Wheelchair, Cinema

Sneaking off early from work with the promise of finishing the writing that report at home, and then making a detour to the cinema will always be a treat. It wasn’t long before I settled in to one side of the front row, with a sack of economy chocolate covered peanuts. When I say front row I mean the row of seats in front of that wide gangway and beyond that the row of seats reserved for freaks with triple-jointed necks. However, Harry Brown beckoned and apart from a depressed sixty-year old sitting on the back row, I was alone.

The most incredible scene then happened. A barely-conscious man, I’d say in his 70s, was wheel-chaired into the auditorium. I say he was barely conscious because he was wearing an oxygen mask whilst clawing onto a gas cylinder. A complicated process then followed where, I presume his son, managed to excavate him out from the wheelchair before dropping him on a seat in the front row, with gas cylinder placed carefully on his lap. The wheelchair was then folded and tucked away out of reach. Now there were four of us, sitting comfortably, waiting for the commercials to begin.

With seconds to go in walked a chubby little man, sadly dressed like Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction, greased back black hair, dark suit, black tie and white shirt. Walking by his side, a fairly attractive blonde–haired woman, they were probably both in their early thirties. Vincent Vega then stopped in front of the wheelchair man, squinted several times at his cinema tickets, then barked out: ‘these are my seats’. There were a further 230 odd seats in the auditorium for fuck’s sake! I couldn’t quite follow the son’s response but I clearly caught Vega’s reply: ‘I paid for these particular seats so I can sit in the middle of the front row so I can enjoy the film, so if you don’t mind’. Incredibly the girlfriend, who didn’t look anything like Uma Thurman, appeared not to be embarrassed, I could only assume she was familiar with the routine.

At the risk of being slashed across the face, I felt I had to intervene. I took a deep breath and approached Vega: ‘Man, you can’t expect this guy to shift, it’s just not fair’, I agree, pretty tame. Vega ignored me, the battle was between the son & Vega. The son looked at me with raised eyebrows, I backed off and prayed the son would produce a machete and lop off Vega’s shoulder. As I sat back the son started the complicated process of lifting his father back onto the wheelchair, with gas cylinder in tow before moving several seats along into the corner of the front row. Moments later Vega and girlfriend were sitting comfortably, in their purchased seats, slap bang in the middle of the front row, chomping on popcorn and slurping on coke. There were no further incidents, although I would have stabbed Vega.

Harry Brown was a top movie with Michael Caine in great form. Vega and girlfriend left first, followed by the old man with depression. As I left I approached the wheelchair man, shrugged my shoulders, wrinkled both eyebrows and lips and quickly disappeared.