by Edward Bloor
In the daylight the whole thing seemed kind of silly. When I told my dad about it, he laughed and said, "Remember, honey, it wasn't real. You should stop watching scary movies."
But I don't watch scary movies. I don't watch any movies. That dream was real enough to me.
SATURDAY, THE 19TH
While waiting for Arcane to open today, I noticed something: The mannequin had moved.
The mannequin sits in the empty storefront across the mallway, in what used to be La Boutique de Paris. It is always leaning to the right, against the wall the now-empty store shares with Isabel's Hallmark. But today the mannequin was leaning forward, its plastic face pressed against the glass, like it was trying to get a better look into the center of the mall.
So, after months of leaning to the right, why did the mannequin suddenly move?
I walked across the mallway and stood with the back of my head pressed against the glass, just a windowpane away from the mannequin. Now we saw essentially the same thing: Leo, from mall maintenance, had placed his yellow sawhorse, the one with DANGER emblazoned on it, on a spot in the dead center of the rotunda, right where the fountain used to be.
I made a note to question Leo about this. The explanation could be a simple one. Leo could clear the whole matter up with a quote like, "Some kid puked." But there might be more to the story. There might be news that I could use for the mall newsletter, or for my portfolio in Journalism II.
I looked back across the mallway to our slot, Slot #32. It's the first one north of the rotunda, right next to the food court. From where I stood I could see my cousin Karl. He was on the other side of the sliding Plexiglas door, polishing the glass vigorously with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex. Behind Karl, I could make out the dark shapes of Hawg and Ironman.
I heard some huffing and puffing, then I saw an old couple power-walking by. These old people are a common sight in the West End Mall. The doors here open every day at seven to allow the residents of Century Towers to come in and power-walk.
Karl seemed to be waving at that old couple. But they took no notice of him.
Thirty seconds later another old guy came along. This time Karl stepped forward and waved something at him. It was a square white card with big black lettering on it. Karl held it up, chest high, to let the old guy read it. It said YES, WE'RE OPEN. The old guy seemed to notice it, but he continued walking past.
Karl turned around toward Hawg and Ironman, shaking his head. Then he turned back and scanned the mallway like a sentry. He saw something to his left that made his eyes bulge out. An old lady was approaching. She wasn't power-walking, though. She appeared to be window-shopping, like she was waiting for the stores to open.
She noticed Karl, stopped, and looked up at the Arcane logo with a puzzled expression on her face. Then she seemed to make up her mind. She set off, on a beeline, toward Karl and his sign.
Karl started to gesture frantically, with his free hand flopping behind him, trying to get the attention of the other two guys. The three of them watched as the old lady quickly closed the distance to the entrance and then smashed, face first, into the Plexiglas. The glass bowed slightly and then snapped back, like the invisible barrier to another dimension. The lady's hand shot up to her forehead. She stared for a stunned moment at Karl and his sign. Then she spun around and hurried off back the way she came, her hand to her forehead.
Karl was nearly doubled over now, facing back toward the other guys. His body was convulsing, jackknifing up and down in uncontrollable laughter. I could see that Hawg was laughing, too, but not nearly as merrily. Ironman had on a nervous grin, as he always does.
Then, suddenly, they all reacted to the same sound, and the smiles vanished from their faces. Hawg and Ironman backed away. Karl, clutching the sign tightly to his chest, darted quickly behind the cash register counter.
Uncle Frank emerged from the back. He walked stiffly to the front, like a G.I. Joe action figure. He unlocked the door and slid it along its runner until the three big glass panes were stacked together, like cards in a deck.
I leaned and looked down to the right, trying to spot the lady, but she had disappeared. The mallway was now completely empty. It was the calm before another busy day at the West End Mall.
When I looked back, Karl, Hawg, and Ironman were setting up our new promotional display, the Crusader. Hawg and Ironman knelt before him and billowed out his white robe so that it fell precisely onto the chain-mail boots, while Karl crouched behind him at the floor plug. Suddenly the two piercing blue eyes lit up inside his silver helmet. The three guys got up and stepped backward, into the mallway. The Crusader was indeed a dazzling sight. He was tall, over seven feet tall, and broad shouldered. His tunic was pure white, except for the bloodred cross over his midsection. His jeweled sword jutted out before him, irresistible to any passerby.
Hawg remarked simply, "Damn, I know where I'm spending my minutes tonight."
Hawg and Ironman don't technically work at Arcane. They don't have name tags, and they're not on the payroll. They started out as regular customers. Before long, they were hanging out here all the time. At first Uncle Frank kicked them out when they didn't have money. Then he realized that they would work for nothing, just to do the Arcane experiences. Now Hawg and Ironman each get five experiences a night, in exchange for about five hours of work. Depending on how you look at it, that's either $4.95 per hour (which is bad) or two minutes per hour (which is worse). Most of what they do is maintenance, like taking out the trash, cleaning the wands, and spraying the helmets for head lice. Head lice are a big problem here.
I watched as Karl, Hawg, and Ironman wheeled out our big Sony TV monitor, with its newly painted red stand, and parked it just outside the entranceway. Karl plugged its cord into a floor outlet. The monitor flickered on immediately, and its stereo speakers crackled to life with a five-minute promotional video called "Arcane—The Virtual Reality Arcade."
The video showed heroes battling dragons with spears, and battling pirates with swords, and battling space aliens with light sabers, all in very cool, very spooky virtual environments. The special effects were awesomely realistic, with heads and arms flying off, bloodcurdling screams, and pulsing, creepy music. Then the video showed some happy people taking part in the Arcane experiences. It showed teenagers, parents, grandparents, even some little kids, standing in the black plastic circles, wearing the black plastic helmets, and hacking away with the white plastic wands.
On a good day, like a day when a tourist bus comes in, we might get two hundred paying customers. On a bad day we might get only ten. You can't have too many bad days, or you won't be able to pay your bills. That's what happened to Dad and me with our last arcade franchise.
Seven years ago, after my mom died, we moved from our old location on the Strip into this new one at the West End. Mall. We used the money from Mom's insurance policy to buy the only arcade franchise in the mall.
Things went okay for the first few years, but it seemed like our receipts got a little smaller every month. The franchisors started to get nervous. Dad told them not to worry about it, that everything was going to be fine, but they didn't see it that way. The day we missed our third monthly payment, they sent two big guys out with a truck and carted away all of our gaming equipment—the tables, the terminals, everything. Dad and I were left sitting here on the floor in an empty store.
That's when Dad called his brother, my uncle Frank. Uncle Frank had just retired from the army as a colonel and was looking for a job up in Washington. Dad talked him into traveling to Atlanta and checking out an Arcane franchise. I guess Uncle Frank liked what he saw. Before the month was over, the two brothers were in business. Legally, Colonel Frank Ritter owns the franchise and pays the franchise fees; Bob Ritter owns the mall slot and pays the rent and the employees' wages.
We've been in business as Arcane for three years now. At first there were a lot of good days. There were even some great days. During one stretch we set records of
240, 255, and 288 customers in one day. Customers were truly "amazed and delighted," as the franchise brochures said they would be. People had never seen anything like the Arcane experiences; they would try four or five of them in a visit.
But then the theme parks picked up on the idea. And then some of the big hotels put Arcane-type experiences in their kids' arcades. We stopped having great days. Still, things were going well enough until the Gold Coast Mall opened just fifteen miles east of here. That has hurt everybody's business. Now it's rare for any store here to have a good day.
I watched the guys finish setting up the displays and go back inside. It was exactly 10:00, time for me to go to work. I left the mystery of the mannequin in Slot #61 for now and crossed the mallway.
I walked in, went behind the counter, and fished my name tag out of the drawer. The name tags are all we wear to mark us as employees. At our old arcade Mom, Dad, and I used to wear uniforms, matching royal blue smocks with big pockets for holding change. We don't need those here. The Arcane experiences aren't coin operated. We start them like you would run a computer program, and everybody pays at the register.
I picked up the phone and buzzed to the back. Uncle Frank picked up with an abrupt and ugly "What?" like he thought I was Karl.
I said, "It's Roberta, Uncle Frank."
"Oh. Sorry."
"It's dead up here. Do you mind if I go deliver my newsletters?"
"No. Not at all. Go ahead."
"Thanks." I ran back out and hurried down to the mall office. Suzie Quinn, the mall manager, was already there, seated at her desk. She was putting on mascara. My dad was there, too, seated in a chair in front of her. He swiveled around and said, "Hey, honey. Sorry I didn't call this morning. I didn't want to wake you."
"That's okay."
"We got a loaner boat from the Sea Ray salesman. Wound up all the way up in Boca." Dad grinned. "Didn't get the boat back to the marina till dawn."
Dad and Suzie exchanged a secret look. Dad and Suzie seem like a couple. They're both tan, and they both have blond hair. But I don't think Suzie's hair color is real.
Suzie pointed to a pile of papers on her desk and smiled. It was this month's edition of the mall newsletter, still in its PIP Printing wrapper. She said, "Here you go, Roberta. The August issue. Thanks for all your help."
I told her, "Sure. I was glad to." I unwrapped the pile and handed the top copy to Dad. I pointed out, "Here's my article, Dad, on the front page."
He said, "Great, honey. That's great. I'll read it right now."
Because I'm a journalism student, I volunteer to help Suzie lay out the newsletter, proofread the type, bring the disk to the printers, et cetera. This issue contained my first full-length feature. It was about Toby the Turtle, the mall's mascot, whose cartoon image appears on the parking lot banners and on all official mall advertisements.
Neither Suzie nor Dad said anything else, so I figured they were waiting for me to leave. I lugged the pile out to the mallway and turned left, beginning my clockwise delivery route.
I've delivered the newsletter ever since the first issue, back in January. Twenty of the slots in the West End Mall are currently empty, like Slot #61, the mannequin window. But fifty-two slots remain occupied.
Most of the people who saw me just said, "Thanks," or "Hi," or "Hi, Roberta." Devin at Candlewycke tried to get me to come inside, but I wouldn't. Devin is a weird guy. He's old, like in his fifties, but he looks like a cross between a goth and a skinhead. He wears black all the time—black hip-hugger jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. Creepy. His gift shop has beautiful hand-carved candles up front, but it has weird stuff, like Nazi daggers, in the back. No way I'm going in there when it's not open.
Slots #10, #11, and #12 belong to Crescent Electronics, the most successful store in the mall. They started out in #12 only, but they tripled in size and now are talking about taking over one of the empty department stores. Crescent is run by a nineteen-year-old guy named Samir Samad, who everybody calls Sam. Technically, Sam's father is the owner, but he lives in Los Angeles, and he leaves all the decision making in Florida to Sam.
Sam takes courses at the University of South Florida, which is where I would like to go for my undergraduate degree. I try to speak to him whenever I can. I wanted to point out my feature to Sam, but he was involved in a heated discussion with Verna, the mall security guard.
A Crescent employee slid open the door and came out. He had an open can of turpentine in one hand and a brush in the other. I watched as he bent down and started to dab at drops of red paint on the mallway floor. I decided to slip inside, holding up a copy of the newsletter in case anyone wondered what I was doing. Once in there, I could hear Sam. "I'm telling you, this is a racist attack. Whoever did this knew it was my car, and knew that I am Muslim."
Verna sounded puzzled. "Why would they paint a Star of David on your car, though? Isn't that for Jewish people?"
Sam explained patiently, "Precisely so. Yes. It is an insult for a person of the Muslim faith to have to drive around with a Jewish religious symbol on his car."
Verna nodded sympathetically. "I understand that now, once you've explained it to me. But couldn't there be another explanation?"
"Like what?"
"Like it was random. Someone was going to paint that star on that particular car no matter who owned it? It was a random act of vandalism?"
Sam shook his head. "No. I do not believe in random things. Not with the hang-up phone calls we've been getting at the store. Not with the red crosses painted on the store windows. Not with that rebel flag crap. No. There is a clear pattern here. I would hope that you, Verna, being African American, would be sensitive to the racist nature of this attack."
"Sam, if I could see this 'racist nature' thing, I'd be all over it like a rash. But I'm not prepared, at this point, to go down there with you and accuse this guy with no evidence."
Sam exhaled. He turned, saw me, and pulled back, surprised. "What do you want?"
I was still holding a newsletter in my hand. "Here's your newsletter. I wrote a feature in it."
"Just put it on the counter."
I mumbled, "Sorry," and backed out, dropping the newsletter where he had said to. I heard Sam say one more thing to Verna: "I wonder how long she was standing there."
I delivered the rest of the newsletters as quickly as possible, not making eye contact with anyone. The encounter with Sam made me feel terrible, like I was a criminal. And what was the story there? What was going on with Sam's car, and the "racist nature" of something?
I slid a newsletter through the open door of Love-a-Pet, in Slot #34. Then I turned and nearly bumped into Ironman's mother, Mrs. Royce, as she unlocked the door of SpecialTees, Slot #33. SpecialTees is a shop that puts your name or message on different styles of T-shirts, and hats, and sweatshirts. I guess Mrs. Royce doesn't always get the right message on the right shirt. People are always complaining. Ironman and his little sister, Dolly, both wear SpecialTees reject shirts with misspelled words on them, or wrong names, or wrong messages.
I hurried away, completed deliveries to the north-end stores, and came to my last stop, Isabel's Hallmark. I couldn't see Mrs. Weiss inside, so I propped a copy against her door.
I walked into Arcane, past the three guys at the counter. They didn't say anything, so neither did I.I continued into the back room to start spraying helmets.
Uncle Frank was seated there at his desk, looking at invoices. The phone rang, but he made no move to answer it. After the third ring he looked up at me and said, "Would you mind getting that?"
I pressed the blinking button and said, "Arcane—The Virtual Reality Arcade. Roberta speaking."
"I know who it is, honey. This is Isabel."
"Oh, hi, Mrs. Weiss."
"Congratulations to you! A front-page feature. I am going to go hang this up by the register."
"Thanks."
"Did you eat breakfast this morning?"
"Yes, ma'am."
; "What did you have? A chili dog?"
"No, ma'am. A Pop-Tart."
"What's that? Some kind of doughnut?"
"No, it's a breakfast food. It has fruit in it."
"I'm sure. Look, honey, I need to speak to your uncle right away."
"All right." I covered the mouthpiece and told Uncle Frank, "It's Mrs. Weiss for you."
He pointed toward the front. "From the card shop?"
I nodded. He took the phone and said, "Hello, Mrs. Weiss. What can I do for you?"
I picked up a can of disinfectant, but I stayed where I was. It was unusual for Mrs. Weiss to call Uncle Frank. It was potentially news. I watched Uncle Frank tighten his grip on the phone, like he was holding a saber. He finally replied, "Yes, Mrs. Weiss, I will take care of this matter immediately. And I thank you for calling it to my attention."
Uncle Frank slammed down the phone, rose, and bolted through the door. I followed him up to the counter. Karl was opening a roll of nickels and placing them carefully in the register. Uncle Frank waited for him to finish before he asked, "Karl, do you know anything about an accident in front of our store this morning?"
Karl looked at the coins, then up at his father. "No."
"You didn't see or hear anything unusual?"
Karl shook his head from side to side. "No."
"Because a woman named Millie Roman has just filed an accident report, and she claims the accident happened right here, in front of you."
Karl started to fidget. He answered defensively, "It might have happened, but I didn't see it."
Then Uncle Frank asked him, with chilling slowness, "You didn't stand behind our door, with a sign that said YES, WE'RE OPEN, and entice her to walk into the glass?"
Karl's head started to bob up and down. "No. No, not deliberately."
Uncle Frank took a deep breath. He asked, "Where is the sign now?"
"I don't know."
Uncle Frank repeated in that same, almost hypnotizing, voice, "Where is the sign now?"