12 year olds in school uniforms huddled past, dirty backpacks slung over their shoulders, giggling as they made their entrance into the overrated local shopping mall, ignorant of the fact that their escape from the wrath of examinations was merely temporary – the UPSR was just an appetizer. High school girls in heavy make-up constructed their strut while struggling to balance on four-inched stilettos, carrying clutches a tad too small to hide their desperate attempt to seek for attention. Ladies peered through oversized sunglasses to look at price tags in a fully air conditioned mall. Couples glued at the hips, male species turned into bag growing trees, children stained their tops with donut icing. I joined the social process in a pair of t-shirt and jeans.
A teenager, with the words ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ printed across the back of his t-shirt strode past me to the other side of the concourse to meet a group of peers sporting the same hairstyle. One of them was wearing a Manchester United jersey.
You’ll never learn how to walk alone.
I made my way to the bookstore, quietly secluded at one end of the crowded shopping mall. Quiet, because Malaysians are too busy beating traffic jams to find time to read. Though on the verge of dropping out from the University of Reading, I, ironically, am a frequent refugee of the ivory tower. Book hunting requires a lot of discipline. The challenge is to find a book that will not sit on your racks forever to build an empire out of dust. A good book is like a trophy. Gold.
I paid for my trophies and left two hours later.
Happy patrons strolled along the atria carrying booties in plastic bags, depicting the failure of the mall’s efforts in promoting environmental conservation. ‘Bring Your Own Bag’ posters were placed all over the place - on walls, pillars and anywhere with a vertical flat surface. They chopped down a forest to instill awareness among shoppers. Walking alone, I saw the world. Defined, but not refined.
An enthusiastic promoter of a newly opened Japanese restaurant approached me and started to give me a lecture on the art of eating salmon. I gave in (to my growling stomach, not her) and followed her into the restaurant while waiters and waitresses threw me peculiar gazes before exchanging glances, forgetting the customary Japanese greet they were trained to deliver. It seemed to be an unspoken rule that you have to go to the food court if you want to eat alone. I was an awkward phenomenon.
I dismissed the impolite glances, picked a table designed for four, and placed my order. Being alone gives you the chance of observing your surroundings. A happy Malay couple took self shots using a cell phone at a table full of tempting, yet forbidden, untouched food. It was barely seven. A Caucasian lady bit on her chopsticks and mouthed the lyrics to a Lady Gaga song, ineptly being aired in the Asian restaurant. Two Chinese girls shared a drink. Two girls, one cup, one bad economy, and a flu outbreak. The food was bad. I filled up the comment form with my Shooklin & Bok logo emblazoned pen, folded it and gave it to the cashier, as instructed. He unfolded my comment form and read it. Too much folding to do for such lowly protected anonymity.
I spent money.
At 8pm, I queued up for a movie ticket.
‘8.15pm, Up.’
‘How many tickets, miss?’
‘One, thank you.’
‘One ticket? So lonely.’
We are too egoistic to be found doing things alone. We have lost the ability to do things on our own. Being alone is different from being lonely. You don’t need to be alone to be lonely.
The theatre was chilly. Couples cuddled. I sat on my seat and watched trailers and commercials that did not make much sense. The only thing I love about cinemas is that commercials don’t come in every fifteen minutes when you watch a movie there. Television commercials are getting more airtime than TV shows nowadays. And I hate how they give you a preview of what’s coming next after the commercial before the commercial, and how they recap on what was happening before the commercial after the commercial. I dislike everything else that has to do with the cinema.
Inconsiderate movie goers stealing my elbow space, the old man behind who coughs louder than a a scene of dogs barking, the tall dude sitting in front who wouldn’t remove his fedora, kids watching the movie for the second time announcing the next line before the character does, overly-enthusiastic movie fans repeating the lines in the movie, the sound of fingers exploring the wet vagina coming from the next seat…
‘Good afternoon, my name is Russell and I am a Wilderness Explorer in Tribe 54, Sweat Lodge 12.’
She sure was panting as he explored the wilderness in the darkness of Theatre 1.
The credits rolled and people shuffled out of the theatre, showing no interest and appreciation at all to the masterminds behind the film.
I left for home, poorer in the wallet, richer in the mind. I owned myself for a day, and I want to do it again.
A teenager, with the words ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ printed across the back of his t-shirt strode past me to the other side of the concourse to meet a group of peers sporting the same hairstyle. One of them was wearing a Manchester United jersey.
You’ll never learn how to walk alone.
I made my way to the bookstore, quietly secluded at one end of the crowded shopping mall. Quiet, because Malaysians are too busy beating traffic jams to find time to read. Though on the verge of dropping out from the University of Reading, I, ironically, am a frequent refugee of the ivory tower. Book hunting requires a lot of discipline. The challenge is to find a book that will not sit on your racks forever to build an empire out of dust. A good book is like a trophy. Gold.
I paid for my trophies and left two hours later.
Happy patrons strolled along the atria carrying booties in plastic bags, depicting the failure of the mall’s efforts in promoting environmental conservation. ‘Bring Your Own Bag’ posters were placed all over the place - on walls, pillars and anywhere with a vertical flat surface. They chopped down a forest to instill awareness among shoppers. Walking alone, I saw the world. Defined, but not refined.
An enthusiastic promoter of a newly opened Japanese restaurant approached me and started to give me a lecture on the art of eating salmon. I gave in (to my growling stomach, not her) and followed her into the restaurant while waiters and waitresses threw me peculiar gazes before exchanging glances, forgetting the customary Japanese greet they were trained to deliver. It seemed to be an unspoken rule that you have to go to the food court if you want to eat alone. I was an awkward phenomenon.
I dismissed the impolite glances, picked a table designed for four, and placed my order. Being alone gives you the chance of observing your surroundings. A happy Malay couple took self shots using a cell phone at a table full of tempting, yet forbidden, untouched food. It was barely seven. A Caucasian lady bit on her chopsticks and mouthed the lyrics to a Lady Gaga song, ineptly being aired in the Asian restaurant. Two Chinese girls shared a drink. Two girls, one cup, one bad economy, and a flu outbreak. The food was bad. I filled up the comment form with my Shooklin & Bok logo emblazoned pen, folded it and gave it to the cashier, as instructed. He unfolded my comment form and read it. Too much folding to do for such lowly protected anonymity.
I spent money.
At 8pm, I queued up for a movie ticket.
‘8.15pm, Up.’
‘How many tickets, miss?’
‘One, thank you.’
‘One ticket? So lonely.’
We are too egoistic to be found doing things alone. We have lost the ability to do things on our own. Being alone is different from being lonely. You don’t need to be alone to be lonely.
The theatre was chilly. Couples cuddled. I sat on my seat and watched trailers and commercials that did not make much sense. The only thing I love about cinemas is that commercials don’t come in every fifteen minutes when you watch a movie there. Television commercials are getting more airtime than TV shows nowadays. And I hate how they give you a preview of what’s coming next after the commercial before the commercial, and how they recap on what was happening before the commercial after the commercial. I dislike everything else that has to do with the cinema.
Inconsiderate movie goers stealing my elbow space, the old man behind who coughs louder than a a scene of dogs barking, the tall dude sitting in front who wouldn’t remove his fedora, kids watching the movie for the second time announcing the next line before the character does, overly-enthusiastic movie fans repeating the lines in the movie, the sound of fingers exploring the wet vagina coming from the next seat…
‘Good afternoon, my name is Russell and I am a Wilderness Explorer in Tribe 54, Sweat Lodge 12.’
She sure was panting as he explored the wilderness in the darkness of Theatre 1.
The credits rolled and people shuffled out of the theatre, showing no interest and appreciation at all to the masterminds behind the film.
I left for home, poorer in the wallet, richer in the mind. I owned myself for a day, and I want to do it again.
1 shots:
Enjoyed reading this post, especially the meticulous decription of the fine details some wouldn't have bothered mentioning..
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