The big stores have moved on to newer, shinier homes. The spaces that aren’t locked up are occupied by weird, off-brand franchises: a Chinese food/doughnut place; a cash-for-gold pawnshop; and, taking up an entire corner of the mall, a discount mattress store with an enormous, cheap vinyl banner over the old JCPenney sign. It’s like seeing insects feed on the body of a big, dying animal. Inside, the fountain is dry and there are only a few people drifting around. Half the lights are out. Kelsey and I walk inside the mattress store. A single saleswoman, heavy with sadness, sits behind a desk in the middle of all the beds. She waves but doesn’t get up. She thinks we might actually buy something—we still look like healthy consumers—but her knees hurt. Her back hurts. She worries about her next paycheck. There used to be two people on every shift. Now her manager comes in only every other day. <and how am I supposed to make rent on twenty hours a week> <not even getting commission> <sell your own damn mattresses then> I can barely screen out her long list of complaints.
