A Descent into the Mallstrom

Ifc_mall (30pct)I had long passed the point of caring whether I lived or perished. My progress through the world was a resigned, head-down trudge. I reduced carbs, streamed Netflix hits, paid my student lenders with regularity. I held doors for war criminals and voted in municipal elections. Occasionally I commented on the internet.

One day I lifted my gaze from the battered path in front of me…and found myself in a mall. Signs shouted, shoppers roamed, merchandise teemed. My heavy steps led me in endless circles around the mall’s central concourse. Although I knew where I was at all times, I felt completely lost.

But this was not the mall of suburban dreams. It was populated by strange figures, including the deceased: Gerald Ford, Dr. Joyce Brothers, Harold Pinter, River Phoenix. Henry Kissinger, who I recalled had the ability to shuttle back and forth between the living and the underworld at will. All dead-eyed, all staring straight ahead, undiverted by free samples or product demos or the pings and plinks emanating from the video arcade. And over there, by Talbots: Was that Grandma?

The high-ceilinged multilevel stores — Sears, Macy’s, Nordstrom — had already been conquered by gnarled winged things: bats, taloned reptiles, the occasional half-glimpsed demon. To enter these stores was to take cover and hide. Yet the registers still functioned, and specials were still announced with regularity.

Automated kiosks in the mall’s concourse even validated parking. I reached for the slip in my own pocket, then halted: Where had that ticket come from? What vehicle had brought me here? I could conjure no recollection. And in my other pocket, where I normally store funds, I found only ashes, bone fragments, dust. Plus illegible receipts printed with impossible dates and fantastic prices in unknown alphabets.

Finally I paused my circling and approached the Sunglass Hut. The girl restocking the displays had only half a face. “What happened to you?” I asked.

“What happened to you?” she shot back through the wen of her cheek. I glimpsed my reflection in a pair of Oakleys, and saw that my visage too had degraded, deformed. Or was my memory of my appearance even accurate? It had been so long since I had looked into a true mirror, or tried on a pair of button-fly jeans. Meanwhile the Hut was doing a brisk business; its main product offered an easy way to conceal the empty eye sockets which gaped amid so many faces here.

A window — I needed to get to a window, to inspect the landscape for clues as to where I was. And I was growing desperate for natural light. But I could find no such views of the outer world. Not from the Banana Republic, not from the Barneys New York, not from Bed Bath & Beyond. All passageways just led back to the mall’s central concourse. Or else into another store, crowded with yet more shoppers and their baleful thousand-store stares.

Suddenly an idea: I raced up the escalators two steps at a time and scoured the mall’s top level for further means of ascent. The back stockroom of the Williams-Sonoma contained a ladder leading to a ceiling hatch, which finally shattered when I applied sufficient pressure. I burst upward and out.

Before I even set foot on the mall’s flat topside, I knew that I had escaped the shopping arena: The ubiquitous white noise — of splashing decorative fountains, competing stereo speakers, humming blenders at Orange Julius — was replaced by something gentler, more distant, more susurrant. The light was also softer — but dank, dim, gray. Darkish birds circled ominously in the clouded sky, as though waiting to pounce on an expiring animal. And beyond the edges of the structure’s vast roof I saw…only ocean. Measureless, depthless, unbounded waves and water in every direction. The mall was a vast oceangoing vessel. Or perhaps an island unto itself.

But in what sea? On what planet? Circling what indifferent, glaucous sun, perhaps no more than a rumor of itself? I searched for signs in the water, on the horizon, amid the clouds.

As I gazed upward, something appeared to fall from the sky — wafting gently out of the cottony murk. It was precipitation of a sort, containing what looked like bits of paper. I looked down and saw that the mall’s roof — I mean its top deck — was littered with similar materials.

I reached down and collected a handful of slips. They were advertising circulars. Promotional brochures. Coupons.

The giant vessel continued to ply the random, senseless waves. Standing there on the immense deck I could feel no tide, no telltale pull of shore or moon.

More importantly, there was no escape — not here, not now. Before I could even think about identifying this place, I needed to collect information, test equipment — and maybe get a snack. It was time for me to descend again to the lower depths.

Someone down there had an explanation. The host at TGI Fridays. Mall security. Maybe the packs of teenaged girls in frayed Hot Topic ensembles whose ceaseless circumambulations trailed my own. Maybe God.

My hands were full of deals — some of them rather appealing. I knew exactly where to start.

 

Image credit: By user Baycrest (own work) via Wikimedia Commons; license is Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic

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