The Mall Robots

Most of the mall looks the same as it did in my childhood. The stores and signs have changed, of course, to follow the trends. The tiles are the exact ones I remember looking down to when I was four and peed myself. I had been holding it in but can’t remember why I didn’t let my mom know. I expected to find a puddle. It would’ve collected in the black mortar before overflowing onto the burnt colored brick. The puddle never formed, instead, it filled up my cowboy boots. I could see my mom’s disappointment in her face, but she was likely relieved she didn’t have to find paper towels. It’s now a funny memory between us.

I walk down the same ramps to the main area. I’m surprised there is new décor installed. It’s a significant step-up from the traditional grubby scarecrow and fall pumpkins they recycle every year. It appears to be expensive mannequins that can move. It’s curious and seems they are designed to interact with the viewers. I’m sure they are trying to engage shoppers to buy what the robots are wearing. Their movements are stiff, mechanical, but their skin-smooth, veined, almost breathing - makes them unsettlingly human. They are dressed on the scandalous side. Showing a lot of skin. I know this look is normal for most of the population, but not here in a small, homely town with folks that thrive on hearing scandalous things about their neighbor. Maybe they chose to leave the men shirtless because their skin looks so lifelike. Or because they know half naked men bring more middle-aged women who will spend money on things they don’t need. They included the detail of faint blue-green and purple veins under their skin. Their movements are mechanical, but looking long enough convinces me I can see heartbeats in their necks. I don’t leave town often; it doesn’t take much tech to amaze me. I know these have got to cost tens of thousands of dollars. Why would this out-of-date mall spend that much? Perhaps they are worth what they paid because I can’t stop looking at them.

I want to get closer to see if I can find where they are plugged in or find seams in their skin. I never find them because I become so charmed at their lifelikeness. Their skin appears living. This is kind of thing people have been trying to recreate at Disneyland. The wax museums do not come close to this. I haven’t seen anything on the internet showing machinery has come this far. Imagine these figures waking up in the middle of the night to strangle the cleaning crew. I don’t need my mind to wonder about the impossible, and I for sure do not need to be looking that deep into their eyes. I’m not that lonely of a woman.

I don’t visit the mall much anymore. It felt as if I was here more than I was at home when I worked as a sales associate. I was taught every job is important with a purpose, but I spent eight hours of my day around overpriced material junk. Clearly, I was lacking fulfillment. Especially for nine dollars an hour. You know you spend too much time in a location when all your dreams take place there. Now when I come, it’s only to get my jewelry cleaned or eat Chinese food. The Chinese food place is one of my favorites. The owner knows my dad and she’ll always ask, “how your father?” This spot used to be our special treat when it was just us. Back when I was young, if my mom was with us, we always ate at the cheapest place possible. He knew it was my favorite and would always bring me, even though his favorite was Golden Corral. I don’t know if her prices were actually high, but in my mom’s terms “we need to save, we’ll eat something at home.” The dining section was entertaining. It was wall-to-wall mirrors, and you could see hundreds of yourself. As if you had a dance crew in sync with you. The restaurant changed ownership, the menu changed, the food went downhill. No one asks about my father, so I don’t go as much. Now that I pay for myself, I find myself following my mom’s advice. I can relate to her stress of having enough money.

I find myself coming more often to see if the mannequins’ changed position. I want to see if they’ve switched clothes. I need to find a hobby since they consume my free time. I’ve always wanted something supernatural to happen to me. I’ve never seen a ghost and Bloody Mary was a rip off and never showed up. I must see it to believe it. I want to get closer. I want to touch them to see if their skin is warm. Human body warm. There are others who are also astounded enough to take photos with them. So I won’t feel completely out of place getting close enough to touch one. I walk up trying to look casual as possible. I see no security cameras. What if I knock one over? I don’t want to be responsible for paying repairs. I take time to acknowledge how silly I feel for doing this. I also have a tremendous thought that enters my mind. What if it glitches and reacts to me touching it? Surely, I would make a scene. Then people’s cameras would turn and film me looking like a fool to be shared around the community. How would I explain that behavior? Or what if they are like Chucky, the demonic doll with a bowie knife? I don’t want nightmares or more reasons I can’t sleep. I can see that scene playing out clearly in my head. My imagination shows me how the knife would rise high to gain thrust to ensure it drives all through my lungs, be pulled out, then sever in my intestines. I’m already an arm’s length away. I put my hand out to touch the male robot. The one without a shirt standing up straight with his arms bent like Barbie. Its eyes are looking into mine. The hair on my arms raises up. I get a hot flush of blood charging though my body. The same feeling when you come so close to causing a car accident. These aren’t machines. They are an entity. I have made a bad decision. I feel shock and dread. The immediate feeling of severe regret. An awful fear I have only experienced in sleep paralysis. I need to get away, but I cannot move. I don’t know if it’s my body that can’t react or if it’s my mind that can’t process. The only thing that my body can do is allow tears to build. The tears don’t fall. I work to focus to just shut my eyes hoping that this is a panic attack. I close my eyes tight. I can tell I’m trembling. Trembling as if I drank coffee on an empty stomach.

I open my eyes; through the watery vision I’m still looking into their eyes. I see an expression of fear through its eyes. It makes zero sense. It’s clear as day. It’s not just a dead stare I see. It’s the emotion of horror in its eyes. My fear turns into madness. I’m waiting to snap out of it…walk away…sit in my car and replay what happened. But I see a familiarity in their eyes. I slowly look at the rest of its face. My eye muscles feel stiff and slow to react. Something has shifted. Another rush of intense feeling and I feel that flash of heat. I try to gasp but I feel incapacitated. I’m not looking at the mannequin anymore. I am looking at myself. I’m looking at my body. My own body. My own face that I have never seen without a mirror. I see what used to be my body recoil and contort in disbelief and terror. The thing in my body doesn’t know what to do. It glances around shuddering with confusion and panic. I’m seeing the mall from the robot’s eyes. I understand what just happened. I’m just a fixture now. No one is even paying attention to me. My mind calmed down and I had time to think. It feels like I have all the time in the world. Weird. I feel no distress…no worry. Can this be described as peace? I see the color sink from my old skin. I look different than what I see in the mirror. I look a little more attractive than I do in photos. I’m as chubby as I thought though. That is accurate. I see how funny I dressed myself today. I’m watching my body fidget with distress. I can’t move my eyes around freely, but I can focus my gaze down to the floor just below my old shoes that I bought from here not long ago surrounded by a growing puddle. Overflowing the grout and covering the brown tile and making it shine. My old running shoes don’t catch the pee like my old cowboy boots did. The robot mannequin who is now hosting my body is feeling all my previous fear? It is all my stress, anxiety, worries, and pain all at once. Is it feeling the anxiety of having to explain a profoundly personal problem that you can’t just openly tell people about? What will this unfortunate robot do? It is not me anymore, so I really don’t care. I’m a decoration now. I just stand here and look pretty. I wonder if I can come alive at night like the ones from movies and try on clothes and have the whole mall to myself. My old body now appears to be sending me a look pleading for help. I look straight back into my old eyes, and I can see my robot reflection in watery eyes that used to be mine. I cannot feel my body and I certainly cannot move, but I try my best to raise one corner of my mouth for my old eyes to see.