Busier than a long snake in the mall parking lot

by Jason Nelson

Three historic neighborhoods and fifty blocks north of Oklahoma

City’s failing central business district, there is a strip mall. In the

fifties this mall represented the future, a modernist u-shaped block of

steel and brick, a place where a person could park and satisfy most of

their booming desires. Twenty years later it had become a landmark, a place

where campaigns were announced and developers studied. As a gangly kid, I’d

walk to the Otasco (Oklahoma Tire and Service Company) where they sold a

strange mix of bulky electronic equipment, misc. auto-parts and kitchen

towels. I’d always try to steal action figures while the owner fixed flats

for free or chatted with elderly women about their dogs. Later I might

visit Stones grocery where the front glass had two bullet holes circled in

paint, and Mr. Stone always gave discounts to women with children. There

I’d exchange pop bottles for quarters or hide out in the back storage room,

stuffing candy bars down my pants. When I was a kid I just didn’t care

about nostalgia or community pride. I knew the true reason for the success

behind the first mall in Oklahoma was the ritualistic killing of medium-sized pets. And I figured the least I could do was steal from these dog

snuffers, and secretly leave the items in the stores of the new mall down

the street.