“I’ve never touched one of these,” she told me, lifting the receiver of the pay phone. She appears proud she knows to hold it up to her ear, maybe she saw it on TikTok.

We are in the only mall in the small city we live in, right at the edge of town before the street turns into the highway. 

The mall was my idea. I didn’t grow up in this city, but the mall still felt familiar to me. 

There was not much left of it, Canadian Tire was the anchor, a liquor store was next to it, flanked by Dollarama and Winners. 

We were there to do a photoshoot, using the outfits I have made or thrifted to sell in my Etsy shop. 

Ellen and I have interests in common, so despite the generation gap we are symbiotic. 

Her generation is enigmatic to me, but spending time with her, I am increasingly able to read the cues, to recognize the subtle signs of one of them enjoying themselves.

So different from Gen X who as teenagers would have run, shrieking in excitement, towards a new experience, no matter how mundane.

Ellen is not that way. I watch for slight changes of expression in her face and attitude.

She agrees to wear the clothes I made, without hesitation.

This has me feeling intense joy and pride, but I have learned enough now, not to overtly express those feelings. 

We go into the deserted ladies’ washroom to change outfits. 

A memory floats to the surface, of me doing a pregnancy test in a mall bathroom. 

I reflect that Ellen is the right age to be my daughter. 

As a teen I would escape the discord at home, by wandering around the mall for hours, ‘shopping’ though of course I had no money. 

Later in life, when I was unwelcome almost everywhere, I would sit alone on one of the benches for hours, next to the oversize pots of fake looking rubber plants, listening to the tinkling of the canned music or, in one location, I forget in which city, a fountain that would spurt an intermittent geyser into the air. 

This food court of 2025 is a remnant, the kiosks mostly shuttered, the only tenants are a delicious smelling Chinese food buffet, and a brave pizza place, with a stand-up white board in front of the counter, featuring a hand drawn picture of a pizza slice, scribbled boldly in fat black marker. I wonder how long they will survive.

We take some shots at the pay phone.

I tell Ellen a few stories of calling boys and hanging up. Learning that you could, at one time, do this all afternoon with impunity, for as long as you had quarters, has the edges of her mouth twitching, it is almost a smile.

She pushes the buttons, even I can hear the loud beeps. Looking amused for a moment, she pretends to talk.  After a moment, she hastily tries to replace the receiver, fumbles. 

She drops the phone, backing away as the receiver sways at the end of the cord. 

Her eyes are wide “I think there was someone there,” she says.

There is not a soul around, not even a security guard. 

It is near to closing time, we discuss we are a little afraid of being locked in. 

Ellen seems genuinely spooked, so we exit into the summer evening.

The parking lot is huge and mostly empty. 

The light is good here. I drag a peach colored lace dress from the 1980s out of the trunk of the car. 

The dress had come originally from a mall, from a chain store that no longer exists. 

Ellen slips it on and it comes wondrously to life, but it’s not the life it had before.

Familiar, but without warning, it is full of new, unexpected potential, it’s not merely nostalgic. Ellen’s hair is not sprayed or teased, it falls to her shoulders in natural waves. Her eyeshadow is not blue and purple, she’s not accessorized with a strand of fake pearls and white pumps. She’s a whole new animal, and the dress is responding well. I adjust my camera settings.

I wonder where the girls go, these days. When they need to cry, when they gather for war counsel, to hold peace talks, to outfit themselves for either of these, for connections both direct and indirect.

Where do they call each other into the parking lot to settle differences, where do they dream… hell, where do they WORK, if not the mall. Where is the fashion parade, the conveyor belt of available products and prospects, that makes life seem so full of possibilities?

I am not at the age yet where I feel old in my body, but this deserted mall suddenly makes me feel old in my spirit, were I Ellen’s age again, I would be lost. 

The evening has deepened; golden hour touches the edges of Ellen’s hair.

I don’t see a person, but in the deepening shadows I hear the sound of the big locks turning on the big glass doors of the mall. Business hours are over.

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Video & Image: from “Extended Call” by Larissa Hikel