Mallrats and Minor Chords

Every mall is a soap opera,
but ours—a full-blown telenovela,
piercing gun cocked like Chekhov’s pistol,
ready in Claire’s for some drama to pop.
Fluorescents hummed like tired angels.
Cold Stone across the hall wept sugar.
Seven of us underpaid misfits—
each markdown a fresh betrayal.
There was me,
two stoners skipping trig,
Brenna: phoenix girl,
rising from the ashes of Brendon’s Panda Express tryst,
lip rings glinting like daggers mid-breakdown.
She bled eyeliner,
wore band pins like medals
from the wars she started at lunch.
Brendon, GameStop boy—frosted tips, 2010.
They screamed across the food court once,
a carousel birthday song caught mid-note
between “Happy” and “Help.”
Cody, the sad boy with a guitar,
bandanas and broken feelings.
He cried over denim.
Hooked up with Brenna
while dressed as a sexy vampire—
mesh sleeves, dollar-store eyeliner,
and enough feelings to flood the stockroom.
Marcus: assistant manager, prophet,
discipline disciple of the 7 Habits.
“Synergize,” he’d preach
as we hung shirts that screamed,
I LISTEN TO MUSIC THAT HURTS MY PARENTS.
He dreamed of Asheville,
healing haircuts,
vinyl sermons,
but mostly just stayed,
laminated quotes and all.
Once, a staff meeting combusted
over Hot Pockets and eyeliner theft.
Cody, tearful again,
yelled about emotional black mold
and stormed off like a Shakespearean understudy.
But we showed up.
Every. Day.
Folding, hanging,
dodging entitled moms and teenage burglars,
covering shifts for heartache
or hangovers.
After hours,
we split cinnamon twists,
played burn-a-store,
chose our arson targets with glee.
The playlist wars raged on:
Cody—Bright Eyes.
Brenna—Paramore or death.
Marcus, whispering Norah Jones
like a secret balm.
Me?
I slipped in My Chem when no one watched.
The store transformed—
drama turned sacrament,
hoodies folded to the beat of our heartbreaks.
We learned each other.
Brenna feared silence.
Cody covered his arms
when the world got too loud.
Marcus, blazer and band tee,
once whispered,
I peaked at 22. I know it.
Then it ended.
Trendy Threads fell—
replaced by Halloween ghosts
and glow-in-the-dark golf.
Cody fled to Cincinnati.
Brenna found a welder.
Marcus went bald, brewed kombucha,
cut hair like it was therapy.
Now, the mall’s a graveyard of neon.
Shuttered dreams,
discount perfume in the air.
But I still see them sometimes—
Brenna screaming,
Cody tuning,
Marcus preaching synergy to the ghosts.
It was chaos.
It was beautiful.
It was,
in every broken, brilliant way,
the best first job I ever had.

Gary

Mall Santa showed up in November and chaos bloomed. He was

named Gary, reeking of schnapps and conspiracy theories,

demanded to be called “Saint Nick” and warned us about Bluetooth

and anti-male carousels, but somehow made magic happen with

every sticky, shrieking kid who climbed onto his nicotine-stained

lap. He didn’t ask what they wanted for Christmas, but what would

make December better, and when he finally cracked—on a mic,

mid-shift, sighing “People are monsters”—security dragged him

out like a fallen prophet in red velvet. They replaced him with

Barry, who smelled like dryer sheets and made no existential

pronouncements, but the mall dimmed without Gary’s weird light.

Weeks later, I found a napkin note in the supply closet that read:

The reindeer aren’t real. But the magic is. Every holiday since,

under fake snow and piped-in cheer, I remember him—the mad

Santa who broke under capitalism but reminded us that wonder,

however messy, still mattered.

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Image: “Poke, Colonie Center” by Daniel Nester