by Trish Cantillon

“What do they want? Why do they come here?” Fran asks Stephen on the roof of the Monroeville Mall in George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead. “Some kind of instinct. Memory. What they used to do.This was an important place in their lives,” he answers.

His 1978 film depicts zombie teenagers invading the local mall. Almost forty years later, it seems as though the roles have been reversed. The malls are now the zombies—half dead shells of their former selves. According to an article published in April 2017 in The Atlantic, it is estimated that in the next ten years the mall population could dwindle from 1200 to 900. The Great Recession coupled with the ease and convenience of online shopping contributed to the decline. An unexpected loss in this new era is the mall as a hub of social interaction for young people who found their first jobs there, shopped, or just hung out with friends.

The mall was an important place in my life. It was where I first got a taste of independence. As a grade schooler, I was allowed to spend weekend afternoons grabbing lunch and shopping with a friend, no adult supervision required. I would imagine that the mall was the city I lived in and I was a grown up, confidently moving through it. At the Hallmark store, I bought the first of the many diaries I would fill with professions of my undying love for “fox-fox” Sylvester Stallone and “super fox” John Travolta. My active imagination discounted the fact they were adults and I was in seventh grade. Of course, once they knew me, they would love me. It wasn’t until high school that I screwed up the courage to write the first and only fan letter I’ve ever written. It was to actor Timothy Hutton. Because he was close to my age (I was sixteen and he was twenty-one), it somehow seemed possible that he could be my boyfriend. And, as Conrad Jarrett in Ordinary People he was exactly what I was looking for: broken-hearted, misunderstood and sensitive.

When I should have been solving algebraic equations, I took a sheet of wide-ruled paper from my binder and composed my letter. I told Timothy how much I loved his work, congratulated him on his Oscar and finished with a few details about myself. I grew up in Beverly Hills, was in eleventh grade at Beverly Hills High, had blonde hair, blue eyes and was very friendly. As an afterthought, and in the interest of full disclosure, I let him know I was a little overweight, “but working on it.” Along with my signature, I included my telephone number and address. I slid the letter into my textbook and figured I’d mail it as soon as I knew where to mail it to.

The Bijou, a one-of-a-kind movie memorabilia store at Century City Mall was hiring part-time employees for Christmas. A few months earlier, I had quit the only other job I’d had as a counter worker at P.G.’s Fast & Natural. It was a sandwich and smoothie spot in the mall that was neither fast nor natural. We spread mayonnaise on our “healthy” sandwiches and rainbow sherbet was the first ingredient in our smoothies. It was a great place to work until they were late with paychecks and inflexible with schedule requests. I decided to quit after I had to miss my best friend’s sweet sixteen. I didn’t miss the smell of alfalfa sprouts and carrot juice, but I missed earning $3.35 an hour and the social life that grew out of having a job at the mall.

In 1982, before big chain and box stores, Century City was an outdoor mall in West Los Angeles, populated with retail shops, fast food eateries, The Broadway and Bullock’s department stores and a Gelson’s supermarket. The mall was buzzing with high school kids who worked part time jobs. When we weren’t working, we spent our ten-minute breaks and half hour lunches window shopping or visiting the kids we knew who worked at other stores.

I would stop by The Cookie Place first for some “lo-cals,” allegedly low-calorie cookie balls made of who knows what. If I asked for four, the guys gave me six. If I saw a pair of shoes I liked at Leed’s, the girl there would let me use her employee discount when I went back to buy them on pay-day. I’d go to Judy’s clothing store before I had to clock back in and talk to the girl who stood behind the Mary Quant Cosmetics display while I freshened up my lip gloss and eyeshadow. When I worked at PG’s, the box boys from Gelson’s would come in on their breaks, usually with a fifth of vodka they’d stolen from the supermarket. They would order smoothies and then empty the vodka into the oversized Styrofoam cups. Friends who didn’t work at the mall also came by to visit. One of my best guy friends had a crush on the girl who worked at the faux Parisian café, La Baguette, where they got to wear cute aprons and berets. He would go visit her, buy a coffee to make his visit legit and then come visit me. There was always something happening.

My Christmas job at The Bijou started in early November. The wrapping station was in the back of the store behind a large counter. I stood next to an enormous roll of lilac wrapping paper and spools of dark green yarn, the kind Jan Brady tied on the ends of her braids. I waited for customers to bring their items over, show me their receipts and then I’d get busy. We would make small talk while I wrapped Betamax or VHS movies, Art-Deco frames or satin pillows in the shape of clouds, hearts or rainbows. My first few shifts were super slow. I memorized all the words to the Christmas songs that played on an actual reel-to-reel and day-dreamed about the day Timothy Hutton would come in. The prospect wasn’t completely out of the question. Many famous people shopped at the Century City mall, especially through the holidays and most especially in stores like The Bijou. I had seen Belinda Carlisle of the Go-Go’s and Demi Moore (then of General Hospital) and the “fox-fox,” Sylvester Stallone. I imagined many scenarios for my encounter with Timothy Hutton. He might be browsing around my wrap station, looking at framed glossy photos of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and Glinda the Good Witch or admiring the t-shirts that said, “Surrender Dorothy” or the ones sporting the famous Hollywood sign. I knew that if he came anywhere near me I could legitimately speak to him. No fan letter necessary. I believed that if we could meet, the rest would take care of itself.

As Christmas crept closer, my manager told me to be ready for the last Saturday before the holiday. “One of the busiest of the year,” he said. Though I typically dressed up for work and wore pumps with a dress or skirt, I figured I should take his advice. I wore my beige linen skirt from Camp Beverly Hills with a white top and my red patent leather flats that had clip-on red patent leather bows.

The first hour of my shift was spent shrink-wrapping stacks of Jane Fonda’s workout books and videos, which I then carried by the armful to the book section at the front of the store. I unpacked and priced a couple boxes of decorative glass perfume jars and put them on the shelves by the pillow display. I dragged the empty boxes back to the storage area near the clock where we punch our time cards. Thankfully, it was someone else’s job to break them down for the trash. I was surprised to see my white shirt was still clean. I adjusted my skirt and the bows on my shoes and stood at my wrapping desk, ready for the rest of the day.

As the store filled up with Christmas shoppers, the area around my wrap counter was packed with people. From the corner of my eye I spotted a cute guy. My antennae went up, could it be? I didn’t want to be obvious, but I had to make sure. I looked over in his direction, casually. Blue eyes, check. Brown hair, check. It was him. Timothy Hutton was five feet from me, my wrapping paper, yarn and scissors, wearing a dark blue sweater and jeans. He was chatting with the older woman he was with as browsed the store. My cheeks flushed and my heart raced with excitement and disbelief.

I had to get myself out from behind the counter. I quickly wrapped a framed Godfather II lobby card of Robert DeNiro shooting Don Fanucci with the gun wrapped in a towel, one of our best-selling items. After I handed it to the shopper I offered a boisterous, “Happy Holidays!” hoping it would catch Timothy’s attention, but it didn’t. In fact, he and his friend were slowly moseying their way out of my general area. My opportunity slipping away and, in spite of my boss’s warning, I stepped out from behind my station, and left it unattended on the busiest Saturday before Christmas. I smacked my lips with the little bit of Clinique Black Honey lip gloss I had left on. I checked to make sure that the curtain that lead to the store room and the manager’s office was drawn all the way.

I quickly came up with a plan. I would approach him, just as a friendly store clerk asking, “Can I help you?” Naturally, from there, a conversation would ensue. And, if all went well, he’d ask for my phone number or something like that. I walked casually in his direction hoping he would notice me first. When that didn’t work, I positioned myself next to the record display where he would have to turn and see me before heading to another part of the store. When he finally did, it was as if everything moved in slow motion. Timothy Hutton looked right at me with his big blue eyes and cute but messy brown hair framing his face. I grinned, like the starry-eyed teenage girl that I was and watched helplessly as he moved to pass me. “Can I help you?” I asked tentatively. The woman with him smiled at me, “No thank you. Just looking,” she said politely. He sort of nodded with a smile while I stood frozen and stared longingly as he walked out the door. I was equal parts giddy at the fact that I saw him up close and personal and mortified that I could have been that lame. It buoyed my spirits remembering there were still six shopping days until Christmas. It was likely he’d be back and I would be better prepared for the next time. Fate had brought him to The Bijou during my shift and fate wouldn’t be that cruel to have our paths never cross again. I kept a watchful eye for him not only at work, but anywhere else in the mall I thought he might go.

I worked at The Bijou until I went away to college. Another young high schooler took my job when I left. I never did see Timothy Hutton again. But I did have a few dates with the cute Conrad Jarret-esque guy from the stockroom who would tape Bazooka Joe comics to my time card.

In 2017, Century City Mall once again went through a major renovation. The Bijou has been gone since the mid-to-late 80s. I’m certain the mall will always have its Gap, J Crew, and AMC movie theatre, but the charming boutiques and one-of a-kind shops have disappeared along with many of the part time high school retail employees. Although according to The Atlantic article, the median salary for a cashier/retail clerk is less than $25,000 a year, it seems many of these positions have been filled by adults. I enjoyed the financial independence, responsibility and freedom that having a job afforded me, but what has stayed with me over thirty years later are the relationships and memories that were created there. This was, after all, an important place in my life.

Trish Cantillon is a married mother of two who has published on The Fix, Refinery 29’s “Take Back the Beach,” Storgy, Brain Child Magazine Blog, and in Gold Man Review and Berkeley Fiction Review. She works for Dream Foundation, the first and only national organization serving terminally ill adults, and their families by providing end of life dreams.