The Mall Outlet

I received the flyer for a "Sugar Foot Rub" in the mail after arriving by bus at my home. There was a free massage that the flyer promised. The only "rub" is that for my freedom from cost on this account, I would have no respite from cost on the rub itself. At the mall a mile from my house, this sugar foot rub would no doubt be pleasant and exfoliating. So, having little else to oblige me that night but my precious books, I figured I had no choice, and immediately got into my luxury sedan.

I walked from the parking lot to the mall's entrance in sunny spirits, despite the dismal gray of an evening, a continuous rain having only ceased in the last hour. The sunshine in my heart did not warm all the way to my extremities, but I put my hands in my pockets, the better to resist beggars and thieves and cold, unfeeling others, and walked into the mall of commerce.

I have a pathological fear of maps at malls so every mall is an adventure to me, its own special maze. But that's another story for another occasion. Whatever the cause, for twenty minutes, I wandered around the mall, like Moses. At seven I reached the mall outlet I'd sought, this "Sugar Foot Rub" of published legend. I wondered where I'd heard about its pleasant, exfoliating effects, or how I'd even decided to make my way here.


The Mall Outlet Was Emphatic. For what seemed like miles deep compared to the suddenly-claustrophobic mallway (for that is what a mall's main hallway is called), the mall outlet was so deep that I could see the other side. And it was a depth that presented itself as a real problem, for I could see that the only service counter was located in the most distant back of the store. I felt like a kid in a candy store walking through the deep, narrow Outlet, or, more accurately, I felt like a Biblical figure navigating a perilous series of roads lined with thieves. My phone my staff, I emphasized my collar and tightened my disposition against the overwhelmingly long train that I called the Mall Outlet.

In the deepest reaches of the Mall Outlet, calves strained, finally arrived, I saw a malletin board detailing the services I should expect here (though no one there to deliver them, of course!). Indeed, there was a note of the promised free massage on the blue board, its lamination reflecting light, as its print reflected information. I saw the prices, unreasonable even to a man of means, cleverly hidden in the smallest font. I was disappointed, and turned dramatically on my heel, the better to walk to a more affordable location.

From behind me, I heard a shrill woman's voice, "Hey, White. How are you, White? Yeah, you, White. Not the other White. Ain't no other White here."

I turned, and, noting that the woman in question was black, answered indignantly, "That's not my name. That's simply my race," and kept walking, wondering if my feeble legs would hold another mile to escape the Mall Outlet.

"You want a sugar foot rub, or are you just gonna keep on walkin White?" the woman asked, gesturing as if in a mirror, her perfunctory haunted blue uniform seemingly laminated, her hair, shaped like a paintbrush's, the only differentiator from thousands of like woman at Sugar Foot Rub outlets across the country, I supposed.

I turned again and said, "First of all, that's not my name. Second, these prices are ridiculous. I can't pay that much for a gatdam foot rub. My feet are plenty comfortable."

"Okay, suit yourself, White." the woman said, bored with me.

"That's not my name!" I answered once again.

At this she became upset. "It might as well be your name because if you don't get this Sugar Foot Rub you just a race to me," she said, indicating a monologue would follow, "I watched you take twenty minutes to walk here and I will not watch you take twenty minutes to walk back. This store is a mile long, all it does is give you Sugar Foot Rubs. There are no massages, dipshit. And you turned when you found out it might be a few dollars more than a haircut."

"It's seven thousand dollars." I said, correcting her figure.

"Oh, hoity-toity business casual doesn't get to buy himself another suitcoat for his mansion meetings. You make me sick, White. You make me goddamn sick."

"Ma'am, I'm not even sure what a Sugar Foot Rub is, to be honest! But it can't be worth that much! Nothing is worth that much!" I said pragmatically.

"Okay, White, you know what you showed me there? You showed me a little more an open-mind than a typical young man of your age, White. Let me explain to this enlightened man what exactly constitutes a Sugar Foot Rub. A Sugar Foot Rub basically exfoliates the shit out of your feet with sugar and water. If you ain't exfoliatin, well, shit, you'll get all sortsa blisters. I'm finna FIX you, and all it will take is your willing participation, White."

"It sounds intriguing." I said, "but I just can't afford it," and turned to leave.

"Look, that shit is just for the Lexus people. You're a Buick man, I swear. What's your name, White?"

"Why, it's Alex!"

"I like you, White. How about six hundred dollars, White? Is that CHEAP enough for you?"

"Alright," I said, not quite believing my own words, "That is acceptable."

"Finna exfoliate the FUCK out of you, White. You'll be lucky to have any skin left. There's some EMORY BOARD shit involved here. Moisturize the shit out of what's left though, bitch, please."

"What did you say?"

"Get into the children's pool. Well, just your feet. Take off your Florsheims and let me show you how good your feet can feel."

Then she poured some water and a five pound bag of generic grocery sugar into the children's pool helpfully right at our feet (I hadn't noticed it because I was focused on her eyes, those orbs of perfect clarity and purpose). Then she handed me a small emory board and a wash cloth and said, "Now work, White. This is work. Then go. Clean up before you go. Laundry hamper is right there."

I obliged and just as I began to use the emory board of recent legend, a trap door whisked me out of the Outlet, into the embarrassing mallway with my feet exposed and my money spent, and all that was left to do was exfoliate my skin. Through the trap door I noticed that she returned to the surveillant posterior of the store, likely to find another flyer-intrigued mark, but just as the trap  door closed, leaving just a hamper and my Florsheims and my feet in the gigantic children's pool holding an emory board and a wash cloth, I noted that the entire Mall Outlet had whisked away to space. Where the Mall Outlet had been was only a mile-long courtyard without grass or tables but only barren brick walls on three sides. I hate to admit that my first thought was not about propulsion or of money or of what incident I had experienced, but that the hamper had also disappeared, and that it would be unfortunate to leave the unclean materials right there.

So I took them home, including the children's pool. And, noting that the sugar in the bag still contained a couple tablespoons, I added it to my coffee the next morning. The sugar, I noted, was white. While this wasn't significant in any statistical sense, it was meaningful to me, and I promptly framed the bag of sugar, uncaringly torn at the top, much like the Mall had its apotheosis, the Mall Outlet, unkindly removed.