Holly At The Mall

I wake up at 2:17 with a blistering headache and a pleasant hangover. Without opening my eyes I reach out of my shorts and out to the bedside table for a Tylenol which I quickly slip under my tongue. When the bitter admonitory taste hits I have no choice but to get out of bed and head to the bathroom for some water to swallow the damn thing. A ciggy to kill the pain. I know for sure the fridge is empty. A trip to the mall is looming. This is shaping up to be another SunnyDale day.

I fumble into some casual suburban designerwear, grab my Amex and keys and head down the stairs and out the door. Outside the heat is deafening. God it must be at least 94° I think. I cut through driveways and backyards to maximise the shade factor but to no avail: when I reach the mall my m(a)dma(n) t-shirt is soaked with sweat and clinging to my skin. I make the last dash to the automated doors powered by that familiar lust for soothing stale air-conditioned air. I step into the gargantuan neon-lit interior and the muzak hits me like a wave of nausea. I curse myself briefly for forgetting the MD player in my urge to locomote and propel myself into the temple of consumption. My stomach is tingling.

I pass the games arcade where a group of neo-geeks are lined up on the video dance pads, jumping up and down in sync, in a frenzy of programmed dance steps. Since when do the geeks know how to dance?! God, things seemed so much more predictable in the world last week...

I stop for a while and stare as they take turns holding each-other's horn-rimmed glasses to beat the high score on the Sega dance pads. I'll take that J-pop mayhem over the muzak any day. I pop a piece of gum and nod my head to the tunes, strangely captivated by the spectacle. Suddenly I catch myself chewing frantically, my jaws clenching in time with the bassless beats. Oh shit I think. I can almost feel my pupils dilating. Damn it that wasn't paracetamol but an e I swallowed. I am bursting with fruit flavours.

By the time I reach the news-stand, I am feeling predictably elated and start to sweat. Four Buffy lookalikes are picketing in front of the magazines in sandals and complete Dries Van Notten apparel. Isn't anyone going to school anymore? I go up to a familiar looking girl I think I may-be recognise to find out more. She rolls her eyes in every possible direction before answering where have I been the last two hundred years. That of course they're protesting because the clueless newsagent stopped selling Les Cahiers Du Cinéma and gosh, culture is flying out the window and access is everything and don't I, like, you know, care... I flash her a killer smile, pay for my copy of Homes & Gardens and make a beeline for Pay'n'Save.

I have to restrain myself from like, skipping. My heartbeat is accelerating steadily. I am flying the friendly skies. From somewhere deep beneath my aching synapses I start hearing the loudening bassline of some long forgotten Chicago house track. I am buzzing all over, hips, lips and fingertips. Smiling like a maniac, I make my way past the fruit and vegies, around the fish counter towards the cereal aisle, wanting to frenchkiss every mothafucker in my way. The whole place is ringing with brightness. I need to find D'arcy.

My homegirl D'arcy has sorta set up shop between the fruitloops and the Special K and sells the best skunk this side of Beverly Hills. Just what I need to better manage that unplanned high. D'arcy, who looks really good in her Re-Invent The Middle Class T-shirt, goes James, long time no tea, and hugs me like a tree. Hey I go. She looks into my eyes and goes man look who had sugar with his cereal this morning and I shrug sheepishly. She slips me this pre-rolled spliff that's pink for some reason and I wave to her on my way out, totally overjoyous.

I light up on my way out, winking at the overweight security guard. Standing right outside the doors I slowly take in the sunlight on my skin and the hot wind violently caressing every inch of my frail body. I feel like a pre-ludovico Alexander DeLarge. I take my time across the SunnyDale parking lot, pulling on the spliff and pausing to rest my hand on the burning metal of parked BMW hoods.

But then fifty yards ahead I see this giant 6-feet-tall evil slimy reptilian with bloodshot eyes and razor-sharp teeth crouching behind a purple Mercedes. I follow the creature's famished gaze to a fat Gucci-clad middle-aged housewife loading groceries in the trunk of an oversized Hyundai. I think I recognise her from rehab. Her daughter's in my class, Charisma or Chastity or something. Suddenly, the lizard leaps into the air from its shady spot thanks to its powerful muscled back legs and lands ten feet away next to its unsuspecting prey. The housewife lets out a quick, surprised scream before the cold-blooded monster sinks its long teeth in the soft wrinkled flesh of her neck. Sitting in a shopping cart oblivious to the real life Pokémon tearing at his mother's flesh a few feet away, her six-year old son keeps his eyes riveted on a GameBoy. I look at my watch. I should probably go over there and wheel the kid to safety but I'm late for my geography class. I keep walking.