Mallrats: Back in the Day
by Scott Hefflon ’92
illustration by Eric Johnson
“I’m fuckin’ wasted,” I slurred as we cut through the crowd.
“Nos slabbish. Slob doggin’, ladpole,” was what I heard above the din of Christmas shoppers and God-Awful carols á la Muzak. I slowed my pace to let Chaz catch up.
“What?” I asked.
“I said ‘No shit. Slow down, asshole,'” he panted.
I glanced over my shoulder at Joey. He wandered a few paces behind, looking at everything. His eyes met mine for a moment before moving on to more interesting subjects: His sneakers, a spot on the wall, a flattened piece of gum on the ground, an overweight lady piling packages onto her tired, mousy husband. I had to smile. We weaved through the shuffling masses of commercially brainwashed idiots, side-stepping crowds of gawkers at each techno flash display of gaudy, overpriced crap. Turds on display, clever garnishes and merchandising genius numbing the media-hooked lab rats into the proper response: Buy! Buy! Buy! All this led me to one conclusion…
“I need another blast,” I sighed, cutting through a flock of small, badly behaved children.
“With ya on that one,” Chaz returned, taking as much waist-down abuse from the little shitheads as I did.
The cool bathroom reeked of those chlorine candies in the urinals, but it was heaven. Quietly and respectfully we liquidated our former buzz and topped it with a few more shots apiece. “Out with the old and in with the new” flitted through my fog-filled mind. I let it flit. We paused briefly at the mirror-banks to ensure that were looking happening. We looked a little scruffy, dragged-out, and ragged for some tastes, but that rough-around-the-edges look seems to still be in. How convenient. We look this way anyway. With our blissfully inebriated state intact, we were ready to face the freakshow again.
With only vague hints as to the world around us, we merged with the throng of shoppers. In his own way and his own time, Joey followed. With nowhere to really go and time to kill, we wandered. Well, staggered. We exchanged “the look” with countless generic rock ‘n’ roll bimbos and ignored the “Get a haircut, fags!” comments from insecure if-you’ve-seen-one-you’ve-seen-them-all redneck jock wanna-bes. We laughed off the dumb looks of disgust and contempt from the saggy, gossip-mentality housewives and their bread-winning slaves to the nine-to-five dogs of husbands. At least their bratty, snot-nosed, silver-spoon-fed kids got the fuck out of our way.
We hit all the regular shops: the t-shirt shops with the latest catch phrases, cheesy mainstream band logos and Technicolor tie-dyes for the new generation of MTV “Deadheads;” the neon, New Age gimmick-for-any-occasion shop with stuffed animals of every size in every form of media; and, of course, at least four “record” stores… not that they even sell records anymore. What a letdown. The thrill of buying that hot-off-the-press release seems to have faded to an apathetic “Don’t they ever give up?”
We milled around aimlessly like the rest of the dumb fucks. Chaz and I got caught up on current events. I’d weaseled my way back into school and he’d stayed flunked out. Joey followed, doing Joey things and thinking Joey thoughts. Once again, the edge of the stupor was wearing off. Reality was congealing again, and our spirits were sinking. It was time to refuel.
“Ya know,” Chaz began with that charming and thoughtful smirk that got him laid almost as much as me. I knew, but I let the charade unfold itself. Comedy, even an obvious mock-comedy is something that’s hard to come by in this unenlightened age. He cocked his head ponderously.
“I do believe those two females are following us,” he finished.
“Say it isn’t so!” I quipped in mock outrage.
“I dare say it is,” he articulated.
We smiled quietly at each other. We’d played this tune so many times before; what was one more going to matter? We both knew the routine and the outcome, so it was just a matter of pre-situation arrangements. Two beats later:
“They don’t drink our alcohol.”
“Heavens, no!”
“You gotta condom?”
“But of course.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What about Joey?”
“What about him?”
We sauntered on over to the nearest rest area free of harassed shoppers. Joey drifted with us, knowing the score, and hovered in periphery. In synchronicity, Chaz and I did an about-face and treaded the last few steps backwards. Fluidly, we slowed, then stopped just as our backs touched the railing of the balcony overlooking the lower levels. We leaned in picture-perfect nonchalance and waited for the babes. We’d opted for the casually direct approach. Skillful, subtle manipulation of details made it all fall into place naturally. The babes played the look-the-other-way game next. They were halfway by us, thoroughly entranced by a standard window display, when I gently called, “Hey.”
They turned a bit too quickly, so we knew we were going to have to spice this one up to make it at all interesting. Games are no fun when they’re easy and you win all the time. They tried to cover up their anticipation with “Are you speaking to us?” looks, but they weren’t very convincing.
For some reason, most people have trouble with opening lines. They freeze, stutter, and mechanically recite tired clichés. It must be stage fright about making a bad first impression. I’ve never cared enough to get nervous. I just open my mouth and whatever is on my mind tumbles out, whether it’s a compliment, “Nice tits!” or a philosophical tidbit like “Goldfish aren’t very clever, are they?” You’ve just got to let it fly, perhaps backing it up with charming observations, or letting it dangle whilst awaiting response. Based on the potential intelligence factor of the company, I opted for the simplistic approach.
“Wassup?”
“Nuthin’,” they responded in unison – the typical reply.
What to do? What to say? Fuck it. Who cares? Go with it.
“Come on,” I invited, and led them away.
With motivation in effect, I assumed the far-right, one-step-ahead-of-the-pack position. The two morsels of the female persuasion stuck together, sandwiched by Chaz, hugging the left and co-leading the direction of linguistic and bodily progression. Wandering along his own confused path through life which coincided – at least for the moment – with ours, came Joey.
“By the way,” Chaz began as if it had just occurred to him, “I’m Chaz.”
Pause for comment.
“Chaz?” they questioned, their heads swinging towards the master of systematic spontaneity.
“Chaz,” he repeated with a smile.
Their puzzled looks asked the question their vocal chords weren’t even going to try to formulate. Chaz clarified.
“It’s a comfortable middle-ground between the pompous ‘Charles,’ the childish ‘Charlie’ with its Snoopy overtones, and the regurgitating ‘Chuck’.” He paused to take a breath and let that sink in before adding, “It’s also what you get when sloppy drunks like Cool Breeze here try to say ‘Charles’.” He smiled that smile and offered me the floor. I staggered to center stage.
“Speaking of inebriated articulation,” I began, “Let us adjourn to my wondrous transportational unit and get faced beyond recognition. Let us speak of life, liberty, and the eternal search for everlasting joy and happiness. Let us quest for the ultimate buzz and partake of the celebratory liquid of life!”
I flourished a sizable flask from deep within the recesses of my leather jacket and pounded an ambitious shot.
“Hah!” I roared enthusiastically. “My kingdom for a chaser,” I misquoted. Chaz slid me the Dew and a “Let’s get the fuck outta here” look. I accepted both in stride.
“Ah, Mountain Dew,” I proclaimed, “Nectar of the Gods.” I swilled and smacked my lips. “Onward my newfound friends! Let us be rid of this silly place and its offensively simplistic occupants. Let us experience life and toast repeatedly and sing and dance in our own… ah, personal, ah…” I feigned a loss for words. (Yeah, right!)
“Idiom, sir?” Chaz offered, as if on cue.
“Idiom! Thank you, Sir Chaz! Your linguistic aptitudes rival even my own! Onward! Onward!” I trumpeted. And with that, we left.
“Hey, Ho! Let’s Go!” Chaz and I cheered. “Hey, Ho! Let’s Go!”
We knocked into one another merrily. The girls watched with confused amusement. Joey, while pretending to be disinterested, was surely mentally pogoing along with us. You can’t fool us, you Ramones-loving mop top! We bopped over to my car because, as usual, I was designated driver. Not that I was the soberest. Far from it. It was a simple matter of which of us could finagle a vehicle from our none-too-supportive parents, and who had an unsuspended license.
We piled into my parental units’ ark-on-wheels. Even Noah would be impressed with the number of specimens I’ve crammed in this baby, if you catch my current. As a shameless self-plug, I tossed in my own “band’s” tape. While warming the old family sedan with a few pumps of its fuel, I tanked myself up with a few shots of my own. We lurched splatteringly into the fast lane of yet another rock ‘n’ roll adventure. The first chords of heavily-distorted, mock/schlock rock exploded from the speakers at over-the-top volume. “It Ain’t Easy Being Sleazy.” So cheesy, so appropriate, so be it.
