Kill the Mall

by Pasha Malla

  I have heard, at various occasions in my life, the term “pain tolerance.” Apparently human suffering rates on a scale, with 1 connoting the sort of benign, almost negligible discomfort that one has to be reminded to feel, and 10 being equivalent to agony so tortuous that death seems preferable. At one end of the spectrum would be a crick in the neck, and at the other something like finding oneself stuffed in a vat of flammable acid and simultaneously drowning, suffocating, dissolving and being burned alive, or, as another example, having one’s face chewed off by a blunt-toothed mule.

  I am not sure where being wedged between cars in a parking garage rates on this scale. A six? Was the scale subjective and personal, or had some agreed-upon baseline been established? But how was that fair to, say, a baby, who bawls at a shift in the wind? It seemed absurd to measure an infant’s “pain tolerance” alongside those lunatics at the circus who willingly pierce their own flesh with swords, or a bearded adventurer who ascends arctic glaciers until his toes turn blue and fall off—and keeps going.

  Certainly anyone would have found my predicament uncomfortable. And the way in which my legs were stuck, with a slight twist at the knee, ached in a way that was already making me sweat. Was this how it would end, I thought: in a parking garage? No! Even I didn’t deserve such an ignominious fate. I glanced around for something with which to saw my legs off—half-heartedly, I’ll admit, as even just cutting my daily chicken gave me the heebie-jeebies. The idea of hacking through my own flesh might have been appealing in the abstract—in the distant abstract, viz. the eventual freedom—but the notion of positioning a saw or blade or shard of glass above my thigh was enough to make me reconsider.

  No, amputation wasn’t likely. What other options did I have?

  Screaming, obviously.

  After ninety seconds of that, I gave up. My throat felt like I’d scraped it out with a trowel. Besides, my screams drowned out the music, which was, at this point, all I had to live for. And I am not being hyperbolic. If I were to suffer a slow death in the parking garage, either by starvation or some thrombotic, gangrenous ailment, at least I had a beautiful soundtrack—even if said soundtrack was the reason I found myself in this predicament in the first place. Which is not to say that I was convinced that the musician, way off in the parking garage, was in cahoots with the cars.

  Or were they?

  And here the real trouble began: I began to speculate.

  My thoughts drifted from accountability to motivation. Never mind who had trapped me here, I thought—what was more compelling was why? It made no sense, I reasoned, for cars to clutch a human for the thrill of it. Was my incapacitation so thrilling? My humiliation? Perhaps. Certainly childhood had taught me the joy of a good prank. For example, being forced to eat a rose, thorns and all, by a playground bully—what laughs we had, the whole school in hysterics as I choked down every last, bitter petal. Teachers too.

  But then I began to consider that the cars’ renewed dormancy suggested only the first stage of some grander scheme. They seemed again to be waiting for something.

  Spiders?

  God. Was this merely some sort of auto web ensnaring me for its eight-legged master’s supper? I peered into the gloom of the parking garage to see if anyone or anything was on its way. Though maybe not a spider…It would have to be very organized, and very big. More likely a human maniac. An unhinged mechanic, maybe, who’d outfitted an armada of vehicles with a trapping feature to serve her cannibalistic appetites. Or perhaps I wouldn’t even be eaten. Perhaps it was worse—experiments, say, or torture. What if a whole coven of weirdos lived down here in the parking garage—the drivers of the cars, maybe. Weirdos by the thousands! Maybe they were hiding in the cars even now, awaiting their order or the “witching hour” when they’d emerge in their shrouds to scamper about and summon whatever demon they worshipped via the ritualistic disembowelment of yours truly.

  Something was reading my mind. Because right then the music went silent and all the trunks of the cars unlocked with a great echo of clunky clicks and wheezed open.

  The lids gaped at haphazard angles. For a moment everything went still.

  What now? What would emerge? Spiders? Weirdos? Or vampires! Yes: this was their crypt, each car’s trunk a sarcophagus. But what did crawl out of the darkness was far more horrifying than spiders or weirdos, or even men. No, what climbed from the cars in a great, dark wave of malevolence and pure, seething evil was something so foul even my wildest nightmares could never have imagined it…

  PONYTAILS.

  PONYTAILS BY THE DOZENS, by the hundreds, by the thousands—and beyond!

  A veritable nation of ponytails, slithering out of the trunks, over the cars and onto the hoods, where they all perched for a moment in the dim green light. The closest specimen, a few feet away, seemed to regard me with curiosity, swaying this way and that. There was something infantile about it, as if the thing were just hatched and discovering the world for the first time.

  The trunks slammed shut with a uniform clunk that resounded through the parking garage like thunder. On my tongue I felt a familiar stirring as the hair roused itself to join its unholy brethren. I tried stifling the thing against the roof of my mouth, yet I still felt it squirm. Meanwhile the ponytails rose up on their hindquarters like a legion of silky cobras poised to strike.

  Had I stumbled on some sort of diabolical nursery? Who knew what their master, up there in the mall, might have planned for his disgusting army. I’d suspected that his “work” was merely a devious ruse. (Imagine his Progress Reports—pages of lies!) But I’d never guessed the horrific scope of what he was building down here. Without taking my eyes off the nearest ponytail, I wriggled but still couldn’t get free, while the hair inside my tongue was dancing to break loose—to join them.

  But the ponytails just stretched, twisted and nestled down into little spirals; they seemed to be sleeping. Whether to rest or to gather themselves for a full-fledged attack, I couldn’t say. And in a kind of wicked sympathy, my legs were falling asleep too: a numbing fizz crept up my calves as if the blood were carbonating. The first signs of atrophy? Perhaps my lower legs would wither and fall off, allowing me to shuffle to freedom on a pair of stumps. But how long would that take, I wondered, eyeing the ponytails nervously.

  We waited like this, at an impasse, for some time: me trapped, my tongue-hair writhing, the ponytails slumbering. Were I to perish down here, in the parking garage, how fitting and perverse that it would be either enacted (if they ate me) or witnessed (if I starved to death on their watch) by the progeny, or at least relatives, of my nemesis. No rebellion, no liberation—no wedding to Klassanderella on the sparkling sands of her native isle. I gazed forlornly down at my engagement ring. What folly, what hubris, to try to project one’s future…

  How I loathed Mr. Ponytail then, and loathed his entire species! They were all “cut from the same cloth”—not the “cloth” of Dennis’s head, exactly, but a generic cloth of despicability. I shifted my gaze hatefully to the nearest specimen, curled up in blithe repose upon the hood of a station wagon. A monster, just like its homicidal overlord.

  No sooner had I thought this than the ponytails shot up, en masse—convincing me they were reading my mind. So I tried a different tack: I love ponytails, I thought, as emphatically as possible. The ponytail is my favourite species on earth!

  This failed to stall their movements. As one, thousands of ponytails went slithering down the hoods of the cars and disappeared between the fenders with a rustling, whispery sound, and then began twining into one giant mass.

  I froze.

  The noise quieted.

  My tongue-hair went still. Everything went still.

  And then, in a great tsunami of bristling hair, they came: streaming between the cars. Coming for me.

  I screamed, thrashed, was held fast at the knees. The single hair in my mouth used this sudden freedom to burst throug
h the flesh of my tongue, two inches long now and dancing in celebration against my teeth.

  The whispering became a roar. In a great flood and with the thunder of surf, the ponytails—or was it now one massive ponytail?—fell upon me. My deadened feet were submerged under a carpet of hair. I closed my eyes and tensed, heart pounding, for their faceward creep up my legs and torso to join the hair in my mouth, and for the whole diabolical lot of them to pour through my body as they had in my nightmares. To consume and destroy me.

  Instead they came no higher than my ankles, like a pair of tennis socks.

  And continued past to the elevator.

  Well. So the ponytails had somewhere to be, apparently, and were ignoring me completely. My tongue-hair slumped—forlorn, forsaken. And for a moment, watching them flow like a mischief of rats not into the waiting car but past it, up into the shaft—and beyond—I felt rejected, too, and envious. Such purpose! Such unity! Where were they off to? The mall, to meet their literal maker? Or down to another, lower level on some demonic mission?

  The last of the ponytails slipped past me into the elevator shaft and out of sight. Their roaring quieted. The garage was empty again. As if on cue, the cars eased silently back into place. And so, almost anticlimactically, I was released. I shook out my legs. Numb, but functional.

  And then, as if to taunt me, the music started again, way off in the parking garage. I found myself leaning toward it—but no. I wouldn’t again fall prey to its seductions, not after this ordeal. Who knew what was next: the cars might turn carnivorous and devour me, or perhaps they’d birth a squadron of some even more fiendish hairstyle.

  I took a moment to enjoy the music, and the fact that the instrumentalist had survived the onslaught of cars and ponytails. And while the first step of my insurrection had been something of a nonstarter, perhaps simply hearing that remarkable song was its own reward. And now, I thought, turning at last and making my way to the elevator, it was time to go. I had revenge to reap!

  But first, I had to return to my quarters to log the week’s Progress Report—something better than the enervated, feeble attempt I’d concocted in my head. Less pained, less compensatory. Whatever it would be, I had to maintain an illusion of compliance: not only “making work,” per the protocols of my residency, but work that would seem bright-eyed and carefree, and not tarnished with loss. No, my goal was not personal revelation but to lull the mall into complacency while I marshalled my forces and wits and prepared to strike—like the mongoose as it seized the ponytail-shaped cobra by the throat and chomped right through to its bitter, snaky bones.

  PROGRESS REPORT #6

  Of all the mechanized joys available, few are as thrilling as driving a car. Za-roosh! Hands on the wheel, foot on the gas, eyes on the road, knees a fist-width apart, elbows just so, shoulders level, ears on high alert, teeth polished to a blinding shine, toenails primly clipped, fingernails the same, shades (outfitted, if required per the optical portion of your “licence to drive,” with prescription lenses) perched on your face like a cool buzzard on a tombstone…Check? Let’s go!

  First stop: a winding seaside motorway, with your exhaust pipe belching great plumes of fun. Except with the pedal to the metal actually nothing can stop you—not the pigs, certainly, as you blow by a cruiser secreted behind a Don’t Speed sign. They just shake their heads. “Nothing we can do about that,” think the two swine impotently, and go back to solving a murder anyway. Today’s all about you and your convertible, and everyone knows it. Though what they don’t know is that you’ve named said convertible after a beloved childhood relative—Aunt Brenda, Uncle Turbo, Father, whatever. Maybe it’s time to take Father’s top down? Yes, there’s the good stuff. Everything’s unleashed.

  Now you can really live. The windscreen catches every bug in sight, saving you an unsolicited snack. And when the glass becomes clotted with their pulverized remains, no matter: a quick flick of the wipers and a squirt of a specially appointed soap smears everything clean. God, what an afternoon, with the ocean pounding the rocks below, “rock” pounding your stereo, the wind in your hair and your heart on fire with automotive lust. “Is this it?” you wonder. Yes, of course it is. This is it.

  To drive is to love, to dream and to fly. Even an airplane doesn’t provide the same sensation of flying, at least in a metaphorical sense, best exemplified when driving at breakneck speeds through a forest of old-growth timber. Besides, if you tried to take a plane in there you’d destroy every tree within a hundred miles. And not only are you a lover of cars, you’re a lover of the woods as well, and all the creatures in it. Even the screeching, godforsaken owls.

  Sure, a forest, why not? Cliff-tops aren’t the only place for a drive. Even a modest errand might be an occasion for glory. When you pull up to the laundrette and exit your vehicle with a tricky defenestration, it amounts to wearing a sign that announces, “Make way, champion coming through.” You’d think a driver removed from their car would be like a dog without a mouth, but it’s not like that at all. No, you carry your car in your soul, everywhere you go—compacted into a cube of metal and crammed between lungfuls of your sweetest memories and the spleen of your most ruinous sadness.

  What does a driver wear? There’s no official uniform, though a scarf, goggles, racing cap and gloves aren’t untoward. Nor is a leather trouser that gapes provocatively at the buttocks. Spurs aren’t necessary, but they can’t hurt either—until you impale a finger. Though of course that’s what the gloves are for. For shoes it’s best to go with something stylish but athletic, like a loafer. Just hold the pennies. You don’t need the extra weight dragging you down. If you own sandals, burn them now.

  Driving is one thing, but what about when you have to “pause for because,” whether it’s for gas, a good lubing or nature’s calls? Parking’s no problem for you, whether in a lot, garage or paralleled upon the street. Some people struggle with leveraging each of the wheels simultaneously, but for a chauffeur of your calibre it’s as easy as one, two, three…four. For that’s how many wheels there are, and you’re a master of them all.

  Your colloquial “wheels,” too, is (are?) decked out with all the finest accoutrements: bucket seats, trim, fins, hundreds of gears, dozens of mirrors, the perfect number of miles per gallon, and all the dials anyone could ever dream of. Is your car too hot, cold, oily, moist or slow? What time is it, anyway? And which way’s northeast? Don’t worry, there’s a dial for everything, spinning wildly and saving you hours of fruitless guesswork.

  What’s under the hood? An engine. Feel free to take a look; just “pop the lid” and see. Careful, though—don’t touch anything. A single piston can chew through a pound of human flesh lickety-split, leathers be damned. The horsepower is infinite. The valves are pumping, or will be. There’s a combustor also, and a carburetor. And what about that thing? Is that where you put the battery? It’s all a mystery, never to be solved. To think such a miracle was concocted by human beings, not by gods! In a factory.

  All systems go? Time to hit the road. Nothing can keep a motorist of your calibre standing around like an idiot. Flush the toilet, scrub your hands, use a paper towel to turn the soiled knob—then back in the car, where the engine starts with the roar of a million stallions neighing for the attentions of a single rampaging mare. Shades on, brake disengaged, blind spots confirmed, and off you “peel”…with a demon’s reckless abandon…into the pale shreds of the last dying sunset…of your freedom…FOREVER.

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK PASSED like clouds across the sky, or sands through an indifferent hourglass with a hole in the bottom. Mr. Ponytail’s adoring public flooded the mall in droves, ignoring me resolutely, while I shuffled to and from the food court and tinkered at a provisional Progress Report at my desk. I did not explore the mall. I did not spare a thought for insurrection. I simply bade my time until an opportunity presented itself to venture again to the elevator and descend undetected into the spooky subterranean depths. The
truth, I felt, was down there.

  The Progress Report I wrote, and summarily abandoned, was a generic piece tangential to my residency. Though it would not be the week’s official submission (I feared it might implicate me in some way, as the topic, larceny, ultimately felt “a little too close to my home”), I will include it below for posterity:

  * * *

  —

  Shoplifting is the name for clandestine theft from the mall. Instead of paying for a purchase, there is a special breed of deviant who, through ignorance, indecency, arrogance or pathology, will “lift” said item from a “shop” and abscond. May everyone’s gods have mercy on their souls.

  Often luggage is involved, or an egregiously baggy trouser. The villain will glance about, left and right, sneak some desired and unearned object into concealment, and then, cool as a spring breeze, waltz out the door to freedom—until they are tackled by security personnel and prosecuted under the full extent of the law. Though there is no law adequately severe for those who defile the mall with thievery. It’s like urinating on a church, or in a public toilet roaring “Well, hello there, Grandma!” mid-movement.

  Shoplifting is an act of treason. What has the mall ever done to you? Welcomed you with open arms, i.e., doors. Showered you with pleasure. At worst confetti. Perhaps it offered you shelter, or a place to love, or a place to dream—all at affordable rates. But in the face of shoplifting, what option does the goods-depleted proprietor have but to boost their prices? It’s simple economics, just as the markets ebb and flow with the cycles of the moon, or one’s pay grade varies with a taste for bootlicking the boss.

  Who shoplifts? The heartless and degenerate. Losers too. Simply put, if you can’t afford a thing you like, then that thing’s not for you. It’s for someone else with deeper pockets, and you and your miserly shallow pockets ought to traipse on home for another supper of sorrow. You can’t simply filch a new pair of pockets, e.g., those garnishing a pair of chic jeans. No: pockets, like jeans, must be earned. So why not apply for a job at the mall? Perhaps the security detail is hiring—with your insider take on the wily machinations of the petty criminal, who better to “serve and/or protect” the mall than you?