Desolate. Stepping inside to the air conditioned discount store, our protagonist immediately feels the foreboding of a dying mall. Not that there weren't clues outside. The closed streets, the detour cones, and the light traffic were all there. But it's a Tuesday afternoon after a holiday weekend, and those signs say “pardon our dust.” It's just a transition period, right?
The wide open space gives way to an oblivious, sauntering store clerk. Like a 1980s game of Frogger, our hero lightly adjusts his gait to avoid knocking into the clerk. Or is it a security guard? Regardless, it's quickly out of mind.
It's a weekday afternoon in the discount store. The odd gentleman or two are perusing the racks in the men's section. A woman is walking swiftly back to the parking lot, past the roped off sections and out of the fluorescent lighting that's strangely dim. Aren't fluorescents supposed to feel clinical? I suppose the conversation she's having in Spanish on her phone warms the place up.
Good luck finding a clerk for assistance should you need it, but our man does not. He finds the housewares section he came to peruse. The mall is only a side quest on his journey to discovering the best places for Chinese in this Bay Area, but the hike to the University area needed to have more to it than foodie-ism. Skimming the bedding options, he's not surprised linen quilts are nowhere to be found. It's a discount department store. Maybe other places in the mall will have one. After all, a furniture store is another anchor store.
Hello, darkness. An expectation of vibrant consumerism is quickly dashed. Walking through the corridors of the mall, shop after shop is closed, lights off, and–half the time–boarded-up. A childless, young couple is window shopping at the by-appointment toy store. Natural light from above provides a welcome respite, but with the phalanx of darkness on both sides, the bleakness engulfs all.
The way to the furniture anchor includes a jaunt through the food court. The escalators up are in fine order, but they reveal an empty atrium below. Our protagonist can only imagine what the Santa stand must have looked like at Christmas, decades past. The columns seem to be perfect for candy cane and tinsel decorations.
Half-closed, it's a wonder the food court has multiple open stalls. And is it intentional that they're all on the same side? Every stall is custom designed; it can't be easy to move stalls. The gentleman at the teriyaki stand eagerly extends a sample on a toothpick for this lone man cutting through the court. “No thanks, I just ate,” our hero says in his own mind to the chicken vendor on his periphery.
Another corridor of closed stores and then BAM. He's at the furniture store, except he's not. Microsoft Word printed signs in English and Spanish haphazardly placed on the window tell potential customers the store hours. They also tell them which entrances are open. The entrance to the furniture store from the mall is closed. Is it to prevent theft? Looking into the store, it seems like that portion of the store is more warehouse than showroom. Or does it indicate something even worse? The lack of traffic really must be dire.
A 180 and the trek repeated in reverse, our protagonist is now the one abandoning the fluorescent lighting of the discount store. Unlocking and starting his car, he exhales. This walk knocked something out of him, and this is quite the punctuation. The last song he was listening to resumes on the car stereo: Muse's Dead Inside. Indeed.