I didn’t know the Mall of America had parking on its rooftop. Turns out the MOA has over 12,500 parking spots on-site, and another 20,000 across Lindau Lane.
All but four of these spots were occupied when I was forced to survive a shopping trip in that wretched place during the Thanksgiving weekend. Considered there were somewhere between two to four people in each carload, that means there was anywhere between 65,000 to 130,000 people on four floors of godless holiday vice in the biggest mall in the country—not to mention anyone who took the Light Rail or the bus to the mall.
And unfortunately I was part of all this.
But this isn’t about me, this is about you. I’m doing this for you, to serve as a helpline so you don’t snap and start strangling people with the cardigan you bought as a Christmas present for your sister.
You stand shoulder to shoulder with thousands of Midwestern mothers shuffling along an odyssey of stores. You hear them talking about how much better the crowds were today (Saturday) than yesterday (Black Friday). From what I hear, Oh! You would have just died from all the people.
Most likely self-inflicted.
There’s two basic kinds of shoppers: those kinds who want to be there, and those who don’t. Both of these groups are high. The first is huffing elation from the deals, the BOGO’s and the doorbusters, frolicking about the storefronts entering every store and looking for every deal even though they’re probably not going to get anything. It’s just, you know, those deals.
It’s a new wardrobe.
It’s a top appliance.
It’s the latest gadget.
It’s fresh debt.
Then there are the people who don’t want to be there. These are the fathers who sit on the benches waiting for their wives and children for hours. These are the boyfriends who stand in women’s-only department stores acting as a hanging place for shopping bags. When you’re doing something you truly hate, your mind sort of clicks into this autopilot mode where you stop really paying attention to anything at all.
On the outside, you’re standing on a moving sidewalk, just sort of floating along without steps to any one of the stores your girlfriend drags you to. It’s like you’re one of those Shaolin monks who can take a full-on kick to the sack and not even flinch. You are Zen incarnate.
On the inside, you’ve never been closer to committing murder in your life. You’re ready to pounce on the chubby 12-year-old who had to have his burrito remade three times at the mall’s Chipotle because he said pinto beans and not black ones. Then medium sauce, not mild. The line is completely out the door, everybody watching little Porky who’ll probably develop type II diabetes by next year, and all you’re thinking about is, “Is this for real? Am I really watching a mother allow her porky little kid get his burrito this dazzlingly right so he can cram it down his lardy little throat in four bites? The little fatass.”
What you don’t realize, because you’re Zenned out and all, is that you’ve said this out loud. Porky’s mother shoots you a glare and gives you that protective motherly oink sound, and shuffles junior off with his burrito, a bag of chips and guacamole and a large fountain pop toward a table for feeding. Oblivious, you just step up the counter and politely order your burrito as the rest of the line snickers in shock.
The “hip” shops that line the halls vacuum the youth through their doors and threaten their young patrons with becoming as thoughtful as the mannequins who haunt the store windows. They are the Medusas of a new millennium, turning any flicker of sanity into stoned retardation. What you begin to notice is that in every store you go to, everyone looks like the mannequins in that store. Even if every person in American Eagle or Urban Outfitters or Tommy Bahama was instantly frozen in time, you could walk into the store and nothing would seem out of place.
You were about to say the only difference between the mannequins and the shoppers is a mind, but then you cut yourself short when you realize that’s not true. The only difference between the mannequins and the shoppers is that the mannequins are made of plastic. Then again, by looking at the chests and faces of nearly every woman in Bloomingdale’s, you realize that might not be the case either.
You’re not ready to say that the Mall of America is hell on earth, because this whole experience actually would be worse if you were set on fire. However, it does really suck. You’re being crammed into a culture that has little regard for human life at all. Despite the tens of thousands of people around you, you can go through an entire day of shopping, hitting every store in the mall, and not say a word to anyone. Cash and credit do your talking. You don’t have to say hello or thank you or anything.
To an extent, this is a good thing.
After all, this is what you wanted. To be Zen. To be so removed from the scene of trendy consumerism that when your wife, girlfriend, or daughter asks you to go again next year after Thanksgiving, you’ll say “Yes” without hesitation.
What you should be doing is something exciting, something that actually makes for a good story. You should be out exploring caves or going BASE jumping instead of driving around the top level of the Mall of America’s east parking facility just hoping one of the main supports will give way and this whole shopping spree will be over.
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