The Americana Mall

The term Americana implies some kind of rustic way of life somewhere in the Midwest.  There are fields of corn, hoedowns and the occasional twister.  It’s peaceful and people sing, “Oh, what a beautiful morning!” 

Unfortunately, the Americana I’m referring to is the complete opposite of everything I’ve just described.  It calls itself Long Island’s luxury shopping center.  There is, however, nothing luxurious about this place.  It is not intended for common mortals, but for the gods of wealth who inhabit the exclusive parts of Long Island.  What’s more, there is almost nothing American about this shrine to materialism.  It only has the best that Europe’s catwalks have to offer.  All right, I’m sure some of the high-end stores are American, but how would I know what’s in the Americana?  Security guards stand at the entrance and demand to see your most recent bank statements.  When they saw mine, they unleashed their most fearsome weapon of all: a pack of detoxing, Botoxed housewives in Juicy Couture sweatsuits.  I’ve never been the same since. 

Of course, I’m kidding.  Those housewives wouldn’t waste their time chasing someone as insignificant as me.  And, the security guards are far too busy ass-kissing to notice the admission of a mere commoner.  So, I ventured into this foreign ground several months ago.  I was showing a friend around the area and I wanted to scare the living shit out of her.  I also wanted to see if it was as seizure-provokingly expensive as everybody said. 

I pulled my car into the lot behind the lavish shopping center, and decided to park as far back as possible.  Here, there were less cars with six-digit price tags.  What’s more, all of these expensive cars had been parked on crooked slants, their wheels and bumpers venturing into the adjoining spot, as if begging some unfortunate soul to hit them.  My parents would have to foreclose the house if I made so much as a ding in one of these cars.  So, I ventured at a granny’s pace until I came to a spot isolated from the Mercedes, Audis and poorly parked Hummers. 

(A word on Hummers on Long Island: Why?)

My friend and I stepped out of my car, careful to avoid oncoming Hummers that paid no heed to pedestrians, particularly ones wearing apparel from, horror of fashionista horrors, American Eagle.  We talked and giggled nervously, feeling as if we were trespassing upon some aristocrat’s private property, which, in a sense, we were.  It was exciting and terrifying all at once.  We peeked into the windows of Cartier and Tiffany’s. 

Being an avid fan of Audrey Hepburn and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I look back on this moment and think, “God, we must have felt like Holly Golightly, munching on a croissant outside of Tiffany’s and seeing the possibilities of grandeur glittering in the diamonds before us.” 

Well, that’s a load of bullshit, because I’m pretty sure neither of us felt that way; we were too busy feeling the glares of supercilious clerks and superior shoppers to feel anything else. 

For fun, we decided to go into the most expensive store we could think of.  I have no idea which store we chose.  To be honest, I think it was the next one we saw, but in our mind it was the most expensive.  When we came through the doors, we stood near the entrance in a cluster, paralyzed with fear.

A clerk, who coincidentally looked like Holly Golightly, gave an artificial smile and welcomed us to the French-European-non-American sounding designer’s clothing establishment.  We thanked her meekly and looked at the shoes and dresses. 

“Ew,” my friend hissed at me before we could even look at the price tags.  She held up a mess of silver sequins that was apparently a dress.  “Who would wear this?” 

In response, I rolled my eyes and shook my head, suddenly aware that the clerk was eyeing us hatefully.  She no doubt had the same mess of sequins in her closet. 

“Dare you to look at the price,” my friend whispered, holding the dress and running her thumb over it. 

I deftly picked up the ordinary paper tag.  In a choked voice, I told her the price.  

She shrieked and let go of the dress as if it had bitten her.  We stared at it in horror, wondering if it was made of diamonds or mermaids’ tears.  Not long afterwards, we left, pursued by an angry mob of clerks, shoppers and security guards.