The snow had been scorched into slush just in time for the midday shoppers at Woodfield Mall. Hundreds upon hundreds of women converged on the place, some old, some young, some attractive and in shape, others fattened by the allowances of poverty and hardened with the wounds of manual labor (perhaps enjoying a day off?). Near the lower entrance to Macy's two Salvation Army volunteers stood sternly, chests forward, bells tolling, and compassionate eyes searching the passing consumers for similar expressions. A few answered the call on their way out of the gloomy, cloudy world that embodies Illinois winters. Others just walked by without a glance, ignoring the ringing cries of the unfortunate left outside of the Amusement Park. They cared not for the toils of the reality of America. They were only concerned about the dream – the fantasy realm that lie beyond the sparkles of Macy's jewelry counters and beyond the fragrances and colors of its cosmetics department.
The Woodfield Mall is a mini alternate dimension, a pocket universe all in its own guarded and protected by name brand chain restaurants dotting its immense parking lot. Towering within a moat of concrete, I found the very face of the American God at Woodfield, or at least one of God's well-endowed disciples, dwelling in the immaculate purity of consumerism. Sales representatives stood in shops along the crooked avenues of this domain, cast in strong hues of crimson and navy blue, licking their paws and rubbing their fertile loins while holding a candle or Abercrombie shirt in a free hand, offering sensuous pleasures only money could buy. The ominous clouds outside had no place here. White floors, flashy lights, and Tony Bennet Christmas songs manufactured the adverse atmosphere of titillation.
These diverting avenues with multiple levels jutted out from the heart of this bliss factory like pulsating veins. The pulses were those sultry, scintillating sales representatives dancing like vixen in heat within the storefront windows. They thrusted their delectable figures left and right to the throes of the harmonious cash register chings, chiming in a chorus of a drug-fueled frenzy. At the center of this cavalcade is the life force of this living universe, the epicenter of this exclusive world for those with money. A red clad man with a fake white beard rests upon a velvet throne inside of a snowglobe. He laughs like only a fat, jolly king can, patting his knee and beckoning children to mount him. They comply and whisper their darkest desires in his ear, receiving a small candy cane in return for their heavenly confessions. The beastly demi-god of this dimension chuckles, pats the child on the head, poses for a photo, and beckons the next prospect forth, repeating the process again and again and again. This is the hub. This is where the youth of tomorrow begin their training, imbibing the minuscule parcels of magic, drinking the potion, and swearing to return for years to come to drink the healing nectar of the goblin kingdom – of the mall.
Poor and wealthy. Old and young. Attractive and hideous. They all come here. They all visit this faerie realm. They all browse past the jewelry and fragrance displays. The poor press their work-worn hands against the glass surrounding sparkling gems only to be shooed away because all they have is a tainted credit rating that rarely allows them to the opportunity to bask in the gleaming, awe-inspiring diamond of success. They are not the high priestesses. They are the congregation. They are the fodder on the hierarchal institution. They are boar-toothed, drooling orcs dreaming of elven wares, dreaming to taste it again.
A frost-bitten man in denim once approached the fragrance counter. The pointed ears of the painted goblin resting on a glass throne behind the diamond-encrusted counter rose peculiarly. Her jagged teeth twinkled behind her half grin in the abduction-styled lighting above as she watched this stray mutt eye perfumes that began at $150. The ale-gulping ruffian pointed to one of the pricey delicacies, flashing his compassionate blue eyes, eyes that the Salvation Army volunteers resonated with.
“Which credit card will you be using?” the moppet hissed, adjusting her phony beehive haircut as she stepped off her sentry tower.
A wad of cash landed on the counter – a wad of hundreds. This beastly cretin had not the clean-shaven looks nor the silken monkey suits the priests of this realm often wore. His hands were rugged like his face. His clothes were of cheap threads caked with dirt. Yet, his eyes were deep pools, powerful, swirling galaxies of wisdom beyond this realm. He was disjoint in time, a beyonder, a magician in the land of tricksters walking amongst peons to cloak himself.
The snobbish whore bit her lower lip. Her bony fingers slowly enclosed around the green bills and took them to the register. Tony Bennett's voice sounded distant as the world around her grew hazy. The fragrances thickened like smog in her lungs. She looked back at the man's hands, his gloomy hands that clutched things bare in the tundra realm outside of this one. This pauper walked between dimensions. He could taste the fruits of the faerie kingdom and battle the brute elements beyond the concrete moat. The cloaked magician was only here to acquire the fire of the gods and give it away to one of the damned, one of those given a candy cane as a child. To him, “mall madness” was not rushing around accumulating bags of plastic horse shit, buying jerseys with some asshole's name on them, or admiring the stylistic design of the waste basket he just threw a snotty Kleenex into. The sorceror's “mall madness” was planting a virus in the hub of this organism. It upsetting the balance of power, stealing a security guard's golf cart only to drive around smashing potions with a sledgehammer – become a gremlin rather than a cog in the social inversion.
Woodfield Mall is the dream of man. It's that fantasy realm lying beyond the medieval village. It's the castle and kingdom the “hero” rides out to where all his dreams come true. It's the escape from the harsh climate outside, the Dubai oasis protected from the mutant-infested nuclear fallout that exists around it. For those who stumble around and window shop or buy paltry items every now and then only to dream of bigger toys, it's the carrot that will never be lowered. The absurdity of its existence is a testament to the enslavement tactics of the wealthy, yet it's also the reason why the 'War on Drugs' will never be won. Drugs are the only way one can comprehend and fathom Woodfield's place in this world. For, there is no beauty within all those flashing lights and elegant smells. There is as much wonderment and majesty at Woodfield as there is in a McDonald's cheeseburger. After the indulgence, the devourer may feel bloated briefly, but that emptiness surges up once again, like the never ending thirst that comes with soft drink consumption. There is no fulfillment, only bloating and emptiness. In the chaos and impermanence of Nature there can be beauty but never in the genetically modified fabrications of man. In those machinations, there is only power and thirst.
