Likely Normal

There was a time when malls were the pulsating heart of teenage civilization—a neon-lit paradise where you could buy books at Waldenbooks, records at Sam Goody, and inhale an Orange Julius while loitering near the fountain like it was your civic duty. Today, walking through one feels like visiting the ruins of a lost society that worshipped at the altar of consumerism, earning them the wrath of God. The only things thriving now are the sad, resilient Cinnabons that refuse to acknowledge the apocalypse around them, pumping their cinnamon-scented fumes into the void like a bakery-themed life-support system.

Gone are the mainstream anchors of suburban aspiration—the Gap, the Disney Store, the Starbucks where you pretended to study. In their place: a dystopian bazaar of pawn shops, gold-buying kiosks, and tattoo parlors, forming a perfect trifecta of “places your mother warned you about.” The only thing missing is a bail bonds office, and that’s only because the mall isn’t lucky enough to be near a courthouse. (Give it time.)

The remaining stores exist in a state of quantum retail—both “going out of business” and “somehow still here” simultaneously. That shoe store with the 70% off signs in the window since 2013? Still kicking. The cell phone repair booth staffed by a guy who definitely doesn’t ask questions? Thriving. Meanwhile, the escalators run endlessly with no riders, like a Willy Wonka nightmare for urban planners.

The few remaining shoppers wander the corridors like zombies, drawn by forces they don’t understand. Teens still come, but only to ironically take selfies in front of the dead Sears, like tourists to ancient monuments. Elderly mall walkers power-walk past shuttered storefronts, their sneakers squeaking with the determination of people who refuse to let capitalism’s collapse interrupt their cardio. Meanwhile, the Muzak plays on—a relentless loop of instrumental pop hits from 1998, now serving as the mall’s own personal elegy.

Only time will tell what the mall will transform into-hopefully not a landfill, but until then, we’ll always have the memories. Oh, and that one stubborn Cinnabon, still warm, still sweet, still pretending everything’s fine.