SHORT STORIES

THE MALL

I heard that there was going to be an important speech given at the mall, and I'm always reluctant to let any of the important things pass me by. Especially when they're so close at hand. If the important things are across an ocean, for instance, I'll put my reluctance in a safe box, and wait for even the years to go by and the opportunity to present itself before I feel compelled to follow. But the mall is only a few miles away, and furthermore I like it there, so my heart is set.
    I call a cab, because I don't have a car anymore. I used to, a long time ago, but one by one all of its components gave up the ghost, so I don't call it a car when I refer to its present state. It's just a corpse, and I've mourned enough. I buried it in the backyard, after the funeral. If what I read is true, and the eulogist didn't lie, its soul is in a better place now. Every night I pray, and every day I call a cab if I'm going further than a few blocks. The mall is far enough away to justify the expense, I don't think anyone would disagree.
    The cab pulls over to the curb, and I enter. I don't have to tell him my destination, as it is self-evident—everyone is going to the mall. On the other side of the tinted-glass windows that contain me the street is alive with vehicles, all going in the same direction, all going north, up a slight incline designed to keep lower-inertia objects at the bottom, where they belong.
    The cab struggles upward, since I'm in it, but we make definite progress—the sleek, grey, skyscrapers go by in a predetermined order, flawless and impenetrable, without a single seam on their many facades. How tall they are! But that is irrelevant, I suppose. I'm not going up there.
    The driver asks me a question. “Are you going to pay me?” Even though we're going a reasonable speed through heavy traffic, he twists his head around to stare at me in earnest, waiting for an answer.
    “Is that really something that you're supposed to ask in advance?” I reply. I thought that tepid trust was the tacit custom. Waiters in restaurants don't ask how much you're worth before they bring out your steak dinner—it’s just assumed that you can handle it. Times are changing, though, so I'm perfectly ready for my driver to answer in the affirmative.
    “There's no rule,” he says. “I would just really like to know. In fact, if you could pay me right now, that would be preferable.”
    “Well, what's the rate?” I ask. And that shuts him up, because he isn't prepared to do the necessary math. I made it clear with my tone that he's not getting any kind of tip, so I'll need an exact number. I'm more confident now, I add, “If you can give me an accurate total, I'll pay you at that exact moment, okay?”
    Soon we're there. He lets me out by the main entrance, and I tip him generously. I have to wonder if he deserves it, after directly confronting me like he did, but I'm generally disposed towards philanthropy for people in the service industry, for whatever reason. He smiles, counts the bills carefully anyway, and drives off. I walk through the automatic doors, invitingly transparent, and find myself at the bottom of a tremendous monument.
    From the atrium, every floor of the mall is visible. The stores and stairs wind and wind, up and up, presenting themselves like a lethal kaleidoscope to the person that dares to look up at their full extent. I try. After the first floor, the image doesn't even make sense—it's just jutting metal, sourceless fluorescent lighting, bricks and mortar, a fractal pattern that mirrors nature but distorts it horribly somehow—I've never been lost looking at a seashell, but I'm assuredly lost now. With effort I return my gaze to the present, to the white-tile floor at my feet, where things make more sense to me. And of course there's hundreds of people already here, wandering about and waiting for the spectacle, the speech.
    While I'm waiting, I feel like I'm supposed to buy something. There's a perfectly placed newsstand, and people are supposed to read magazines or light novels while they're waiting for things, but I blew a majority of my budget on the cab driver and was already starting to regret the extra money that I gave him. Would I want to read something, if I did have the money? That seems like an important question, so I think about it for a while. And then the speech arrives, and I am spared from the answer.
    The speech is carried on the back of the most magnificent man—he has a magnanimous beard, but it's well-controlled by fine grooming. He has unbelievably wide shoulders, and he is tall. He reminds me of the skyscrapers, except that he is human, and as a human he is far more penetrable—he's got a mouth, for instance, and deep, inset eyes. But he's just as grey, and just as austere. He begins the speech in the most magnificent way, he says, “Everyone, follow me.” And soon we're all on the stairs.
    Already the height is dizzying for me. I feel light-headed. Fortunately I'm able to grip on to a handrail as I climb, which comforts me. And his words distract me from the rest of my discomfort, he says, “Pride always goeth before a fall. Hubris took the eyes of Oedipus, because Justice is blind. Oh how the mighty have fallen.” Rather inappropriate as far as stair-conversation goes, I think, but I'm not in a position to complain. And it sounds right enough, especially as it comes from him. He has that infallible paternal aura to him, he radiates truth like a moralizing sun.
    His aphorisms quickly broaden into a pointed invective. “You've spent too much time in self-aggrandizing efforts, and not enough time humbling yourself before the eternal truth. The way that you define self-worth is tainted by too much investment in a material life, you're measuring yourself in gold and asking if you're worth the weight. And, as such, your value is dictated by the laws of supply and demand, by Capitalism. 'Life was much easier back when we were on the gold standard,' you tell all of your materialistic friends. 'The economy's been downhill ever since,' you say, and they all agree. But you’re missing the point.
    “Your self-esteam turns into self-condescension, when you try to apply its heat toward creating worth out of nothing. Desist, desist I tell you! The only worth to be had in this life is in the arms of the Creator, and it is folly to search for it anywhere else.”
    By then we are all going by a bookstore, a massive current of humanity. But I am able to fight it for a while, and see what they have for sale. The store has an interesting layout—there isn't a single bookshelf to be seen. Instead there are long, rectangular tables, and all the books are arrayed horizontally. The walls are covered with a dark mahogany, as well as the support beams here and there, and the wood of the tables. I go to the nearest table and inspect their selection. I don't recognize any of the titles—there's a series of books that seems familiar to me, like I'd read it once before, but I can't remember what it was about, if anything. Reading the back of the first book doesn't help. Maybe it was another life. More likely, I’ve just forgotten—memories just pass right through me sometimes.
    I notice that, behind me, the procession has nearly disappeared. Not wanting to be left behind, I drop the book on the table and hurry after them.
    His voice sounds a lot less convincing from farther away—maybe it's the volume, or maybe it's the amount of people between us, filtering the purity of his words out until only the adulterants remain. He says, “Never look at a horse's mouth when it is present. It is better to take a picture, and then look at it in the privacy of your home. Invest in a good camera. Use a small aperture, as you'll want as many details as you can get with a single shot. Develop your own film. If you have someone else do it, they could take an interest in the horse, and offer a competing bid. Secrecy is the best course of action.
    “Those that are without sin, the enlightened ones, should lead the way in casting stones. If they do not, then ignorant people will waste stones on those that do not deserve it, instead of reserving them for a better target. The process of determining who is more enlightened is complicated, but in most instances it is fairly obvious. Whoever has the best control of grammar and spelling is usually a good bet.”
    I decide that I would be benefited more from hearing him closer—his distant truths are out of focus, and too vague. So I push through the people in front of me, even though they complain and fight back. I assert myself violently, on children and the elderly alike. My determination carries me back to the front, where he makes more sense.
    He says, “The meek will inherit the Earth. Only the selfless stand a chance, in this life and the next.
    “The selfish will burn on the pyres of their lust and greed, and nobody will mourn their death. That is the eternal judgment—there are no exceptions. The righteous will perceive the faults of the faithless, and mark them for destruction. The mark is indelible, it is etched into the soul. You have been warned, since the beginning of time, and yet you don’t listen.”
    The people surrounding me, pressing from all sides, become rapturous. They yell, they throw themselves prostrate on the floor, only to become the floor for the next person. They become possessed and speak in tongues—nonsensical utterances that contain meaning we’re not capable of understanding, but still have to believe in. It becomes a single sound, a reverberation that will never be silenced. It’s very loud.
    I’m jarred. It feels like waking up, and I preferred the dream. I don’t want to change. He’s still talking, but even his voice can only blend with the overwhelming masses—it cannot rise distinctly above them. But because he started it all, I say to him and him alone, “Must I really just quietly go into all these holes that are dug for me?”
    He doesn’t answer, and will never hear me through the noise, but I yell it again. And again. We’re still moving forward. We’ve reached the elevators, the stairs that don’t care about which direction you want to go—they’re going up. Behind me, behind us, the mall presents the full, incomprehensible glory of all its wares, impossible to look at. And we’ve passed them all, somehow. We’re past that material world, aren’t we? We know better than that. We’ve come very far, after all.
    But there’s still one more bookstore, before we reach the top. The top is some grey, unadorned room with the loftiest ceiling, like the inside of all those perfect grey skyscrapers. I guess I wouldn’t know for sure, I’ve never been in them. I can imagine, though. And why would I want to go there, instead of to this last bookstore? The bookstore has hundreds of bookshelves, pine, arranged in obtuse angles that radiate from its far side. It has staircases leading to other rooms, rooms that promise to be filled with old books that can’t be found anywhere else. There’s windows, real windows, looking out over the promontory. The decision seems easy, when I consider my options clearly—I go to the bookstore.
    It’s much quieter in here. It’s not a library—here, there’s the expectation that I’ll buy something, and somewhere there’s a profit to be made. A feeling that would be out of place in a library, although I can forgive it such a small transgression—but it’s quiet anyway. The sheer presence of books demands tranquility, we’ve been conditioned that way, from our youth. I pick up the first book I can find. It’s a book I’ve never heard of, much less read.
    When I was four years old, I insisted that I be taught how to read. From then on, whenever I found a word I didn’t know, I made someone explain its usage to me. I said, “What does this mean?”
    That was my first systematic search for meaning—in books. Long before I cared about accumulating wealth, or popularity, or even my own salvation, I wanted to know what words meant. And that was just the start—from words I graduated to sentences, then books, then the authors themselves. What does this person mean? This person, who spent so much time with thoughts and paper? That’s a difficult question. I’m still trying to answer it.
    Will I be faulted, then, for not taking the escalator all the way to the top? I want to finish what I began, first. And it’s going to take a very long time.