In the classifieds the other day, I saw an ad for a house that listed as its two major selling points: one-half mile from good schools; two miles from nearest mall.
It doesn't matter if the fire department is 25 miles away or if the house is next to a nuclear site; if you can read by the lights of the mall, it's a premium location.I went to Boise, Idaho, a few years ago to give a speech. The moment I entered the car, the hostess wanted to dazzle me with the area. She didn't mention the incredible beauty of the state, how the community went over the top with United Way donations or how well the economy was doing. She said proudly, "We're getting our first mall."
Next to getting a football franchise, malls are just about the biggest attraction a community can have.
To me, they look like the starship Enterprise has just set down in a cornfield. I expect Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock to venture into the parking lot and ask each other, "Are they friendly?"
Within its confines is everything you need to make you comfortable for the rest of your life: food courts, prescription glasses, movie theaters, yogurt, books, candles, post office, flu shots, toys, pets, and ice skating rinks.
Malling has become a verb in this country. To many women a day without a visit to the mall is like a day without sunshine. In the early hours of winter mornings, people are drawn to them, and engage in power walks before the stores open. They have a Cinnabun for breakfast, go home to change clothes and return to browse. They break for lunch and resume shopping until early evening, when they go to a movie. They have pizza and go home.
The army of mallheads continues to grow. So do malls. But there is a scary element. I've seen people dazed and confused who aren't even shopping. They are looking for a way out of the mall and don't have a clue where the exits are. They hold no hope they will ever see their cars again.
A woman stopped me in a mall a few weeks ago and asked, "What day is it?" "Wednesday," I said. She remained stoic and countered, "What year?"
As I cruised around the mall last week in search of a parking space, I paused a moment to look at the giant edifice of glass and lights, and a chill went through my body. Suppose . . . just suppose . . . aliens got impatient with setting down in Arkansas and herding a couple of farmers onto their spaceship. Suppose they lured 50,000 shoppers into a mall who couldn't find their way out and then blasted off into space to become the first mall in the galaxy.
I'd never be missed.