Trapped like a rat in a really big mall

Arizona Daily Wildcat

By Jennifer M. Fitzenberger
Arizona Daily Wildcat
September 5, 1997
I was trying my hardest to balance an uneven tower of shoe boxes in the crook of my left arm when I was almost knocked unconscious by a patent leather pump.

"Yeeeeeah, ninja, up and away," squealed a little monster who hurled the shoe from behind me, aiming for the stack that I was praying would not topple onto the customer in front of me. The kid missed his target, but nailed me in the back of the head.

"Die, mortal, die," he yelled, searching a dress shoe display for more ammunition.

His mother was the obese lady wearing the purple Barney T-shirt who hovered over the register trying to return a stolen purse. A vanilla ice-cream cone she held dripped down her swollen fist.

"God damn it Kenny, you get over here now and sit in that there stroller," she yelled at her son. He ignored her. He began swinging from a handbag display and crying like Tarzan.

I tried to make my way back to the stock room where I could suck down a couple Advil and hide from the angry mob but it migrated toward me and blocked my path.

All I saw in my state of delusion was a swarm of impatient shoppers waving shoes in my direction, demanding assistance. Every crass, vulgar and manner-lacking shopper sooner or later found their way to this shoe store. Chaos is not the exception here - it is the rule.

But so is life when you work part-time at Nine West in the Mall of America.

They Call It Mega Mall

Nicknamed the Mega Mall by native Minnesotans, at first glance the mall appears to be Harrods, Sea World, Club MTV and Disneyland all rolled into one big ball of happiness and joy.

Children laugh and frolic about Knott's Camp Snoopy, a rip-rollin' amusement park complete with a ferris wheel and roller coaster located in the center of the mall. The rest of the family can grab a burger at Planet Hollywood, catch a flick at the 14-theater General Cinema and rub noses with the sea-life in an underground walk-through aquarium called Underwater World.

The adventurous shoppers can exchange wedding vows in a little chapel next to Lady Foot Locker.

Tourists book one-day vacations to see the largest damn mall in the country - a place many wide-eyed visitors consider to be the eighth wonder of the world.

Believe it or not, over 40 million people worldwide flock to the mall each year to visit it's 400 stores.

But don't be fooled. It's all a bunch of bologna. Take it from a person who's been there. Personally, I'd rather buy my Levi's at the Tucson Mall.

This Ain't No Tucson Mall

In fact last weekend I visited Nine West at the Tucson Mall and wondered if the Mall of America store was in the same line of work. Associates were leaning on counter tops, twirling their gum and ignoring shoppers who were browsing their displays.

The Tucson Mall, which at 1.2 million square feet is one-fourth the size of the Mega Mall, caters each year to about 20 million guests - half the visitors the larger mall sees.

There was no flood of shoe-ravenous shoppers, no flashing lights, no one asking which bar in the mall had the best happy hour and no cymbal-crashing marching band parked outside the store's entrance. This was not the Nine West I was accustomed to. In more ways than one the Mall of America is in a league if its own.

The Mega Mall is busy. I mean really busy. Before I began working there, I actually enjoyed spending my spare time people watching, cracking jokes about the camera-carrying tourists who would "ooh" and "ahh" over a 50-foot blow up Snoopy. They would gather in front of the dog's 20-foot water dish and ask passersby to click their disposable cameras. For a while it was actually fun.

A certain energy seemed to whip through the air vents, creating a giddy, lightheaded feeling and an uncanny urge to spend lots and lots of money on souvenirs and cheap food.

One day during my half-hour lunch break I paid $5 for a small basket of cheese curds from Minnesota Picnic. The Picnic is a walk-through restaurant specializing in the art of Minnesota cuisine. Cheese curds, made famous by vendors at the Minnesota State Fair, are chunks of cheese dipped in batter and fried in a vat of oil and grease. The kid who took my order must have been about 12 years old and about 4-feet tall.

"Enjoy your curds, maaam," the little guy said as he grinned and handed me my food and a Mountain Dew in a Dixie-sized cup. "Have a grrrreat afternoon." Yeah right, dude. I've got to go back to work.

Rush Hour in the Mall of America

But even going back to work is a task easier said than done. A good half of each lunch break was spent moving to and from the food court - dodging high schoolers walking hand in hand, avoiding frantic parents who were cussing to themselves, desperately searching for their lost kids and steering clear of the fourth-floor bars where drunkards would harass old ladies in front of their husbands.

The latter is one reason I hated my daily trek half way across the mall to George's Shoe Repair to pick up mended tennies and boots.

One afternoon I stepped into an elevator carrying a family of three, a couple and a filthy old man wearing a trench coat.

"Did you just see a movie?" the filthy man asked me as he moved his face close to mine. His breath stank of bourbon and he needed a shave.

"No," I replied in disgust. "I didn't." I was merely trying pick up my mended shoes and return to work.

"Did any of you all come from the theaters?" he asked the rest of the elevator.

The couple told him they just finished seeing "My Best Friend's Wedding." The man continued to stare at me as I backed against the glass elevator walls.

"Ooooh," he said.

"Let me guess, you are coming from the bars," said the father of the family next to the couple, laughing uneasily.

"Yeah ... I guess I am," the filthy man replied with a wicked grin.

At that point I could not stop thinking of the man who was shot to death a couple years ago in Camp Snoopy. Just a few months ago a missing Canadian woman's abandoned car was found in the mall's parking garage.

I just prayed to God the filthy man would not pull out a sawed off shotgun and open fire.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened to the first floor and I quickly ducked under the man's arm which he had placed above me, leaning on the fingerprinted glass.

There is a God. I escaped and quickly ran back to my place of employment.

Are You of Age?

The mall's idea of security is placing a rent-a-cop at each mall entrance Friday and Saturday nights to make sure mall-goers were over 16 years.

One Friday night when I was working a 7 to 10 p.m. shift, a tubby cop wearing pants a size too small asked to check my driver's license. I asked him why. He said he had to make sure I was over the age of 16.

Excuse me? I am 20 years old, 5 feet 6 inches tall and was dressed to work in a fancy women's shoe store. Give me a break.

That very same night I went with some friends to a local sports bar and was served alcohol - without being carded.

Yes, the Mall of America is a tourist trap. It can be dingy, dirty and home to many accidents and inconveniences. It is, however, a place that everyone ought to see. People like myself deal with the problems so that people like you don't have to. If you have a chance to visit, please do - just make sure if you check out Nine West to beware of flying footwear.