or

"The Mall: A Sort-Of Adventure."

I once remarked to a co-worker, these being the days that I was working, that New Jersey doesn't have any cities, just areas with denser population and greater degrees of urbanization. Where I live, I'm stuck halfway between Philadelphia and New York City; it is easier and likely quicker, via public transportation, to get to either of those burghs, than it is to get to, say, Newark or…uh…large town, large town, think…Jersey City! And once you're there, you're in NYC or Philly! Rather than, "You're in Newark! You're in…Jersey City?" If you're going to go to a city, you might as well go all out, but for those of us, then, who live in suburbia and can't bear to part with our rolling lawns and picket fences, etc., our personal Mecca, our City Away From The City is The Mall: It is both marketplace and meeting place, a place both to see and to be seen, the ultimate tribute to our grand unrequited dreams and profound boredom.

I was at the mall the other day, as I've been far too frequently since I joined the ranks of the wrongfully unemployed. It was on that very trip that the utter vastness of the mall was revealed to me in all of its obscene glory as I stood -- thinking of the mall as cross-shaped, at the base of the cross -- gazing out at the multitude of shops and shoppers, each with a history belong to none but themselves and yet varying only in slight degree from their fellow shop/pers.

Staring out from the rail in front of Stern's, one which, lost in thought, I failed to notice was wet with paint, I began to wonder what a full exploration of the mall – Why are we here? Why do we come back? What is it we're looking for? Will this paint wash off? – what such an examination could tell us about our society. With the investigative fires stoked, I set upon the mall the following day – Saturday, at peak mall hours – with pad and pen in hand, determined to gain insight, to learn the wisdom the mall would be willing to impart – or at the very least to find either a) a cute sweater , b) a playful pantsuit, or c) BOTH! Travel along with me: see what I see; eat what I eat; ogle whom I ogle; and – most importantly – buy what I buy. All without doing any of these things! Because it's Saturday and what else are you going to do?!

During the drive over to the mall, on a charitable day about a ten minute journey, the first question that pops into my head is: Why the mall? Looking at it from a personal level, I never chose the mall nor – as this setup might seem to indicate – did the mall choose me. You might say, actually, that it was my grandfather who chose the mall for me. Fresh from receiving our $1.75 allowance from him on Saturday, a sum that I still receive to this day at age 23 -- I think I know why he does it and it's heartwarming in a good, not sickly, way, but it's for another story – my sister and I would hop into his car and head off to the mall, where we'd do very little besides eat at the food court and watch him throw coins into the fountain, in the process accruing an impressive collection of wishes, some of which he'd be kind enough to pass on to us. And, as I queue up in the line leading into the mall – lemmings over the cliff? or ants to the anthill? – I wonder if anyone else got their start this way.

As you might imagine, Saturday at noon, the traffic in to and out of is spectacular; I remember, before moving to New York and experiencing the traffic there – human, autos, other – that this very scene unfolding in front of me now formed what was, along with Barbra Streisand riding shotgun and the kids from Zoom! in the backseat , my particular vision of Hell. But now…well, now, the wait just allows me more time to ponder, to contemplate, like, for example: Why I am I listening to the Osmonds? No, I'm not listening to like a whole tape or anything, but they're on the radio and it's amazing how little Donnie sounds like little Michael with all of the soul sucked out of him. More unsettling: Why, as I'm thinking this, is my mouth forming the words "one," "bad," and "apple"?

Ho, no time to answer those burning questions, as I've just daringly cut across the other lane, leaving a trail of obscenity behind me, and I've made my way into the parking lot. My personal philosophy vis-à-vis parking at the mall is: Park as far away as possible. I have no interest in trying to find a "good spot," in following people around as they make their move to their cars, a habit that I find very creepy, even moreso when someone follows me not away from but rather to the entrance. While I'm young and in relatively good health, I have nothing against walking, and on this day, the mall is all too willing to accommodate me. The problem with parking so far away is that making your way to the mall becomes like a big game of Frogger – do you remember Frogger? The old video game where your job is to direct a frog across traffic and then across a pond, avoiding alligators and sinking logs, in hopes of returning said frog to his home? Well, that's exactly what it's like, except for the fact that a) I'm not a frog and b) people don't particularly care for it when I jump on their hoods. In fact, I think they kinda hate it.

Anyway, so I make it to the entrance with two lives left and the usual cast of characters are hanging around outside, mostly teenagers with one couple in particular who had been making out who are now being discouraged from doing so by Mall Police – can they do that? I mean, does that fall within their jurisdiction? There's also a wide array of peoples of all colors which makes the area look diverse, more diverse than it is really, and that's due to buses from all over this half of the state that make direct stops to the mall. I always make my entrance through the food court, as usually I'm hungry when I go to the mall. Opening the door, I discover that I'm apparently not the only one: It is 3:00, not a standard lunch time, but the food court is still full. Figuring that I'll need some reading material while I wait and that it also might come in handy as I'm putting this whole thing together – and, oh, has it proved to be helpful – I've picked up the mall directory. I don't quite understand the cover of this directory: featured in this photo is a woman in a plaid skirt, shot from the waist down, wearing the dowdiest boots I've ever seen. She has what appears to be a leash wrapped around her legs, all because this cute little dog – cute to the point that I don't think he/she is real – has gotten a little mischievous. Here's the thing, though: ANIMALS AREN'T ALLOWED IN THE MALL and the directory makes no mention of a Pet Check. Beyond the cover photo, there's not much else to the directory, no copy to decrypt, no other photos to consider. There's a map of the mall and a listing of all of the stores, with letters next to each of the stores and then letters on the map indicating where each store is, especially helpful when trying to discern between the Gap upstairs and the one downstairs.

Oh, yeah, the food court. Seats are at a premium, but I end up finding one anyhow, in the midst of a bunch of people. I've decided for the moment to put off eating, to wait until things die down, and in the interim to take some notes. The food court is a meat market, literally and figuratively, the place where the most hanging out seems to take place and the majority of the hooking up. The court contains a wide array of palate pleasers – 20 restaurants in all and, yeah, before you ask, there's a Starbucks – and I've never noticed before now how it seems to be arranged. To my right, there are the ethic food vendors – Chinese, Greek, Japanese, Taco Bell – like a model U.N., everyone getting along, respecting each other's borders. To my left, there's the more standard fare like cheese steaks, wings, pizza, etc. Actually, there are two pizza joints and they're on a diagonal from each other, allowing the employees to shoot nasty looks at one another. The one to my direct left is good; yeah, the crust is a little rubbery, but as far as mall pizza goes, it's damned good. The other one SUCKS and you should by no means EVER go there. I have no idea how they stay in business, but they've seemed to build a grubby little clientele whose personal lives I guess have inured them to the second-rate and so they don't mind eating shitty pizza. So I get a slice from the GOOD parlor and return my seat to take more notes. Oh yeah, the exception to the standard fare on my left is the cajun place. They've been around for several years now in the very-competitive food court so I imagine they're doing alright, but they still have the need to put out an employee on the floor, handing out samples because, around here, Cajun food is still a little too exotic for the locals.

Before going to the mall to collect data, I theorized that the mall was perhaps the greatest place for one to be alone, and it is…but not when you've got a pen and a pad and are looking around and taking notes, as the girls next to me have made me realize. Now I'm not looking directly at them, but when I glance around the court, I notice that they're glaring at me and when I'm taking notes I can feel the penetrating beam of their eyes on me. I hear murmurs and I think they think that I'm writing about them – AS IF – and all of a sudden I'm feeling vaguely threatened. Young people, says the curmudgeonly writer, aged 23, frighten me, but more on that later. For now, my slice is done and it's time to explore, and yeah, those girls were freaking me out.

As I said earlier, the mall – the name of which I haven't given out and that's intentional because a) I don't want to seem like I'm endorsing this mall and b) I think that it's best that the mall remain anonymous and therefore be viewed not as a particular mall but rather seen as representative of mall and mall culture in general – the mall is shaped like a cross, as I said, and it's best to attack one wing at a time. I make a right and head down the Stern's wing, so named because Stern's is the anchor store of the wing, i.e. the store that occupies the most space on the wing and is located the furthest away from the center court. I'm not actually sure if it'd be accurate to call it the Stern's wing because several years ago Lord & Taylor moved in and, at the time, I applied for employment there and I'm not sure why now besides the fact that they paid well and a friend was also applying. I wonder if they're still hiring. Anyhow, Lord & Taylor moved in and to facilitate them, an extension was added on to the mall, with this wing being the upscale area of the mall, replete with a diamond retailer and couches. Yes, couches, that's right. Whereas the rest of the mall has regular benches, the Lord & Taylor area has couches, very comfortable couches it bears mentioning, and yet they look immensely out of place. The new restrooms were also placed in this mini-wing and they are equally lavish. I returned to these restrooms where years earlier, I'd first encountered the auto-flushing urinals and toilets and was filled with awe – "This is how the astronauts must pee!" I contemplated just how far we'd come as a nation, as a people, and wondered, well, what next?! When I enter the restroom lobby, there's a listing on the sign for "Assisted Adults" and that they should head towards the women's room and, now, I'm not being churlish here, but what is an assisted adult and why must they use the women's room? What if they're an assisted man? I made my way into the men's room where there was a young man perilously close to the full-length mirror and there he remained, as I used the urinal, as I washed my hands in the auto-sink, and as I left the bathroom and I have no idea what he was looking for or at and it appeared to be in my best interest to not trouble him about it.

Leaving the bathroom, I decide that I want to observe people, to just sit and watch people come and go and to see what I can learn from them, what they can tell me about life today. To do so would require me to sit and if I have to sit, I would like to sit on a couch, but they all seem to be filled, filled by people who seem like they've been there all day and, yes, who will be there until they're asked to leave. So I have to sit on a bench, which is fine because all of the people on the couches were old and reeked of death anyhow. Stupid couches. Sooooo, let me tell you about what I see. The mall is the place to see culture on full-display, on parade even. I figure that you, the reader, are hip to most trends and that you are also intelligent and attractive, if I may be so forward. I won't waste your time with things like, "And, yeah, so this Eminem that all of the kids are dressing like…" No, no, I will share some observations about some crazes that may have slid in underneath the radar, like, for example, the transformation of the stroller from practical device to CHILD'S TOY! What has just passed my line of sight was this, this contraption that resembles a fire engine, that is if fire engines could smile and had eyes where their headlights should be. This utterly disgusts me, part of the further deification of the child that is bringing our civilization closer and closer to ruin. Instead of the child sitting in the stroller and behaving, the stroller is turned into a toy to mollify the child because nothing is too good for our baby, etc. In this fifteen-minute sitting spell, I see another fire engine, and two taxis, and what I can only describe as a "red one" because it doesn't look like any particular vehicle, and I see the same mother/child combo again and the little girl is eyeing me up and I know that she can tell that I don't like her and therefore she doesn't like me and we exchange faces and I think I got the better of that exchange and I know that our paths will cross again far too soon by which time I will have nicknamed her "Lil' Ms. Poopy Pants" because she lacks the ability to control her bowels, her mind too simple to grasp the concept of the toilet. The little beast.

Ahem.

I see a pre-pubescent boy on a cell phone and based on what little of the conversation I pick up by reading his lips, he's apparently talking to someone in the mall, someone named "mom." Is this what parents are doing these days? Giving their kids a cell phone and telling them to scram? Because this child doesn't yet seem to be of the age where he's embarrassed by his parents. Unlike the kid who just walked by with his mother, though – and this is the one time it's acceptable for child over 13 to be with parent at the mall – it seems like she's buying him things and so, that while he is in fact with her, he is several steps behind her. I see a couple of young girls – young – walking together and I wonder where their parent(s) is/are.

Young girls are dangerous, and by young girls I now mean "on the cusp of legality"-aged girls with their heavy makeup, tight tight pants, and boosted, look-at-me decolletage. With each passing year, my internal radar constructed for just the very occasions falls more and more out of alignment leading to potentially fatally embarrassing situations. It's at its worst at the beach where it's an anything-goes free- for-all and you can't believe that the parents are letting them where that though maybe they don't know. But, yeah, I've been with friends as they've propositioned what were soon revealed to be underage girls and have witnessed how skillful these girls are in foisting facades of maturity upon the unsuspecting male and how…grown a girl can seem when she's wearing this much more than nothing at all. My personal litmus test now is to look for smile lines, and you may wish to develop one of your own.

I have yet to see a single person in the mall, and by that I mean someone like myself who's come alone. If there have been any, they've at least given off the impression that they're with someone. Which leads to the question why would someone come to the mall alone? Surely not to pick someone up because while those who hook up at the mall are, at the very least, usually single, they're never alone, and that's an important distinction. The process of hooking up at the mall is complicated and involved and usually includes the complex intermingling of crews before members of each crew attempt to get the others' number. So, why then? Two answers come to mind:

1) They're at the mall for the shopping. Duh. I mean, isn't that what all of this is about?

2) And while I usually like to think of myself as The Only One who would do this sort of thing, maybe, as I was positing earlier, they're here to be alone. If you're going to spend the night by yourself in your tiny apartment with naught but the television and, possibly, your cat as company, why not be by yourself with a lot of people around?

I see people inexperienced in the wearing of hats, for whom the donning of a hat represents an adventure, a direct response to the people urging them to "live a little," a challenge even, as if to say, "How U like me now?"

I swear to Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior, that I see Elian Gonzalez, having grown fat and complacent on the teat of democracy, feeling a little too secure in his adoptive homeland and showing total disdain for both the mall and its customs, all the time wearing an expression that suggests that he is the colossus that bestrides this land called America, and for a while he was (see "The Deification of the Child" several pages back).

I see several people who I know vaguely and who I haven't really known in some time and when our eyes meet, there is nothing, no hint of recognition or at least none surrendered. My curse, or at least the one that is applicable here, is a photographic memory, remembering names and faces, sometimes only after a chance meeting, usually long after a particular name and face has ceased to remember mine. Which is why I'm all too happy to let people approach me for fear that I come off looking like, I don't know, a stalker or something.

I see a bird flying indoors and I maintain this with the same steadfastness that I devoted to the earlier Elian sighting. I mean, it MIGHT not be a bird; it could be one of those little planes that does a loop-de-loop or what have you and then returns like a boomerang – you know the ones? – that used to be all the rage at those little kiosks found in every mall.

But no, I believe it was a bird.

I hear – oh, how I HEAR – children screaming, like there's some tacit competition to see which child could make me hope most for imminent deafness. And now I'm thinking of the directory photo and how animals aren't allowed in the mall but CHILDREN are and what's worse they don't even need to be restrained by a leash. For some, I imagine that the mall is an escape, but for those with young children, the mall, and other public forums, becomes an opportunity to share the misery, the grief. Someone sitting next to me, far more mordant than I, utters, "Now that's the soundtrack to a P.S.A. for the Pro-Choice camp if I ever heard one." Is what the person who wasn't me said.

Some random highlights and comments about the stores found in the BASE WING of the mall.

• There really isn't much to say about this area that hasn't been said. It seems to mostly consist of women's apparel and accessories stores, things which interest me as much as NASCAR. Which is to say not at all.
• Oh, Victoria's Secret. I always feel slightly uncomfortable walking into Victoria's Secret by myself as if the employees will think, no, will KNOW that I'm only in there to leer at the mannequins, which is very judgmental of them. It bears reiterating that, yes, young girls are dangerous: what are they doing in here?! Oh, and I've never seen anyone in a Victoria's Secret, barring the staff, that I believe should be wearing the sort of things they sell in there and that the mental images of these people in the lingerie that they're holding up and contemplating buying torment me even as I write this.
• Stores seem to come and go in this mall quite often and I'm rarely affected by their departure, but one in particular has kinda saddened me and that one would be the organ store, as in the musical instrument. I remember when I was a kid that there was this, um, what's the right word, dwarf (?) who would sit and play the organs and he was really good at it and he made me want to play the organ too but I never ever went into that store for fear that he would castigate me should I touch his organ, once again, as in the musical instrument.

Standing at the rail, I'm directly in front of the upper level entry to Stern's. I don't know much about Stern's, how long it's been around, whether or not it's a nationwide chain, and so on, but for those unfamiliar with the store, I'll describe it thusly: Macy's is, of course, the don of the department stores; Sears, by definition below Macy's, has come to the point where it's comfortable with the fact that it's not Macy's; Stern's, then, has not yet come to grips with the reality that it is not Sears. I never stepped foot into Stern's except for that one time out of curiosity; there are some places that you see all of your life, that you've never bothered with but have always seen, and you one day decide that you have to see what it's about. Unless there's a potentially violent little person standing guard.

Déjà Vu is commonly experienced at this mall: Currently, I've passed by a Software, Etc. and I'm trying to remember where I've seen it before. Was it in a past life or…was it just DOWNSTAIRS? After the organ store reverie, I noticed a Electronics Boutique and wondered where I'd seen that earlier; the directory confirms that I saw both of them right next door to each other! The difference being that the Software, Etc. I saw before was the lower level store and that this one I'm standing in front of is the upper level store which, glancing quickly at the directory, I notice is a common practice here. The Electronics Boutique doppelganger is much easier explained: The one next to the organ store is just a regular EB, however the one by Software &c. is denoted as an EB for Kids, as if all video games weren't for kids, like there was something very adult about the video games in the other EB. The only explicitly – no pun intended – adult games I can think of were the Leisure Suit Larry games which my childhood best friend's brother would play on the ol' Apple IIC after answering the very adult questions verifying your adult and thus giving one access to the game and untold forbidden pleasures, like, "Wow, that closely resembles a breast!" (The technology of the time wasn't quite ready to titillate yet; it required you to use your imagination more than a little.)

There is a store called Leather+Shoes.Com and I, of course, wonder if this is really a website or if the folks running the store are just hopping on the dot-com bandwagon, oh, a year or so after the wheels fell off. I ask because looking inside there's nothing that really suggests a hi-tech operation; it's actually a really bare bones operation with, well, leather & shoes. (Further investigation yields these results: both leathershoes.com and leatherandshoes.com have been registered, but as of yet nothing has been done with the sites. Is it the same Leather+Shoes.com or just opportunistic cyber-squatters? Time will tell.)

Baby Gap: Few word combinations in the English language have the ability to set my blood aboil as that one. Whenever I see those tiny little mannequins, I get the urge to beat them repeatedly. There may be something else at work here: when I lived in New York, I'd pass a Baby Gap on the way to the supermarket and, at night, those mannequins would creep me out, like I'd wake up in the middle of the night surrounded by them; I'm thinking that it all might date back to the first Child's Play film, a movie that has served to make me suspicious of all things tiny to this very day. The proliferation of Baby/Kids stores has come to my great consternation, and it all started out so innocently with those cute little Air Jordans that my sister bought for my nephews. Today's children have far too many choices, as far as I'm concerned, and yes, there's probably a great deal of bitterness fueling this. Children should be stuck with Le Tigre shirts, slacks and Keds and that should very well be the end of it.

"Oh! A bookstore! A bastion of edification amidst all of this decadence! Perhaps they'll have the new DeLillo!" I awkwardly said aloud when the Waldenbooks came into view. It was an altogether different story when I actually entered; by the time I left I felt like an elitist snob for even considering DeLillo (which I eventually picked up at Borders, and I shit you not, at a mall not 100 feet away from this one; in addition to that, there's another mall in this very same mid-sized town.) The mall bookstore is a fucking JOKE and you wonder why they even bother. In essence, it's a glorified newsstand and it's great if you want to indulge your Oprah Book Club jones or want to catch up with Chyna, Anne Rice, and James Patterson – and don't get me started on authors who advertise their books on TV themselves. The mall bookstore, I suppose, is good for buying books for my parents -- my guide: all of the books they read seem to use the same font on the cover and, oh, 90% of the time the author's name is larger than the book title. Apparently there's going to be a book signing today by one Elizabeth Keys whose written output I am wholly unfamiliar with. Judging a book by its cover, it does use that same font my parents seem to enjoy and, yes, her name is larger than the title which I don't recall but may have included the words "Forbidden" and "Passion", however the half-naked men and women strewn across the cover clearly rules it out, making it something more fitting for the middle-aged woman who likes a little arousal now and then but is embarrassed to be seen reading such a book on, say, a subway or PATH train and so she uses one of those little floral book covers with straps to conceal her shame.

Having had my fill of the upstairs, I head for the escalators and slowly descend to the center court, taking time to look out at all of the people milling around, each with different life stories and hopes and dreams, but all brought together under the roof of this structure. And of course I stumble off the escalator, in my own little world, forgetting to take the little step necessary to not look foolish. I make my way to the LEFT WING with great haste.

I wouldn't mention this if I hadn't seen it already today and countless times in the past, but: People looking in empty store windows – what up with that? There's not even a sign in the window saying, for example: "Coming Soon – Another Starbucks." It'd still be strange behavior even with that, but then at least you could say to yourself, "And that is where they will put the bean-bag chairs." I have no idea what these people are looking for exactly, but their examination is thorough and people who do things like that frighten me, so, like men who stare at themselves excessively in public mirrors, I don't even dream of asking them.

Next door to the store where those people are still looking in is what used to be a tie store – The Tie Rack – and what is now a Godiva. I love Godiva, but I'm sorry to see the Tie Rack go. Sure, I never went in there, but it was a store filled with ties! How can I not love the person who thought, "You know what the world needs? A store that sells only ties!" and then believed that that was a good idea. That sort of idealism deserves to be, but is far too infrequently, lauded. When I am nabbing free chocolate-covered strawberry samples, abusing their generosity by eating more than my due, I shall think of them.

Walking further, I breathe and my nose is bombarded by scent, meaning that I've just walked by Sephora. After much deliberation, I've decided that it smells like: Perfume.

I now need to sit and take some notes. Though I've become quite adept at writing on the go, I'm having serious doubts about the legibility of such efforts. Once again, my arrival brings great interest – it seems like my presence or, rather, the pen and pad's presence has interrupted the conversation of the pair with whom I share this bench. There are many straightforward attempts to see what I'm doing and as I hear the one relay to the other what she may or may not have seen, the language that comes forth from her is not English. Not even the language barrier can prevent their interest…unless of course she's just saying nasty things about me in another language.

From my seat, I notice a familiar set of characters and I'm starting to feel like I'm a character in a work of fiction. For instance, there is the young girl who wants to be told that she looks like Britney Spears and has no reservations whatsoever about correcting you – God help you if you say she brings to mind Mandy Moore. She's now accompanied by a boy much shorter than her with a chubby face and a head of spiky hair, around his neck he sports a chain with the Pi symbol on it, something all of the kids are wearing ever since that damned Darren Aronofsky glorified, nay, glamorized mathematics with Pi. I can't decide whether or not he's her brother because he could be a potential love interest since girls look so much older than boys at that age. Hm. Brother.

God damn it, it's Li'l Ms. Poopy Pants again, now stuffing her face with ice cream and making quite a mess of herself in the process. Yes, yes, enjoy your ice cream now because soon all days won't be filled with ice cream and strollers made to look like taxicabs.

And, oh, there's that strange pairing of the teenage black kid and the older Italian man who looks like someone's grandfather. I don't know what they're doing together, if they're together, but right now they seem to be talking seriously about something or other as they walk past the Foot Locker.

Banana Republic! Or as my mother calls them, in a laconic fashion that befits her position, "Banana." She happens to be a mall insider who has informed me that Banana Republic will be moving and that all of the Gaps will be consolidating into a single store, at least in this mall, under the somewhat disconcerting moniker of "Gap 2001." I'm not sure exactly what it is she does there, but I believe she shakes down storeowners for the rent. A fearsome woman with a cruelty that's only matched by her short temper, she's perfect for the job. The preceding has been sort of an in-joke as my mother is actually a tiny, soft-spoken woman, get it? Tiny and I said she's fearso-… *Coughs*

So that one slice of pizza is not doing the trick and I find myself drawn to Burger King. Not a part of the food court, it still seems to do rather well for itself, as evidenced by the long line. The muzak system makes the wait more bearable, now playing: Natalie Imbruglia, "Torn." Young girls, on the cusp of young adulthood – that weird tag applied to you when you're in those limbo years -- they're in front of me and singing along with "Torn" and I'm surprised that they even know the song; how their lives must have changed since first hearing it. Directly in front of me is a fairly combative black couple who don't seem to take each others' insults personally, it's just how they are I guess. In front of them is a young fella wearing headphones when he orders and I'm tickled by how stupid that it is. "What an IDIOT," I think, until I realize that I have done the same only recently, and then I write down a note specifically for me.

Currently with a Burger King's kid's meal, one will receive one of several Sassy Toddler Toys. Do they have something to do with the sadly defunct magazine? Do they speak out of turn? I'm curious but then I remember that the kid's meal at Burger King never really fills me like McDonald's Big Kid meal.

The combative couple in front of me have a daughter named Tanesha, a name I remember because of the number of times they have to call her over to get her to decide what she wants. Apparently, she didn't want Burger King and was being difficult. If those were my parents, I would not be difficult. With all of the hold up she's causing us, I'm tempted to take the matter into my own hands but settle for just, what else, giving her nasty looks and adding her to my burgeoning enemies list. When they pay with a $100 bill, despite my ire, I couldn't keep a smile at bay.

I order, a #1 plain, "Cheese?" No, plain, nothing on it. While waiting I go fill up my drink. When the fast food joints decided to switch from giving you a drink to making you get your own damn drink, I made it my duty to make them pay, and so it remains. Little children are also getting their own drinks, and one little boy makes a freaking MESS! Why would his parents let him do this? And in the midst of this internal tirade, guess who just spilled his drink too?

I return to get my order, a little humbled. A woman steps up beside me to inform whomever will listen that she got the wrong order. One of the things that annoys me most about fast food restaurants is when the workers don't look at you, don't pay attention to you, look for someone else because it's not their job, as if they're somehow above you and your order which, oh by the way, they fucked up. They have total scorn for you as a customer, and they're totally unapologetic about it. Fuckheads. So I get my order, which, miracle of miracles, is in fact correct, and I take a seat. I don't think of much really; I spend most of the time thinking about thinking about something. All I can tell you is that Spanish is a beautiful and romantic language -- I chose it as my language to learn back in high school for those reasons, hoping that I could cultivate a persona that would include the peppering of regular conversation with some Spanish and that women would fall for this -- but that Spanish can be a very annoying language when spoken very fast, loudly and in a high pitch voice.

Taking my freshly refilled beverage with me, I head back into the mall, stopping to enjoy the theater of the cute and the profane that is Dine-A-Shirt. I've had ten years to contemplate that name and I'm still no farther along in decoding it than I was then: It is decorated like a diner, but that doesn't really explain the name. A take on Dinah Shore perhaps? We once stopped in there to make a gift for my father, the mouse pad featuring my nephews that I'm looking at right now. In the windows, there are t-shirts with kids and pets with various Valentine's Day messages, and then right next to them are panties that say "It's Yours" on them. Not "I'm Yours," but "It's Yours"…if you get me.

I actually try to avoid this little area because this is the hall haunted by those figures with pads and pens who want to ask you about fruit juice and pay you a $1 to watch a commercial. Thinking that, "Hey, I could use a dollar and once they get a piece of my mind, maybe they'll answer a few of my questions," I saunter by as saucily and sassily as possible trying to attract the attention of one of the four figures present, and now none of them want anything to do with me. Perhaps because they can sense that I am no longer young and hip and cool. I don't want to see their stupid commercials anyway. God, how low must one sink to walk around the mall with a pad and a pen?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I'm now ¾ done with my survey of the mall and, though my belly is full, I'm not feeling any more enlightened. Perhaps the answer lies in the final wing, the HEAD WING. At the very least, they have a Baskin Robbins, where, in one of those moments that really invariably make an essay more enjoyable, more personable, I indulge in a whim and WEIGH MYSELF on one of those quarter-operated dealies that promise to give one their exact weight. Which turns out to be 151.2 pounds and I marvel that only several years earlier I weighed 120 and that doesn't seem so much like another lifetime ago but another person entirely. As an added bonus, I get my lucky numbers which turn out to be not-so-lucky after all and, AND, my fortune! Which is:

"Your dreams will come true!"

Bolstered by this claim, I set about with renewed vigor. I want to walk through the child's door into the Imaginarium, but it's sadly locked. The one time I seriously consider doing it. Not only that, but what a fool I look like as I stand or, rather, hunch in that little space, trying feverishly to get the door open. It's one thing if I walk through and disappear inside; that's worthy of a few giggles and some "What will he do next?"s. Getting stonewalled and having to exit the doorway without gaining entry just gets me sneers and "Grow up!"s and laughs at my expense. What happened to my DREAMS?

Embarrassed, I look for a store to duck into, some place big where I can be anonymous. Like Record Town. Earlier, while upstairs, I scoffed at the selection of the tiny, pointless Record Town (upper level), but Record Town (lower level) is a different story: it's a megastore, with prices to match.

I enter the store and immediately try to blend, "Yes, yes, this Limp Bizkit, worth investigating!" It is then that I hear a voice call from behind me, "Hey you!" I stopped dead in my tracks, shoulders sinking, resigned to turn around to only be mocked by someone who witnessed the Imaginarium incident and now wants to make a fool of me in front of Record Town employees and customers. It is a female, and when I face her, she asks me how I am, as if we've known each other for years. Problem is: I have no idea who she is, so much for that "photographic memory." Relief comes when a young fellow passes on my left and greets the young lady, as I pretend to stare off into the middle-distance. I turn once more and continue my browsing.

I have a problem. I seem to have a face, a demeanor, a manner that suggests to people that I work in whatever store it is I'm standing in. I can be wearing headphones, a jacket, gloves, and a hat and they will ask me if I work there. I bring this up because it is happening to me right now. And here's the other thing: Once I give a chuckle and say "No," they go ahead and ask me anyhow. "I'm afraid I don't know," is my usual retort, even when I know full well where to find what they're looking for. I am not receiving pay for services rendered and it's not too difficult to track down an employee here where they wear garish yellow shirts and things around their neck.

So I go about my own particular business, not really looking for anything in particular, but I have a mental list of things that I can never find and look for anyway despite that fact. Like Wire's Pink Flag. Record stores tend to have their crappy 80s albums in abundance but never the classic 70s stuff. Except this store today. Unlike the bookstores, mall record stores usually tend to have a lot of stuff, even hard-to-find stuff, and then, as if to rub it your face, they charge you $3 more than you'd want to/expect to pay. Utterly outrageous prices, and I've been to this store's Manhattan counterpart and even they're not that expensive. It's things like this that drive a young man to Napster.

On my way out, I casually browse through the New Releases, the only things in the store on sale. Nothing noteworthy, that is until I get to the DVD section where I find:

It could only be more ridiculous if it said:

Why does this exist on DVD? Why does it brag about being unedited? Are there Autobots doing things in this version of the film that I don't want to see Autobots doing, catering to the crowd that enjoys anime because of the disproportionate naked women that appear throughout? The movie, you should know, is set in 2005: Interesting how people then viewed the future. A star-studded cast includes: Eric Idle, Judd Nelson, Robert Stack, Casey Kasem, Leonard Nimoy and, in the coveted "and…" position usually reserved for the heavy hitter, Orson Welles. As Unicrom. Poor bastard. I've seen enough.

I see a man wearing a T-shirt & shorts and am concerned because no one else seems to find this strange. Bemused, I head to the Pet-Pourri, a name which I didn't get for years until one day, "Oh…is that like potpourri then?" I mostly hate animals. They're just above small children on my list. But I do have a weakness: pug dogs. I can't explain it, but ever since I was young and a neighbor had them and one of them would follow me around, I've loved them. To look at them is to know that nature has treated them cruelly, God feeling particularly puckish that day, and therefore they are worthy of my love. They're usually one of the "showcase" animals, but not today. No, in fact, this store has no pugs currently and all of the animals are asleep. ALL OF THEM. I do believe that they've been drugged, especially as one terrier is slumped over in his food dish. I slowly sidle out backwards, making eye contact with no one.

Through the exit in front of me, one can gain access to the arcade. I'd go but I'm afraid that that's a whole story unto itself. I once considered myself a video game kid, playing the games at an age when I needed a stool to see the screen. But now…now, it's a different story. First off, good luck finding a game that even costs 50 cents in this day and age. And then try to find one that doesn't require the reading of a strategy guide prior to playing. God help you if anyone under the age of 13 approaches you while playing. He'll ruthlessly destroy you and then say, "Good game," afterwards even though he's SO transparent and clearly doesn't mean it. While visions of repeatedly ramming his pre-teen head through the screen run through my mind, I tell him that next time he should ask before joining in as it's just common courtesy, followed by "*Coughs*loser*coughs." There is now a gaming subculture and it makes me feel old to even consider it. But I suppose I should mention Dance Dance Revolution: 3rd Mix.

You may know it better as simply "DDR." What it is is a game that demands you to follow the dance steps it displays, sort of like a Simon, the game, for your feet. The combatants look like they usually play a different kind of game when it comes to dancing, the rules: who can keep farthest away from the dance floor. But it is here, amongst others like them, where they shine, where their foot-eye coordination is rewarded. The players have common features: pony tails or long hair, glasses, more than their fair share of body fat. I consider myself a good dancer, but I know better than to engage any of these gentlemen, for this is their world. They very likely own the gaming magazines that come with a free pull-out guide to the dances of DDR which just as likely line their bedroom floors.

It's not good dancing, it should be said. Only your feet are engaged, whereas when one normally dances, their whole body gets in the act. But the players of DDR seem particularly goonish, staring dead-eyed at the scream, their arms dangling at their sides. Much chatter surrounds the console, usually disgruntled arcade-goers saying things like "3rd Mix really wasn't worth the wait, containing as it does far more bugs than 2nd mix." I imagine that these guys discuss the game over the water cooler, making plans for the evening, telling others that they are going to the "club," barely able to contain their giggling. Then they go out to real clubs, do their thing, impress the ladies, and when asked "What do you call that dance?" they respond "Oh, a little something I like to call…DDR," with a wink. How long before it spreads to dance floors nation wide?

The very idea is just too much for me to take and so, having entered the mall proper again, I will instead direct my attention to the fact that there is a dentist's office in the mall. Do you think a mall dentist is a good dentist? I'd bet that the rent would be higher, commensurate to the exposure. And it's difficult to build up a patient-base if you're no good. So, yes: Mall dentist = Good dentist.

There's a store called New York & Company that used to be called Lerner's and it's amazing how much larger a store can look with some creative arranging. But that's not my point. Now I'm not going in there because I neither have anyone to buy women's clothing for nor do I need any myself, but they have a radio station that plays in the store that is exclusive to them. Based on the music that's played and some of the voices, I'd bet that they're linked to a local station. This store radio station gives traffic reports on the entrances into Manhattan and I'm wondering if these are actual, real-time traffic reports or if this runs on a loop. What is the point of it? If you're in the mall today, it's very unlikely that your next destination is New York. It makes no sense and I want an answer but I know I won't get one which is frustrating.

So frustrating, in fact, that I need to sit down. Which I do, right in front of Epic Designs, another in the nameless stores, figuratively speaking of course, catering to young people and especially the Eminem fan. These stores come and go. When I was young, a jr./high-schooler and in the business of looking hip and trendy, there was a store called Jean Country right where the Bath & Body Works stands now. It specialized in the hip wear of the time: Skidz, I.O.U., B.U.M., Champion, Champion, Champion. It survived into the mid-90s and I can't place it's actual demise, but standing right next to it was G&G, a totally tacky clothing store with bargain prices. G&G, however, is still there. A lesson, then: Tasteless, in the long run, will always best trendy.

Looking at the clientele of Epic Designs reminds me that I'm afraid of young people. As I walk by them, I squint because I think that it makes me look tougher, that they would otherwise see weakness in my doe-eyes. When I was a young person, I had a healthy respect for my elders, as did many of my peers. Kids older than you seemed more than ready to pummel you should you step out of line. When my kindred and I got to be those Kids Older Than You, the kids younger than us were a bunch of punks willing to sass you at their whim. Did we become soft? Did we let this happen? I was confused and I still am; actually, that confusion only grows stronger as I feel myself aging, losing my link to the young. It's obvious in the way I'm perceived: I'm called "Sir" and "Mister." When did this happen? If I didn't think that, just by looking at them, they'd make me feel insignificant, I'd grab them and shake them and say, "WE ARE NOT SO DIFFERENT! I AM JUST LIKE YOU!" Perhaps this is where much of the fear comes from, that I'm not ready to relinquish my youth. Save your tears for those who truly deserve it.

These kids also remind me of a concept I've yet to discuss and one that is most salient when talking about the mall and the behavior of its habitues: the Mall Rat. The Mall Rat is, as defined by Kevin Smith in his film of the same name, someone who doesn't work at the mall and isn't there to shop; they're just there. There's probably no sense in reading into why they're there; kids do things for no reason at all much of the time. It's likely that they're in the mall out of force of habit. In fact, I didn't forget the Mall Rat, I just deemed them inappropriate for this essay because there is nothing to be learned from their motives. Yes, that's it.

From my bench, I observe the relation between parents and their children, and how brutal they're seeming right now. Parents, and I can't prove this really, appear to be literally ripping their children's arms out of their sockets. They've placed children in strollers who are too big for them and, also, they've forced children to walk who seem only vaguely familiar with the process. These parents look to be of the type who'd normally use the mall as an escape from their children but for whatever reason – couldn't find a babysitter, need to take the kid's shopping – the kids have had to tag along. My empathy for these children grows ever so slightly.

Having regained the ability to walk myself, I've gotten to my feet and have realized that there is nowhere left for me to go. Yeah, there are stores that are part of the mall but don't grant customers access into the mall itself, but I hardly see those unfortunate stores as part of the mall experience. So, with my notes in hand, I head back through the food court, back through the melange of people and scents. Back outside into the Frogger game that is the parking lot, followed by several cars until they give up the chase, realizing that I'm parked in no man's land.

I open the door and get back into the car, empty-handed except for the notebook. I now know that this is The End, and that I should now embark upon a Conclusion. All of these hours in the mall should've told me something, and I refuse to leave until I've figured out just what. I came here to find out why I come here, why others come here. I observed and took plenty of notes. So what then?

Gears start turning and a central idea begins to take form, starting with this declaration: We go because we can't be where we want to be. Contemplating this statement, I develop it further: We go because we can't be where we want to be because we lack the ability and the drive. There are people that we want to be with and places that we want to see and things that we want to be doing, but there is some obstacle that prevents this. It can be fate, our own dumb luck, our own lack of ambition and desire, our laziness. The mall is generic, it is blasé, it is there and we know it is. When we're out of ideas, when we don't want to be bothered with ideas, we head to the mall because it's Saturday and you should be doing something even though for some people Saturday is just another day like any other. We get in the car and we don't need to think, the wheel turns and the pedals move and is it we who are doing this? Is it mind control, is it groupthink? Entering and exiting, there is a long line – lemmings over the cliff or ants to the anthill? Why aren't we doing something with our lives? Why aren't you doing something with your life? Why?

Why not? I like to shop and the mall contains many stores under one roof. And yeah, the prices may not be the best, but when there are sales on, it's not so bad. You can eat there too, there's a lot to choose from and it's really not bad and the prices are reasonable. It's a destination: Sometimes we can't always be where we want to be but there are also times when we just need to get out, to do something, to be amongst people, to feel life around us. Have you ever just stopped and observed people? It's interesting; there's so much you can learn about yourself and society and heaven knows that there are plenty of people at the mall on Saturday! Sure, you might not have bought anything this time – your stomach is full, though, right? – but there is always next time and tomorrow is another day, another day to do something different or not. Remember: Your dreams will come true! And in the end, it is your life, after all, and you've no one to blame but yourself about where it is or isn't going.

Besides, it's Saturday and what else are you going to do?