Getting Malled

Getting Malled

Kripes, I hate shopping for clothes! What can I do? All of my underwear have holes, I don't have a single pair of jeans free of paint, grease, or some other unidentifiable relic of clumsiness, and my shoes; let's not talk about what I tend to do to shoes, OK? So here I go to the Mecca of consumerism; the almighty mall. I wish I had grown disgusted with my wardrobe a few months earlier. It's the Christmas shopping season. That's a polite way of saying the month of the living dead. Now I have to wade through acres of vicious zombies seeking the holy grail of marked down junk they wouldn't buy for themselves, but seem to think would be just perfect for someone else. Ah, the power of the giving spirit!

The parking lot is full, as expected. Having thought ahead, I pull into a far-flung spot and fetch from my trunk a sleeping bag, pup tent, back pack with three days rations, compass, and a glow-in-the-dark Saint Christopher metal (it can't hurt), then begin my trek. By the time I've lost good hiking light, I'm close enough to the mall itself to see a glow just over the horizon. I figure a five hours hike at most, so I pitch camp between an RV and a '65 LTD and prepare for an early start in the morning. As night settles in, I spot several other camp fires in the area. After a hearty can of pork and beans, I wander a few car rows over and socialize with some of the other pilgrims. I meet Joe and Jill Wormburner who speak of great adventures ahead in the sporting goods store seeking the ultimate golf ball assortment for her uncle buba. They seem nice enough. I move on. Huddled under one of the parking lot lamp posts is the Fetchum family; Bob, Carol, and little Teddy and Alice. These people have obviously done this before. Bob stands under the lamp post, pointer in hand, outlining strategy over the Sunday advertising supplement mounted to cardboard and presented on an easel. The four synchronize chronometers and Teddy takes first watch as the rest bed down. I figure I had best do the same. I navigate my way back to camp. Amongst the sounds of crackling fires and "99 bottles of beer on the wall" sung by a very liberal church group, I sleep.

Morning greets me with the usual aroma of bacon and the obnoxious voices of drive-time radio DJs. I add my own bacon to the ambiance, put on a pot of coffee, and soon enough break camp. It's easy to tell who is going and who is coming. Aside from the general direction of travel, there is a sparkle of excitement in the eyes of those inroute contrasting with a look of complete submission in those returning. Poor souls. Their dark eyes well recessed into their sockets, they stumble forth under the heavy load of garment bags, boxes full of expensive clutter meant to bring cheer to friends and relatives whom they just couldn't think of what to give, and a profusion of envelopes embossed with Hallmark sticking out of the heap in all directions. The men have a three day growth, the women have lost all control over their hair, and the kids; well, kids will be kids. They take full advantage of the obvious vulnerability of their parents and generally run amuck. It kind of reminds me of a line of refugees leaving a war zone. Come to think of it, that's not far from the truth. I suppress my trepidation and continue on my course.

I won't end up like them. I'm going only to buy myself some clothes and nothing more. I'm lucky! Being unattached, I have no wife or girlfriend to shop for. Being an only child, I have no siblings to concern myself with. My parents live a thousand miles away and feel lucky just to get a phone call on Christmas Day plus or minus a few days, and I'm far too broke to be tempted to get anything for my friends who are likewise too broke to get anything for me. Christmas is a time of high suicide rates. They say it's because of the isolation some feel having no one to share the holidays with. Personally, I think it's the shopping cowards way out.

The sun is high in the sky when the grand entrance of the mall comes into view. At least I assume that's the entrance by the mass of humanity converging on the area. I check my gear with the National Guard sentries and join the round-up. I'm tempted to moo, but suppress it for fear of starting a trend. Besides, one of the first stores is a leather goods shop and I feel I should show some respect.

God, what a zoo! TV ratings must be nil right now as I don't think there's a soul in the city who is isn't here instead of in front of the idiot box. Any thief could run unopposed through entire neighborhoods on a day like this, except that they are all here shoplifting and pick pocketing. Wisely, I keep my money tucked in my fly. If someone reaches in there, I'll know about it. The only disadvantage is the shock on the faces of the clerks, particularly the older ladies as I go for a ten spot. This in one reason I simply must replace my underwear with the holes.

Walking through a mall during the shopping season can be dangerous. It's surprisingly easy to get sucked up by the current in front of Sears and Wards. Even obscure places like the card shops generate strong eddies this time of year, and an unsuspecting adventurer can loose an arm to Hallmark House if one isn't careful. I tend to keep to the center of the walkways until ready to dive toward the store of my choice. Once in front, I just ball up and let the tide wash me onto one of the isles. At this point however, I'm still about 600 feet from the jeans shop; a good two hours.

As I look around, I observe the consumer in its natural environment. There is a lady at the bargain bin in Paul Harris who is giving it the "Cathy" routine; that is, all I can see are two legs, a half dozen blurry arms, a cloud of dust and the fallout of rejected garments. That's scary. I thought that only happened in the comics! I guess not. Just ahead is a mother with your basic spoiled brat. The kid is screaming at the top of his lungs something about wanting to dismember the giant Lego exhibit in the fountain court. Mom is going on her fifth shade of scarlet, but speaks calmly about Santa and lumps of coal. I'd show him some lumps! I keep thinking, "Go ahead lady. Beat him about the head and shoulders and be done with it. I'll hold him down and you have at him with that umbrella." She should have left him at home tied to a chair or something. Ah, the joy of shopping with the kids! Funny how the father is conspicuously absent. For that matter, he may have drowned as most dads are ill prepared for torrential shopping.

At last the time has come to make my move. I hold my breath, lunge, and clutch my Saint Christopher metal. As luck would have it, I wash up in front of the belt rack so I wade a few isles over and reach for some jeans, any jeans, what ever I can grab a hold of. I check the size; 5/7. Oh lord, I'm on the wrong side of the store. Now what? Maybe I can make it across. It looks hopeless and I ponder if anyone would notice I was wearing ladies jeans. No, I still have some pride left. I'm going for it. I work out a strategy. If I migrate to the back and come around the other side, I might live. If all else fails I can escape through the employee door, climb up into the ceiling and drop through the florescent light. It's worth a try.

I find the back of the store is the shallow end. Of course, this is where they have all of the $300 coats and gorilla size pants. About half way over I run into a strange red wall. I quickly discover that this wall is a line backer for the local college team. I yell "fumble!" and instinctively he dives for the floor. I jump over his back and slither to the other side trying to look as little like a football as possible. Keeping low, I infiltrate the men's jeans section and commence to rummage. Somehow I manage to find my size, grab three pair and make for the counter. Once in line, I reach for my Bat-rope. With well practiced aim I toss the hooked end at the underwear rack, snag a pack of jockey shorts and reel them in. Two down, one to go. As I approach the Nike display I holler my size at the salesperson and hold up my hands. He takes the snap from his manager, fades and fires a bullet right into the numbers. After a moment, I recover my breath and step up to the register.

Three pair of jeans, a pack of shorts and a pair of sneakers; it comes to $148.56; a bargain by today's standards. As I unzip to fetch my money, the girl cashier giggles. I take my merchandise, get my receipt and obtain her phone number. I'm outa here! All I have to do now is wait for the out-going tide. Drifting into the current, I flow toward the exits. Once outside, I claim my survival gear from the guardsman and check the sun. I have about two good hours left. The night passes uneventfully and at first light I read my compass for a final bearing. Just before dusk I spot my car. After stowing my gear and returning Saint Christopher to the mirror, I reach for my keys. In the same pocket is the paper with the cashier's phone number on it. I ponder for a moment and conclude that I will hold off calling her until after December 25th. After all, I could grow to like her; I might even feel tempted to buy her something for Christmas. No, there's no woman worth going back in there. Maybe she'd like to go to a New Year's Eve party.

D. Glen Cardenas 12/90

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