The Mall

Connecticut's crumbling infrastructure mixed with an influx of notoriously inhospitable commuting New York drivers is a recipe for not arriving at the Danbury Mall, ever. Potholes formed from asphalt negligence, further worsened by extreme alternating weather patterns due to global warming, puts your Michelin tires in a constant state of jeopardization, that is, if you're lucky enough to have Michelin tires. Driving I-84 is never by choice. To escape the usual obscure curse words of unknown origin somehow audible through your Toyota, duct taped garbage bag windows half intact, dehydrating flesh of Sandys Golden Retriever named Max that mistakenly jumped out the back window, is possible, only if you don't take I-84.

I ill-advisedly went against the brutal forces of I-84 on Thursday without any sufficient altercations with the usual. It was uncomfortably atypical. Atypicality never actually amounts in the long-term as a benefactor, at least for me. Whenever atypicality enters the picture and prevents something that's typically awful from happening it's instinctual something much worse is coming in the future. I'm very pessimistic, that said, only a fool would embrace optimism in 2018. So I entered the mall for my Apple Genius bar appointment on suspicious terms.

My iPhone SE suffered a software malfunction on Thursday, that's why I've been somewhat absent from posting articles featuring half-naked Delhi men and bullying vignettes. Maybe that's a good thing. Limiting your viewing of Rajat Garage is only beneficial. With an unresponsive iPhone, the only option of iPhone reform possible was at the Danbury Mall Apple store, a place which only holds nightmarish memories due to run-ins with those feared. Elementary school teachers, physical bumping with the morbidly obese, seven-year-old kids still in restraint by their parents using child approved leashes; hell does exist for even that of an agnostic. I'm being harsh but undeniably truthful, so judge me if you want, but if you're judging me for hating oversized mallgoers and food courts, you've become too far Americanized, and there's no hope for you.

What was supposed to be a quick 20-minute software update transpired into returning to the mall seven hours later to pick up a new iPhone in which Apple willingly stole $135 from my bank account. But that was nowhere close to the climax of my angst. If there is anything in this world that I despise more than the Apple store at the Danbury Mall, it's suburban pre-puberty tweens, specifically middle schoolers. To make it clear, I despise all pre-puberty tween middle schoolers regardless of developed living environments, and the same goes for economic status. So I'm sorry Rob, I don't care your parents make $40,000 a year working together as a couple at Walmart, I hate you. That goes for Jack as well. I know your parents make five million working for Goldman and Sachs, but that makes me want to hate you even more.

It was after this seven-hour stint of Apple openly robbing my bank account that I decided to treat myself with that of Mall Starbucks. A line of twelve or so people, at most, should be no longer than 10 minutes. I was wrong. As I pondered my putrid hate for the nearby mall Santa Claus due to unorthodox body weight and short beard, I saw them. Three tweens, two in usual neon highlighter Under Armor garb. The other, an ethnically ambiguous figure wearing a MAGA shirt. Their voice crack laughter, and profanity snarks could be heard throughout the Mall, at some points even competing with the many infant cries coming from skinny Santa's lap. As obnoxious as these tweens came across, a sense of familiarity surfaced as to remind me it was only some years ago I was in the same position of sporting neon highlighter under amour clothing.

Still, tweens are tweens; they're despicable humans looking for peer recognition in the worst ways possible. These mall tweens were no different. "Can I have a white chocolate mocha?", a demand by the ethnically ambiguous kid that was surprisingly respectful towards the barista at the register. "Sure thing! Can I have your name?". It was in that request the ethnically ambiguous kid looked back at his friends with that perfect middle school smile of "I'm now going to try and make you guys laugh by being disrespectful to those older than me" and than looked directly back at the barista. "My name is bread." The barista looked confused but not anywhere close to stunned. "Did you say, Brett?". The boy, now almost frothing at the mouth like a dog with rabies needing euthanization, repeated: "My name is bread."

The barista, clearly now slightly annoyed the line of twelve had grown to twenty or so wanted this customer encounter over. "How are you paying?". Not to anyone's surprise, the ethnically ambiguous kid pulled out his Danbury middle school student ID. His peanut gallery of human highlighters erupted in full hysteria. "You can't pay with a Danbury middle school student ID, Bread," the shade thrown by the barista with the inclusion of using Bread somehow seemed to clear my seven hours of mall anger. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is it okay if I pay in pennies?". It took five minutes to count and a solid amount of restrain not to beat up Bread.