Everyone is selling you something at the mall. The woman with the tight face and brown blazer wants me to buy Dolce & Gabbana for Men. Abercrombie & Fitch is trying to sell me beach-frolicking coolness at fifty bucks a button-up. A slick and spiky haired twentysomething is trying to get me onto a new cellphone plan. The balding Asian man in the yellow apron wants me to shell out for bourbon chicken, and he’s so confident in his ability to sell me that he’s doling out free samples. Even the teenage goths – who aren’t asking for my money (only a spare cigarette) – want me to buy the fact that they’re not conforming to society, to this abyss pulling us all in. The troubling thing is they’re doing it from the food court.
Most of these places thrive because of precise calculations made by men in suits who sit in a room and know that the majority of us are easily swayed by loud, pulsating music and attractive models and the idea that they know what cool is and you don’t. And you know because they know about music before you do, and their logo is emblazoned on the shirt of the guy/girl who stole your guy/girl, and Tom Brady wears their clothing. His eyes are steely and he has a beautiful woman hanging off of his shoulder. Are we really this fucking easy to manipulate?
Why are you buying underwear at Victoria’s Secret? Is it their low cost? Their comfort? Or is it that you’ve come to understand that Victoria’s Secret is synomymous with sexiness? That you’ve bought into this idea that silky panties are going to make him/someone that much more crazy about you? No one even stops to think of how absolutely fucking ridiculous and superficial that concept is, because they’re too entranced by the postured models in shiny teal underwear that entrances the males who walk by.
These men in suits don’t really have to do much. They provide the atmosphere and the idea, and we carry out the legwork. They simply prey upon a fear that we’ve already created for ourselves – the fear that we don’t fit in or look good enough or dress well enough or are cool enough or have enough personality to distinguish ourselves from the masses. And we buy into it mindlessly, because being distracted by the fear of those around us distracts from seeing the actions of those above us. You are actively buying into your role, and the price is higher than the mass-produced, faux-vintage Stones shirt you purchased to make you seem deeper/hipper. They knew of your conditioned desire to give the aura that you shop in Brooklyn thrift shops. They sold thousands of that same exact shirt.
The words ‘retail therapy’ have become commonplace in our lexicon. It’s usually said with a tongue-in-cheek eye roll, but it’s an absolute fucking truth. There’s nothing criminal about picking up a Stones T or a pair of sneakers…but how often is a necessity, how often is it a whim, and how often is it a feeble attempt to make yourself slightly more distracted from the frustrations and disappointments of the world around you? How much of your purchase comes with an underlying, unspoken hope that what you’ve just purchased is going to somehow make your happier or – more pertinently – more desireable?
People look back on history at the atrocious course of events that took place, events that were witnessed and supported by a massive number of people, all them them dully walking through it blindly, focused only on what they’re doing and never questioning why they are doing it. And I am never more aware of this sensation than at the mall.
“You ready?”, she asks, twirling a shopping bag with her index finger. I rise from the bench in silence and walk by her side towards the car.
