There’s a break in the
cornfields off highway 57 that is filled with pre-fab apartments, car
dealerships, and run down strip malls.
Five lanes of traffic chaotically battle in a race with no finish line. Potholed streets lined with weeds lead
to a myriad of driveways where cars anchor in a sea of asphalt. Just shy of a half-mile from the
freeway is the grandest of these driveways flowing into a vast, grey landscape
in front of a low-slung cinderblock mall.
There are countless flower pots scattered near the main entrance, which
is a large white stucco structure with a sizeable Frank Lloyd Wright inspired
decoration above the doors. As you
enter, there is a jewelry store and a candy shop. Continue to the right until you find the electronic store
where I’m standing in the window.
I’m reorganizing the cell
phone display, again, per instructions from headquarters. The store is a cluttered cavern of
diodes, adapters, and transistors in stark contrast to the other sleek, white
retailers. The store manager watches
porn on his tablet as he runs reports and gets his marching orders from
corporate; the same faceless entity that tells me to rearrange the shelves. Rows and rows, columns and columns of
cheap products with high margins.
Low-quality plastic molded into every shape and color. A variety of brands all manufactured at
the same sweatshop.
On the other side of the
window is a young woman. Her face
is pressed against the glass and she’s dressed in black. She waves at me excitedly. It’s Anabelle and she runs in to give
me a hug. I feign a smile as I
stand surrounded by merchandise waiting to be shelved. I’m silent as she babbles about
everything at once. She always
looks up and to her left, avoiding eye contact, when she talks. My hands are in
the pockets of my boring uniform khakis and I glance toward the ground. I’m engulfed in plastic goods destined
for the landfill in the near future.
“Whatcha doin’ workin’
here? I’d think ya’d hate bein’
inna place like this,” Anabelle states while looking around like she’s hoping to
find an answer somewhere.
“Well, I gotta pay da bills
somehow, right?” Anabelle just
stares at me as I lightly tap a charger with my foot.
“Yer not payin’ any bills
with this job. Do ya even make
eight an hour? Hmm? Didn’t think so. Yer comin’ with me ta get lunch: my
treat. ‘Nd leave that ugly shirt
here.” She skips to the food court
as I toss the polo shirt onto the pile of junk and follow her. We grab a couple slices from a stand - a
red neon bordello of grease.
Spoiled fat kids gluttonously cram pizza into their sauce-covered
mouths.
“Where da hell are we?”
Anabelle asks. Strange question
since I followed her here.
“Uh… Da mall.” I reply sounding a bit
confused.
“I know that. I mean, is there anythin’ here that’s unique
‘nd tells ya what city we’re in?
Or that we’re even in da Midwest?”
It just seems like a normal mall to me.
“Umm… Whatcha lookin’ fer?” I’m still trying to figure out the
question.
“This looks like every damn
mall I’ve ever been ta. It could be
New York or Mississippi. Or it
could be Georgia or California. If
ya were blindfolded ‘nd brought only ta malls ‘cross ‘merica, I bet ya never be
able ta tell where ya were. Do ya
see anythin’ ya’d only find in this miserable town?” I see chain stores in beige boxes. There are elderly people slowly passing fake plants. The same teenagers you see everywhere
stand around a kiosk pimping sunglasses.
But, I can’t find anything to indicate my specific location on mother
earth.
“Hmm…” I think for a bit, “I
never noticed that before. We
really could be anywhere right now.”
“Or nowhere,” she retorts as
she dumps a tray of garbage. We
wonder down the sterile corridors passing shops tended by bored adolescents on
smartphones. Every square inch of
sales floor is intensely lit. A
group from a nursing home speed by on power scooters. There’s an occasional uncomfortable bench in the middle of
the hallway. We are stuck behind
people walking so slowly that we barely move. We are impatient to get around them even though we have no
place to go.
Anabelle grabs my arm
suddenly and stops. I look to see
what’s wrong. Staring intently
toward the atrium, she blurts out, “Oh. My. God! We gotta see what’s goin’ on over
there!” In front of the boxy
fountain that looks like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, are two middle-aged
men in Hawaiian shirts. The skinny
guy is jamming on his acoustic as if he is Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock. The large gentleman pounds on his
keyboard and emotionally serenades a Kenny Loggin’s song or something. Everyone walks by as if we are the only
people who can see them.
Anabelle starts dancing when
they play Elvis’ Jailhouse Rock. She’s probably the first person to
gyrate her hips in this uptight suburb.
Unsuccessfully, Anabelle invites me to dance with her. She dances as if everybody is looking
at her and they are. The song ends
and Anabelle runs up to the smiling musicians. There’s some discussion, flirting, and somehow she ends up
with their microphone.
“I’M DA SEXY SPIRIT OF DA CLEARANCE RACK!” Anabelle bellows followed by laughter and a bluesy beat on
bass. The collar on her worn
leather coat is flipped and her black jeans look like they commute regularly to
hell and back. I watch the
shoppers as they gather at the developing spectacle. What is she thinking?
Proving she doesn’t care what anyone thinks, her raspy little voice
begins to wale:
“On da day I was born
Da nurses gathered 'round
‘Nd they gazed in wide wonder
At da joy they had found
Da head nurse spoke up
Said ‘leave this one ‘lone’
She could tell right ‘way
That I was bad ta da bone”
Anabelle fell to her
knees and was gradually working into a rage. Her voice becoming louder and more graveled. “’Nd when I walk da streets, kings ‘nd
queens step aside!” The mall’s
complete attention is on Anabelle as she crashes onto her back. “B-B-B Bad! Bad ta da bone!”
She winds-up motionless on the dingy white tile to a smattering of
surprised applause. George
Thorogood’s soul was in that mall courtyard.
Anabelle raises her
hand and I walk over to pull her off the ground. She gives the mic to the keyboardist, “Thanks guys. That was a lotta fun. See ya!”
“Nice singin’,” I
tease. “What made ya do that?”
“Aww, thanks. Just thought one interestin’ thing had
ta happen here today. Let’s get
outta here.”
“Didja do whatcha
came out here fer?” I never asked
her why she was at the mall in the first place. Anabelle usually makes all her purchases as garage sales,
consignment shops, and thrift stores.
“Nah, but I did
somethin’ better.” I’ll accept
that answer and head for the exit.
Thank you for reading and your support. This would not be possible without you!
If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com
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