go. I won’t bore you with details (I probably have already) but it was an aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite movie. Also, there’s somethingone important I need to introduce. Marcus Wong! Capitol chap. Anyhow, he’s got this international student whom he sits next to, called Warcus Mong (seriously). And yes Marcus, if you’re reading this I know you’re going ha-ha-ha in your slow laugh and then you’ll say totally. However, the movie me and the boys just watched shed some ground-breaking light (yeah, imagine that) onto the enigmatic question which has plagued scientists and aliens since the beginning of the internet: WHO SITS WITH MARCUS WONG IN HIS TUTES?
Lights, fade out.
Cameraman, flick the light switches on and off repeatedly, while singing Disturbia.
We’ve all heard of imaginary friends (note I didn’t say seen). The main character of Shutter Island creates an entire fictional world, populated with his own fantasies just to escape coming to terms with trauma in his past. Could this have happened to Marcus Wong? Could the overbearing fear of his bats running out (and subsequently having to purchase new ones) caused him to invent a friend (one with a solar-powered calculator) in order to face the everyday?
While I was thinking about this in the theatre (seriously), I slipped my fingertips into the crack between seats. Don’t ask why, my common-senses were tingling. I felt a small, round object. Instantly, I was alert. The first thought in my mind was:
Shit, is this some old popcorn or a pepperoni from a couch pizza?
Upon further inspection (and squeezing) I fished it out from the seat crack, to find to my joy: it was a two-dollar coin, cleverly hidden from ordinary eyes. But no, they didn’t count on Douglas Eye-finger finding his way here. Oh no they didn’t. I slowly turned to the left, to face Winnie. Her face was hidden behind her old woolen cardigan, eyes wide and legs tucked in. She was scared, I knew it. The flame on the cinema screen flickered, illuminating her face. I took a long drag on my now-empty Hungry Jacks drink, savouring the slurpy noise that annoyed everyone in the theatre. I sighed, then spoke softly:
Winnie.
Her eyes flicked to meet mine, as if seeking sanctuary from the scary moments in the film. The intermittent light made her seem all the more vulnerable, but I didn’t care. Not at the moment, anyway.
I found two bucks.
These four words triggered something in her mind; as if an ancient flame within her awoke, sparked by the flickering flame and fuelled by my discovery. I could see the fear gone, replaced by hunger.
OHMYGAD LETS GET GELATO
Shhhh. Inside voice. Or at least turn down your outside voice.
‘Kay.
A broad grin snuck out from underneath her cardigan, her eyes bending upwards to form perfect parabolas with a negative coefficient of X. She turned to Lean, eager to pass on the news.
Doug found two bucks!!! We can go get gelato!!!
Lean smiled, as did Bryan. We shared a bro-ment, knowing that these two bitches weren’t getting a single gelato. We were going to get two boxes of McDonalds cookies, and escape this country.
The movie ends. The audience doesn’t even watch the credits to see if there’s a spoiler, and they file out slowly. There are no lights that fade in to illuminate the theatre in a soft glow, only the white aisle-lights and the silhouette of the person in front of you guided you out.
We step out onto George St, cool breeze blowing and carrying away the smell of cigarette from the chain-smoker walking in front of us. We walk to the Gelatissimo store; a small business. Probably family owned. Only eighteen flavours. Small-fry. I pretend to be interested, as Lean pulls out her 25% discount card. The man behind the counter shakes his head. Discount on one gelato only. We walk out of the store immediately, hoping to guilt-trip the man into yelling for us to come back. The only sound that we hear is the hustle and bustle of the city. He doesn’t care.
We walk into George St. McDonalds. This McDonalds boasts the most pungent odour, coming from its toilets, in Australia. On a scale of 1-10, it’s probably on the same level as smelling Kris after playing 2 hours of touch in a thick jumper and sweatpants. My companions sit themselves at a table. I walk towards the counter. Just before I reach it, however, I look back. Those three, chatting away without a care, ignoring the stench that probably instantly killed a few of the patrons. I take a look at the cookie box stack. Piled to the ceiling. I look back. They’re still talking, animatedly, obviously enjoying this moment in a world that couldn’t care less. I turn to the counter, and answer the tall asian guy who’s waiting on my order.
Four soft serves, please.
Shit. I’m such a softie.
Journal entry 29/3.
From the Chronicles of Douglas Y, P.I.
