My Bizarre Trip to a Dying Suburban Mall
An apocalyptic tale strewn with memories of the glory days of malls
Sounds of arcade games bounced down the escalator. Scents of greasy New York-style pizza slices, Auntie Anne’s pretzels, and whatever they sold at Orange Julius wafted through the mall corridors. Every food court table held stories of middle school drama and preteen romance.
Ah, the glorious American shopping mall of the 1990s.
In my preteen and teenage years, before my friends and I could drive, the mall became the bastion of our social lives. We’d head in through the doors at Macy’s as the late morning sun rose to its peak, and either walk home or wait for a revolving lineup of moms to pick us up by the carousel. The mall became our stage as we acted out awkward attempts at mimicked adulthood.
Sitting at home on a Saturday morning with no scheduled plans for my day, my antsy anticipation jumped into action at the first call from a friend who would spill out the question I longed to hear, “‘Wanna go to the mall?” Of course I wanted to go to the mall.
Pre-mall trip, I’d grab a fistful of five dollar bills from my hard-earned bounty of allowance money, and shove them in my Benetton wallet with vague hopes of purchasing an explicit-lyric album from Pearl Jam or…
