Woodfield Woe – David Southard

October 3, 2025

Adrift aloft where lost shoppers shuffle each seeking its lost bargain. Vast enough for the hunt to be in vain. Narrow enough for the exit to mock. Inside the flattened sprawl of frozen escalators and faded facades, three levels high for the sake of endless ascent. The light. Its sickly buzz. A thousand shattered Sears bulbs. The shake and hum as though the anchor holding itself to earth were gasping. Then all dead stock. Perhaps the end of retail. A few breaths and all resumes, with a faint whiff of mothballed polyester. Consequences for the roaming wallet. For the hand that clutches a phantom receipt, for the feet glued to the scuffed linoleum, for the gaze lifted to the distant skylight where faint sun but no deals gleams. The chill. Freezer burn in ten sighs. Then all frozen assets. Perhaps the bankruptcy of all. Consequences for the skin—it cracks like a bad return policy. The forms shuffle past with a rustle of outdated Gap khakis, lips parting in silent haggling. Those with urge still to consume in vain at shuttered gates. But they will not cease.

No trace of outlet, you say, pah, no markdown there, Woodfield not void yet, yes, void, good, Woodfield woe woe. Escalators to Lord & Taylor, rails bent, mannequins in Marshall Field’s finery stripped bare, one glimpse and gone, endlessly, omit. Till all beige in the beigeness the grand court. No way out, go in, charge it. Span acres, from JCPenney’s tomb to Nordstrom’s echo. Four wings at odd angles divide the faded floor into zones of false promise. Sprawled there few faded forms, each in its quadrant of despair. Beige too the dome and the sagging signs ten feet high from which they dangle like clearance tags. Go back out, a plain purgatory, all beige in the beigeness, go back in, tap the glass, hollow. Go back out, drift back, the vast husk fades, ascend to the upper level where Rainforest Cafe’s plastic vines rot in silence, it fades, all beige in the beigeness, descend, go back in.

From where they slump they see debris rise. On. From where they slump when the fluorescents hold they see debris rise followed by dust bunnies the size of Sam Goody cassettes. Then they mutter at the source of all clutter, perhaps the ghost of a PBS Store of Knowledge clerk, peddling wisdom no one bought. On. At dusk when the lights fail they savor the shadow’s revenge on overpriced Crayola dreams. At the far end the shattered Disney Store window, where magic went bankrupt. To which in the beigeness they crawl, dreaming of Mickey’s markdown. Rigid then or soon the crawl. Not all. A few never. A few once, snagging a Thomas the Tank Engine toy that whistled its last, and never again. Not now. Never now again. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure liquidation. Neither stocked nor sold nor by any shift to flee the layaway. Gently gently. On. Careful, or you’ll trip over the Willy Wonka candy wrappers from that sweet shop of yore.

The chill deepens, to reach its nadir, say zero balance, at the same instant that the void is reached. Wait, more or less long, light and chill return, all grows beige and cool together, floor, walls, dome, forms. More or less long, for there may intrude, memory shows, between end of fade and beginning of rise, halts of varying span, from the breath to what would have seemed, in other malls, other eras, an eternity of hold music at customer service. It is possible too, memory shows, for rise and fade to halt short at any point and mark a pause, more or less long, before resuming, or reversing, the rise now fade, the fade rise, these in their turn to be fulfilled, or to halt short and mark a pause, more or less long, before resuming, or again reversing, and so on, till finally one or the other extreme is reached.

On. At the edge where light flickers false hope, they reach for echoes of A&W root beer floats, frothy dreams curdled in the chill. Rigid the grasp. Not all. A few sip from phantom mugs. A few once and thirst forever. Not now. Never now again. And the tongue. How simple all then. If only all could be pure evaporation. Neither quenched nor parched nor by any shift to refill.

Drift then to the arcade’s dim corner. On. From slumped postures when fluorescents falter, they see joysticks rise like relics, followed by token dust. Then they curse the coin-op corpses, perhaps the specter of a high-score holder from John’s Garage, revving engines that never started. On. In the greying dusk they relish the blackout’s bite on overcharged quarters. At the far end the shattered Sportmart window, where balls bounced their last. To which they shuffle, yearning for a home run bargain. Rigid then or soon the shuffle. Not all. A few bat at air. A few once, scoring nothing, and never again. Not now. Never now again. And the hand. How simple all then. If only all could be pure forfeit. Neither won nor lost nor by any shift to play.

At some center the cracked mirror, reflecting faces faded as old receipts. To which in beigeness they stare, hoping for a makeover markdown. Rigid then or soon the stare. Not all. A few reflect eternally. A few once and shatter inside. Not now. Never now again. And the face. How simple all then. If only all could be pure thaw. Neither solid nor liquid nor by any shift to skate.

On. At twilight’s tease they embrace the shadow’s slapstick on inflated prices. At the far end the splintered Hot Topic gate, where goth dreams gone clearance. To which they creep, clutching pierced illusions. Rigid then or soon the creep. Not all. A few pose forever. A few once, rebelling mildly, never again. Not now. Never now again. And the soul. How simple all then.

Incontinent the void.

The skylight. Dawn again. Already all disarray. Forms and fancies. As of always. Disarray amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only they could be pure specter. Unalloyed. These old so drifting forms in, out of style. So void. In the madhouse of the mall and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possible. Trapped there with the rest. Rubble and signs. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure specter. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On. Careful, lest you join the queue for nothing.

Such waverings of rise and fade, mingling in countless patterns, commonly attend the passage from beige and chill to void and freeze.

Then all trembles, floor, walls, dome, forms, ashen or leaden or between the two, as may be. But on the whole, memory shows, such uncertain passage. And most often, when the light begins to fail, and along with it the chill, the shuffle continues unbroken until. Distraction. Deal. Lost.

One last. At the far end the last. See it again a moment between its escalators. Its rails. Its displays. Huddled there the last. When it seems well on the way if not already there. Well on the way to that. To the extinction it invokes for its eyes as for that flesh. When it seems worse there than here. Then better here than there. See it again a moment. Woe.