The Mall is a Terrible, Awful Place
I went to the mall today. The indoor, old-school mall with the big parking lot and the food court that smelled like cinnamon and vomit and pizza. I can’t recall going to an indoor mall for anything other than seeing a movie in more than a decade.
Actually, that’s a lie. I worked at a mall nine years ago, but it wasn’t a real mall. It was a place called Trolley Square in Salt Lake City. It had smallish stores and restaurants and bars — none of the big anchor stores and no food court. I was a sales associate at Banana Republic. Yep. I’d moved back from San Francisco and my old roommate, who managed a Gap in San Fran, suggested I work there during the holidays to make some extra cash and so I wouldn’t go crazy surfing the web on a dial-up connection and watching Matlock on a TV with no cable. So I did.
But I digress.
The mall is a terrible, awful place. That smell, that pungent cacophony of bath bombs and french fries, chocolate and cheap leather, hot dogs on a stick and designer impostor cologne is still there, unchanged from decade to decade and city to city. I went there searching for a gift for my wife, only after a trip to Target was fruitless. I knew as soon as I got in that it was a mistake. Upon finding the store I needed, my mistake was confirmed — they didn’t have the gift, either.
I went back to my car, pulled out my phone and found what I needed online, just as I have every other gift I’ve bought this year. Seriously, I haven’t bought a single gift over the counter this year. It feels good, not because it’s the hip thing to do but because it’s the smart thing to do. There are no crowds, no people trying to sell me a new mobile phone plan or a gold-plated chain with Jesus on it, or a U.S. flag wind chime.
I understand that there are certain parts of the country where the weather makes outdoor malls virtually impossible. I also love a good flea market. But when the former doesn’t apply and the latter is out of the question, what you’re left with is a living museum of capitalism’s long, uneventful journey into mediocrity.
