It’s a peculiar habit of humanity to build things without understanding their full potential.
Malls, like cities, have adapted over time to accommodate trends and new businesses while retaining the vision of their architects.
A nail salon could be transformed into a Spencer’s Gifts in little time.
The very nature of the storefronts in a mall enable endless possibilities, determined by the needs and desires of its community.
Growing up, I didn’t like the mall.
There were stores in the mall that appealed to me: the hobby shops, the candy stores, the pet store.
But these few amusements didn’t seem worth it when you had to contend with the endless flow of patrons, who were usually scowling and in a hurry.
Last week, my friend Jane asked me if I’d like to join her on a trip to the mall to pick up a gift for her brother’s birthday.
I hadn’t thought much about malls in my adulthood.
But being the inquisitive and open-minded soul I am, I decided to go along with Jane and see what malls were all about these days.
When we arrived in the giant, empty parking lot at the local mall, I got this eerie feeling.
Perhaps I was reliving the childhood anxiety that came with entering such a busy place — but it felt like something more.
Jane and I walked past a dozen other patrons near the entrance.
There was a gaggle of teenagers with plenty of angst but nowhere to direct it. There were some senior citizens walking the mall, who wore sweatsuits and head-bands as though they were about to run a marathon. And there were a handful of families, led by parents who were either bubbly or frustrated with their children.
Jane wanted to go to what she called “the calendar store.” She said she had been going there to buy a calendar for her brother’s birthday for years.
We found it in a sea of empty storefronts with “New Store Coming Soon” signs in their windows.
The calendar store was called “Time After Time.” I couldn’t tell whether the name was a throwback or whether the store had been around since the time of the Cyndi Lauper hit.
Either way, the name managed to somehow age the mall even more than the faded 80’s decor could.
After a few minutes of browsing, Jane found me near the Sports Illustrated supermodel calendars.
I tried to explain to her that it was a coincidence, but she insisted that I was “checking out the merchandise” as much as she was.
Jane picked out a chicken-themed calendar for her brother. I made a joke that her calendar was “even hotter” than the ones I was looking at, but Jane just gave me this perplexed expression.
I guess the joke didn’t really land.
After Jane checked out, she told me there was something she wanted to show me.
I followed Jane into an unlit branch of the mall, where not a single storefront remained occupied.
The only sources of light were the sunbeams that poked through the skylights overhead.
I was quickly ready to turn back, but Jane insisted that we go a little further.
We stopped at the end of the corridor.
Despite the cloudy weather that day, a cluster of skylights overhead illuminated one storefront that, while abandoned, remained close to its original appearance.
We pressed our faces up to the glass.
Inside was a decorative fountain with a cluster of vines draped around it.
A gorilla, nine feet tall, stood beside the fountain in the dark. His mechanical innards had once let out terrifying and startling shrieks; but now, he was still, stalwart and statuesque in thesilence.
Like the gorilla, I became frozen in place.
Transfixed by his grim visage, I felt something eerie in this place.
It was a jungle-themed family restaurant called Rainforest Cafe.
And I had been there in its heyday.
I had been here, decades earlier, back when my grandfathers were still alive.
I had fewer worries then.
Childhood thoughts were born beneath my fingers as I held the glass.
I used to look at others and wonder what they were thinking. I used to wonder why people made certain faces. I found everything marvelous.
I told Jane that my mom and I would go to places like this to eat in the middle of the day when I was really young.
My mom told me that she loved to take me on errands. I was a quiet, wide-eyed kid that rarely gave her trouble.
The servers got to know me at the restaurants we frequented.
I was tiny, but I was still a regular.
Beneath the glass, I could feel the warmth of being welcomed as a toddler. I could feel the way the restaurants smelled. I could feel the excitement of getting served a giant plate of pancakes and bacon.
I had been eager to go to school, but I soon came to miss those simpler days.
There was magic in every moment, so much new and so much still yet to be discovered.
As Jane and I walked back towards the car, I imagined the mostly vacant mall being reborn into something new.
It could be reshaped into an apartment complex. Or it could become a campus for a school or business. Maybe it’ll be flattened and return to the glade it once was.
Or perhaps, in the end, this weary, old building will once again be filled with stores that draw visitors.
Something will become of this — I’m certain of it.
Something new, someday, will be born in this place of latent potential, hidden and almost lost between billboards and highways.
But until then, this place will remain dormant, waiting to be enchanted with new life.
It’ll be like the dusty old statue behind the glass, whose final act is to awaken accidental memories in those, like me, who haven’t seen him in a matter of a lifetime.
