I don't quite remember when my love of shopping malls began, but it was early, ravenous, and started petering out sometime before the end of high school, when the responsibilities of adulthood started taking shape in the distance, approaching ever faster, threatening. The act of consuming things becomes more twisted and burdensome the less you have, I've found, so while the average shopper might still have fun picking up new things, she already knows that in a matter of time those objects of desire will be old things, broken things, drab, colorless, and tacky. It gets more complicated the more we juggle, too, when there are bills, bills, bills, and barely enough income to cover them.
My earliest memory of "The Mall" was of Towne East Square, one of two sibling, indoor malls anchoring the east and west sides of Wichita. Towne East was built first (1975) and still thrives to this day (though will never see the same fervent activity as it did during the pre-internet era) and Towne West came along five years later (1980) and is, by my own eyes, flagging badly. Towne East is the bigger mall, with two stories and more stores, while Towne West is sort of an over-indulgent ranch style building with a nonsensical layout and bizarre blank spots with closed gates and a giant carousel that no one rides. Back in the heyday of Grand Mallage, both "Townes" were scenes of lively, eager consumption.
That first memory, though, was sublime. I was with my beautiful babysitter, Debbie, who I idolized almost as much as I idolized Olivia Newton John. Debbie, a tall girl with blond, feathered hair and blue eyes, Debbie whose brother had a Firebird with the actual fiery bird on the hood. Debbie who always had a boyfriend (one of whom adored her so much that he carried me 10+ blocks through the snow just for her). She was the Coolest. We were visiting her friend who worked at the weirdest place in the mall, a German-themed fast food joint whose name escapes me*. Imagine walking past all those stores, the blinding lights cast against tables of goods, the murmur of consumers shuffling through shiny, new things, the revolving smells of fresh clothing, hot pressed vinyl...all that delicious, rich merch, and then the smack in the face of brats roasting, smeared mustard, and mounds of sauerkraut. It was such an odd contrast. But that was the mall: your standard shopping offerings mixed with scented candles, crystal dragons, a random ass dentist's office, arcade, movie theater, McDonalds, and 20 different shoe shops.
My babysitter was always giving me little presents that I treasured with my whole heart (and still remember, believe it or not: a comb set in a red and yellow, plastic holder shaped like a shoe, lip gloss in a round, black container made to look like a record--I even remember the flavors--and ABBA's greatest hits, the double album...seriously, she was the best) so remembering going to the mall with her before anyone else makes sense. She understood exactly what a 7-year-old derp would love, and it was never socks. And never, ever, ever tights. It was album-shaped lip gloss that tasted like chocolate perfume.
By the time I was eleven, I could have happily lived in the mall. It was the magic place where Cricket Alley and Ziggies sold the trendiest clothes (and Henry's the priciest), Camelot and Musicland spun the hottest records and tapes, and the mysterious, forbidden, blacklit Spencer's Gifts offered up all things Edgy and Corrupt: lava lamps, band buttons, silk jackets, "massagers." OH the TONNAGE of JUNK I bought. But it was all treasure, too, even more so in memory.
So imagine my delight when I arrived at the Council Tree Public Library in Fort Collins, Colorado, and discovered that it was in a mall. Now, prime reminiscent mallage only applies to enclosed malls, the older the better. Council Tree is located in one of those newfangled outdoor malls. I worked in one of these malls back in the 90s, in the anchor Barnes & Noble, and I can tell you it is nothing like the olden, golden indoor malls. Aside from proximity and ease of access, the environment is simply not the same.
But it is in a mall nonetheless! Which is weird! And wonderful. Mostly weird, though. I was particularly jazzed because it is located directly across from Panera Bread and I was hankering for a non-PB&J food experience.The first floor is just a lobby, but they make the most of it with a nifty, circular word salad installation. It's a wild, fun flair that sets the mood from the get go: this is a place of whimsy, come play. Once up the stairs and in the main entryway, the whimsy opens up to wonder, with huge windows displaying Colorado's surrounding beauty. The art installation over the entryway is some sort of floating bruschetta homage which I am sure is literary is some way that soars high over my head.
I found a good spot near a window and wrote for hours. The kids around me (high school and college aged, as far as I could tell) were quiet and kept to themselves, but what I noticed more than anything was how they each got up at different times to go to the bathroom or grab a snack...and left all of their stuff behind without a second's pause.
I also saw a drunk driver park right outside the library's back entrance, in a crowded parking lot, half over the line into the handicapped spot. He was white haired, be-shorted, and he left his 90K Porsche Carrera open to the elements as he did his damnedest to walk a straight line. Ah, the suburbs, the cradle of safe spaces and mall culture.
* My fellow Wichitans, and contemporaries of the legendary Debbie, tell me it was called Mr. Dunderbak's, a Bavarian joint that was located in Towne East for years. Here are some snaps from the 70s and 80s (and if you look closely and the filter stays the same, you will see a postcard for Towne East when it was shiny and new).
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