RETAIL APOCALYPSE

I’m not much of a shopper.  Never have been.  I get the typical replacement stuff like socks, underwear, another pair of shoes as needed, but that’s about it.  Last year I made a rare significant clothing purchase in that I bought two suits for the first time in about 15 years.  Because of my long-ingrained aversion to shopping, I’ve kept some distance from this “retail apocalypse” that’s ravaged the United States in recent years.  I see it of course; with the vacant box stores, half rented strip malls and the lonely, empty commercial business districts found throughout.  Perhaps I’m an unwitting accomplice to killing American retail with my shopping habits, or lack thereof, though I’m sure there’s plenty of blame to go around.  Mr. Bezos?

Not long ago a close friend of mine was celebrating a milestone birthday.  We’ve known each other since junior high and I wanted to find something that was original and meaningful as a gift.  He’s at a stage in life where he doesn’t need much, and since I was a little lean in coming up with interesting ideas, I decided to take a stroll through the Crystal Mall in Waterford, Connecticut in hopes of finding something that would catch my eye.   I didn’t go there with terribly high expectations.  Crystal Mall seems to disproportionately cater to those a bit younger than me, with a surfeit of stores carrying sneakers, New England Patriots merchandise (will this team ever go away?), and a slew of products sporting a marijuana leaf on it.   Back in 1984, the year the Crystal Mall opened, I would have been right in my element; likely with a part time job in one of the stores after school.  These days I probably look like a narc.  

The Crystal Mall, like many malls, is situated not far from the highway where you first pass a vacated Toys “R” Us along the right-hand side.  There’s a large “For Rent” sign already somewhat faded that’s posted on the edge of the parking lot with the leasing agent’s details at the bottom.  You don’t get a sense the phone is ringing much in terms of prospective tenants.  The building already looks like it’s been empty for at least five years, only to be accentuated by the fact that there are no cars, as in zero, seen in the parking lot.  The only presumed activity is from furry little critters moving in as a result of poor old Geoffrey the Giraffe getting kicked to the curb.  Up the street, Eastern Mountain Sports (EMS), is in the later stages of their liquidation sale.  EMS, a Northeastern retailer of about 15 locations, has never had the catalog business or outdoor accessories to be a mini LL Bean.  Nor do they carry the requisite type of manly items like firearms, knives and archery equipment to be a full-fledged outfitter like Cabela’s either.  As a result, they’ve meandered for years as an oversized store selling warm clothing and overpriced backpacks that can be easily founded elsewhere.  Now the squeeze is on.  The sale’s been going on for a few months already and will probably continue indefinitely until the last down vest is sold.  If you’re willing to bother, there’s actually a small placard posted on the lower right-hand corner of the front door listing some Frequently Asked Questions.  You have to literally crouch down in order to read them unless you’re less than four feet tall.  The gist of the message is two main things: One, all sales are final; so those polypropylene socks better damn well fit, and, Two, EMS, at least as a company, is not going out of business in case you saw this sale as yet another sign of local economic turmoil. Instead, it’s simply a move to a less expensive location that’s conducive to providing a more intimate, rewarding shopping experience that you can’t get by ordering online.  Where and when they’ll relocate has not been determined, and while you get a sense that Eastern Mountain Sports has at least a few vital signs remaining, it’s days of doing business in Waterford are all but over.  I proceed to the mall.

I tend to park on the west side of the mall for no reason other than habit.  It’s actually the least convenient place for me since the stores that I somewhat like, as well as the food court, are all on the opposite side of the mall.  But I do it anyway.  Parking on the west side is easier these days since the anchor store that once was a Sears remains unrented; so there’s plenty of spots.   Simon, the Crystal Mall’s corporate parent, acknowledges this cavernous vacancy by offering these upbeat words: “NEW. NEXT. ON ITS WAY…more shopping, dining and entertainment in the works.”  As to when these happier times are scheduled to arrive is still anyone’s guess.  

It’s hard to decide where to start once you get inside since, like Eastern Mountain Sports, nearly everything in every store is on sale.  Mind you this is not the Barney’s Warehouse Sale that supersedes a glorious summer getaway to the Hamptons, even when the dog days of August make the most refined Manhattanite snappy and cantankerous.  These are permanent markdowns; at least as permanent as the store remains open.  The misspelled “Bleeker Street Slip On” shoe by Nunn Bush will still be 40% off come Memorial Day -- so there’s no need to panic.  Feeling somewhat relieved that I didn’t have to attack these markdowns with 5:00 AM Black Friday vigor, I systematically walked from store to store; going in where I wanted to, passing by where I didn’t.  I started with the Payless Shoe Store directly across from me.   

It was nice to see a Payless Shoe store indoors for a change.  Most of the Payless Shoe Stores that I knew were often found in ratty, nondescript strip malls, usually wedged between something like a Jackson Hewitt tax prep office and a shithole buffet.   This store, however, was just one among the 2,100 locations that are planned to be closed by May.  As I walk in, I see that the lone, middle-aged woman working there was talking on the store’s landline next to the register.  She nodded as I walked in but didn’t end her telephone conversation on my account.  I didn’t care.  I could also tell it was a personal call but I didn’t care about that either.  I didn’t need another pair of shoes, but since everything was 30-50% off, maybe, just maybe, I could part with fifteen bucks if, say, a pair of purple Airwalks in a 9½ D just happened to be waiting for me on the rack.  But those purple Airwalks were not to be found, and as I was about to conclude my quick visit the clerk hobbled over with one crutch to the aisle I was standing in.  I was the only customer in the store, perhaps the only one that had been there in the last hour or so.  I hadn’t noticed the crutch when I walked in, but I couldn’t help but think she looked a bit piratesque in the way she galumphed toward me.  I was conflicted for a moment with the pirate comparison, considering that I could see this woman was, at least for time being, somewhat disabled; not to mention facing possible unemployment soon as well.  And yet, the insensitive man that I can sometimes be was still waiting for her to let out a big loud “Aaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhh” the way pirates do.  The clerk and I made eye contact, a human thing that’s practically verboten these days.  She looked lonely, craving for some kind of interaction in the windowless cell that would soon cease to be a Payless Shoe Store.  You’d think she’d been in solitary confinement for the past 23½ hours the way she looked at me.  Like I was the prison guard coming to escort her to the yard for that treasured half hour of sunshine.  I wasn’t in the most conversational mood that day but I would have talked to her for a few minutes.  But since this was her turf, I’d let her make the first move.  And yet, all she says is…

“Do you need any help finding anything?”

“Ah…no, not really…just looking at what you might have in my size,” I answer, then add, “I see the store’s closing.”  I realized after I said it that that probably wasn’t the best way to propel the conversation.  Kind of like reminding a guy on death row he’s got three days before receiving his lethal injection.  

“Yeah, we’ll probably stay open until the end of May now.”

“Oh…right.”

She then broke off contact and one-crutched her way down the aisle before she vanished.  Perhaps if she put business aside for just a moment and simply opened up about the weather or anything else for that matter, I probably would have been a little more responsive.  But I was put off by her being so rote and pedestrian with me despite the huge void she was transmitting.  It’s easy to disconnect when the circumstances look bleak and revert back to what’s familiar, especially while being under constant surveillance and other demands.  I could have been a little warmer myself, I’ll admit.   But once I confirmed that I wasn’t seriously shopping for shoes, she just shut down like some beaten down lab rat that’s been subject to constant blaring noise.  Then she just disappeared…somewhere.  Probably the last I’ll ever see of her. 

In the Crystal Mall You Can Buy Dress Clothes from the Prix Fixe Menu

I go a few doors down, past the Old Navy store and into A&J All Star Sports.  A&J is one of a few shops in the Crystal Mall that’s a homegrown merchant and not a national brand.  They specialize in sports memorabilia and various team merchandise. They’ve got some fun things in there, but much of it comes off as frivolous in an area that’s been in belt-tightening mode for years. The store changed owners a few years ago and hasn’t felt the same since.  The previous owner was a guy named Sam who had this refreshing street kid vibe about him despite being around 55 years old.  He showed no restraint with his language, about the only employee in the whole damn place who gave themselves license to be unfiltered.  For that alone I always made a point of visiting his store; where one night we had a wonderfully expletive laden discussion about the tedium of the Super Bowl in the days leading up to the game.  This was probably five years ago.  I don’t have many therapeutic conversations like this in eastern Connecticut, and it was a welcome flashback to my days of living in the big city. Nevertheless, Sam had to have seen the writing on the wall and got out while he could.  Can’t blame him, but it’s too bad he’s gone.

I go inside and there’s a TV mounted upon on the right-hand wall as you first walk in.  It’s set up primarily for those working behind the counter, less so for the customers, in that they don’t get batshit bored when things are slow; which is presumably often.  Before I can even see the TV, I already recognize the bombastically urban voice of Stephen A. Smith from ESPN.  He’s giving a throaty rant for the umpteenth time about how Lebron is failing to carry the Lakers and if they could only woo Anthony Davis in a trade from New Orleans and blah, blah, blah.  It was becoming a pretty exhausted subject by that point in early March, but it’s hard to keep things fresh in the world of 24/7 sports yap. I like Stephen A., I used to enjoy listening to him on the car radio while covering my sales territory in the big city.  These days I just catch him sporadically.  I stop to watch for a moment.  I’m somewhat mindful that I’m being completely ignored by the lone individual, not standing, but sitting behind the register staring at his phone oblivious to everything.  As with Payless, I didn’t really care about being invisible.  It wasn’t as if I was seeking out a pair Milwaukee Bucks tube socks or anything and needed special assistance, but still.  I walk right by the counter and turn my head in his direction before he finally senses my look to acknowledge me. 

“Hey how ya doin’,” he says still seated.

“Not bad, you?”

“You have a particular team you’re looking for?”

“Oh, I’ve got people who are fans of all kinds of teams” I say.  “Let me look around.”

“No problem.”

Though the store essentially looks the same as it did when Sam held the reigns, after giving it a harder look it’s clear that there’s less apparel for sale and simply more…stuff.  It didn’t make sense to me.  People like garb, not officially licensed wine bottle holders or some miniature, New Orleans Saints totem pole thingy for forty bucks.  What happened to the Yankees jerseys I bought for my boys a few years ago for Christmas?  I remember that we actually negotiated on the price, as if I was buying them from an Algerian souk.   When does that ever happen in a mall?  Whatever few apparel offerings they had seemed more like they were to be curated than worn.   I point to the autographed Kristaps Porzingis jersey that’s framed on the wall.  It’s a few weeks out of date since he had recently been traded from the Knicks to the Mavericks. 

No Dahling...That's Not a Slipper, but an Officially Licensed Wine Bottle Holder.  

“Is that now half price,” I ask while gesturing toward the jersey.

“I think it sells for around $350.00,” the guy said, seemingly unaware of my subtle reference to Porzingis’s new digs.  

I wondered if he even knew he’d been traded.  I mean, it was a pretty newsworthy transaction.  The kind of thing somebody working in store like this would be on top of.  It was clear this guy was way too used to not selling much.  I exited the store and let him get back to looking at his phone.

What Dat? Well...It's a Saints Totem Pole Thingy For Around $40.00

I walk into the corridor and hear Linda Ronstadt’s rendition of “Poor Poor Pitiful Me”.  It had been a while since I heard that song – any version of that song for that matter – and was wondering if they were playing it for my benefit.  A little bone for at least giving the Crystal Mall a slice of my time.  I wasn’t ready to lay my head on the railroad tracks just yet, but I’m sure others were.  It wasn’t exactly the kind of song you’d expect to hear as mall background music; at least not these days, and so I sat in an unused vending massage chair until the song played out.

  

I then walked briefly into a Native American “craft” store and looked at the artificial dreamcatchers that were almost certainly imported from China.  Once again, the woman working behind the register was talking on the landline about something besides the store’s faux spiritual motif. There was a large wolf tapestry made out of the same fabric as a Motel 6 bedsheet hanging in one corner; a radiant aura beamed from the wolf’s howling head.  In the opposite corner a similar tapestry triumphed a grizzly bear’s primal energy.  Grrrrrrrr...  It was about all the bullshit I could take in a span of 60 seconds.  I turned around and left to the yapping woman’s complete indifference.

Next, I went into the children’s clothing store, Crazy 8.  Across the hallway was one of four vacant storefronts that I counted.  That number to soon double.  If my sons were just a little younger, I could have taken full advantage of their going out of business sale.  Not just that specific location, but the whole chain, which, along with its parent company Gymboree, Inc, is folding for good as they file for bankruptcy for the second time.   In fact, Gymboree and Crazy 8 have already officially shut down their websites to commerce, they’re just waiting to dump whatever inventory that’s left through their stores.   A few doors down, Chico’s, a clothing retailer for women, is completely absent of customers despite having everything at least forty percent off.  Even Victoria’s Secret, which at one time provided more innuendo than a Melrose Place season finale, sadly attempts to stave off its mortality K-Mart style: buy two bras, get the third for free.  

I now hear “Stuck in the Middle with You” by Stealers Wheel in the corridor.  No clowns or jokers on either side of me unfortunately, the place was too empty.  The only thing that I was stuck in the middle with were apathy and boredom. 

I enter Spencer’s, the novelty chain of more than 600 locations.   I never knew this store very well since there wasn’t one near where I grew up.  That’s not to say where I was raised was too snooty to have such a place, it’s that we already had a thriving mom and pop enterprise who had established themselves as the de facto provider of fart spray.  Any national chain moving in on their turf would likely burn to the ground under mysterious circumstances, or at the very least have bricks repeatedly thrown through their windows.  The world of fake dog shit and cock shaped bric-a-brac could be pretty unforgiving in the 1980s, and the executives who ran Spencer’s understood that it would behoove them to set up shop elsewhere.  Regardless, Spencer’s had demonstrated in the past that it can sustain where there’s less competition.  But I wonder how Spencer’s makes it these days, that is, assuming they are still making it.  From what I saw in their Crystal Mall location, I can’t help but think everyone’s out of fresh ideas when a set of ping-pong balls saying “FUCK” on them sells for $4.99.  Or…for a few dollars more you can buy a bib that reads “I am proof that Mommy puts out”. There wasn’t anyone working in the store when I came in.  The lone employee on duty had stepped out for a few minutes, so it was a missed opportunity to loot the store and sell vibrators out of my car from across the local high school.   I decided to take the high road and not steal anything, but then realized that taking the high road in a place like Spencer’s all but defines irony.  When the guy, who was probably around 23 years old, returned, I asked him about the ping-pong balls.  He pulled them high off the rack where he had to extend himself with the tips of his toes.  He was ready to hand them to me but then hesitated since he could tell I was more curious than serious about buying them. 

“You…ah… want to get ‘em,” he asked rather unsure and halfheartedly.  

“Nah…just hadn't seen these balls before,” I said; and then thought that if this guy can somehow remain sane enough to keep this job for another 90 days or so, he’d have a good shot at being a manager. 

“No worries” he said, extending on his toes again to replace the item.  After hearing “no worries” used a few other times that day, I had concluded that that was the unofficial moment when a store employee gladly excused themself from trying to sell you anything; especially in a store specializing in low-brow falderal like Spencer’s.   I got out of there and went to the food court.

Signs Like This are Ubiquitous in the Crystal Mall

There were more discounts along the way to the food court, the GNC and Talbots both having 50% markdowns of different sorts.   I reached the food court in the mall.  It’s about the only place in the mall where you still pay full price, if not premium price.  I say premium price since I somehow paid almost nine bucks for four soft tacos and a small Diet Pepsi at the Taco Bell there.  That seemed high for Taco Bell, especially when ordering off the basic menu, but I didn’t squabble over the price.  As a result, however, I did grab more than twice as much “Fire” sauce than needed, as well as maintained my steadfast commitment of taking restaurant napkins to later be stashed in the center console of my car.  I scan the place and see what looks like a bunch of hollowed out souls.   That pale, blank look of overweight people ignoring each other but giving their phones full attention.   I have dark thoughts about how this food court could be the next in the long line of recent mass shootings and make a mental note of where the exits are.  Of course it won’t mean a damn thing against a lethal round from an AR-15, but I still plan for the worst.  I hate that I have these thoughts, but I do.  This mall just has the scent of something awful looming at times, and so I eat quickly despite knowing that getting killed by a rampaging gunman is still statistically slim.  

In the rear of the food court a tall, lean Asian man stands in front of the Wok Express.  The backlit images of saucy, glazed General Tso’s Chicken above the serving line look scrumptious.  The man is standing there with a plate full of free samples.  I can’t tell exactly what he’s offering, but I can see the toothpicks pointing perpendicularly upright from the morsels of food.  He forces a smile to any passersby and extends the plate out to them.  You can tell he’d rather be doing something else, but he keeps his game face on.  It’s just his turn for sample duty – way it goes when you work at Wok Express.  He seems surprised that he’s not getting as many takers as one would expect.  Even if it’s only a little cube of moo shu pork or whatever -- it’s still free -- what’s not to love about that?  Yet this is proving to be harder than it should be, and so the man turns toward his Wok Express cohorts and shrugs his shoulders as if to say…like, what the hell?  He perseveres, keeps handing out his plate to anybody around him but is unable to generate much interest.  He looks back once more where they gesture to him to keep going…it’s part of the job, do it!  But it’s to no avail, just a few takers even at the height of lunch hour.  I admire the man’s refusal to give up, though I have no doubt that every time he looks back he’s hoping they’ll tell him to come in off the floor.  He continues to look around, this time making a better effort to make eye contact, but his expression seems to be less about the samples and more about recruiting anyone willing to trade places with him.  Still no takers.  He then rolls is eyes upwards, as if to count the minutes left in this demoralizing task. 

It's bad enough to be in a place that can't sell anything for money.  It's ten times worse if you can't even give away your stuff for free.  A typical day for a mall on life support.  You can almost count the remaining heartbeats on one hand.