Black Enough: Stories of Being Young & Black in America

The metal security grate was lowered, but not locked. Beyond it, in the main mall corridor, foot traffic was low, the only thing still open to the public being the movie theater upstairs. Typical summertime Thursday in Briarwood Mall.

We jumped when multiple somethings crashed in the back room, followed by a bass-heavy “Fuucccck!” A moment later Amir emerged balancing two shoeboxes, peering at us over the top. “Y’all just chillin’ like you ain’t hear that footwear avalanche. I could’ve died back there.”

DeMarcus said, “We would’ve gotten extra teriyaki chicken from the food court in your honor.”

Amir’s face scrunched. He scrutinized DeMarcus, aggravated. “What is that?”

“The chicken samples from the hibachi spot. We can’t drink, no pouring one out for the homey. So we drop some chicken in a trash can in honor of your untimely—”

“Naw, dude. Your outfit!” Amir spotlighted me. “You let him do that, Shawn?”

“I didn’t let him do anything,” I said.

“This Foot Locker, man. Ain’t no dressing rooms in here. He had to change in front of you.”

“Actually,” DeMarcus said, “I went behind the counter. Ducked down in uniform, popped up in swag!”

Amir set the boxes down by one of the try-on benches. “You went by my register?”

“Yeah,” said DeMarcus.

To me, Amir said, “You ain’t stop him?”

I said, “He’s not my minion.”

Amir flopped on the bench, hit us with the Disappointed Dad Sigh. “Fellas. I’m the assistant manager here. I can’t allow y’all behind the counter near the till. It endangers the company’s assets.”

This dude. “You calling us thieves?”

“I’m not gonna dwell. All’s forgiven.” He flipped the lids on both boxes, exposing glossy new shoes. “Jordans or LeBrons?”

“LeBrons,” we said simultaneously.

“Word.” He removed the Jordans from their box, kicked off his workday Reeboks, and tugged cardboard slip-ins from the new kicks.

I said, “Yo. You buying those?”

“Borrowing.” He worked his feet into them.

“That doesn’t endanger the company’s assets?”

“I need to know the product intimately if I’m to increase quarterly sales.” He produced a slim roll of clear tape from his hip pocket, tore off strips, and affixed them to the soles so as not to damage the loaner shoes. “Wanna explain your outfit?”

I gave myself a once-over. “What?”

“There’s a Care Bear on your shirt.”

“Chewbacca.” His ignorance was disgusting. “From Star Wars.”

“You and that dimensional galaxy shit.”

“Dimensions and galaxies aren’t the same—”

“Girls gonna be there, Shawn. Ole girl from Nordstrom gonna be there. She probably suspects you can’t afford nothing from her store already. You gonna roll into the spot looking like a five-year-old at Chuck E. Cheese’s? Dumb. At least DeMarcus can say he’s a musician or something. They’re allowed to wear anything.”

DeMarcus leaned into a sock display, probably checking for one long enough to double as a headband or necktie. “Leave him alone, Amir.”

I said, “How you gonna talk? You’re still wearing the Foot Locker referee shirt.”

“If this was Wall Street, I’d wear a suit. We in the mall, this is my suit.” With his shoes laced and tape applied, Amir threw his hands up, defeated. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do it.”

He powered down the store’s lights and hoisted the security gate halfway. We ducked under, emerged on the second-floor corridor. The overhead bulbs burned at approximately one thousand watts, though the walkways were nearly deserted. On busy days, shopper traffic made the place feel like standing room only, but after hours the open spaces felt as wide as an airport runway.

While Amir locked up, I leaned on the polished teak railing and toed the safety glass that kept untold toddlers and Applebee’s drunks from tumbling to their doom. From this angle, I saw the scab-red OP in the GameStop sign below, waiting for me to relight it tomorrow morning. Amir stood, the gate secured.

There we were. The Eccentric, the Sneakerhead, and me, the Nerd. Traversing nearly one million square feet of floor space like Masters of the Retail Universe!

Amir turned to me. “What’s this thing about tonight, anyway?”

“Welcome to Mall-Stars!” Mr. Beneton, a round man with orange skin resembling the finest offerings in Wilson’s Leather Shop, tugged on a braided velvet rope fixed to a drop cloth covering the restaurant’s sign. When the cloth didn’t come down, DeMarcus chittered a sarcastic laugh.

I stared. He mouthed, What?

Mr. Beneton beckoned his trio of swole-up muscular helpers, with their too-tight-in-the-arm suit coats. They yanked the rope and the cloth fell, along with the last raggedy S in the signage—which didn’t fall all the way, just hung crooked, attached by one strained support. Electricity crackled, flooding all the letters—including that crooked S—with fluorescent blue light. MALL-STARS.

Our fellow mall employees celebrated the sign lighting with lukewarm applause. We were clustered in the East Atrium, stars visible through the skylight a hundred feet up. Thirty or forty of us from various stores were corralled next to the gurgling fountain, with its small fortune of loose wish-change submerged in greenish water. All clutching glossy invitations passed down from mall higher-ups to our managers to us, with “strong recommendations” that we attend this little party thrown by Briarwood’s big boss.

Beneton slipped index cards from his coat pocket, glanced at them, said, “Thank you for accepting my invitation to the soft opening of our newest venture. We’re excited to bring the ‘barcade’ model to Briarwood. Classic video games meet delicious food and signature drinks. As Mall Ambassadors, you will be the first to experience the magic. Put Mall-Stars through its paces. Anything that you order will be discounted twenty per—”

He frowned, signaled his least muscular helper for an eyeball debate over the notes he’d obviously not read before that moment. Then said, “Ten percent. Your discount is ten percent. Just ten.”

Groans from the “Ambassadors.”

“Try everything. Be sure to text any suggestions to the number posted at each table. Enjoy!” He slow-clapped, and like three other people joined in. When the applause died, Beneton’s guards ushered him off like the Secret Service snatching the president from assassins.

The crowd milled in, the dark space ghostly lit by flickering game cabinets, flat TVs racked around the bar, and assorted black lights. Some eighties song I’d heard my mom sing to, by that one dead artist, blasted from ceiling speakers, drowning everyone in old-school. I lingered outside the entrance, awed by Mr. Beneton’s kind-of-boss escape, and missed Amir giving me the ninja-look look, so he elbowed me in the ribs. “Shawn, she here.”

She was Dayshia Banks. Dark brown, fine, and flawless in a cream dress and low heels befitting the Nordstrom employee dress code. She went to Ocean Shore High, a town over. A senior, like us. Used to be a flag girl. This year she let band go to focus more on academics and saving dough for college. She didn’t tell me that personally. That’s off her Instagram and Twitter.

She ain’t follow me back yet. It’s been like eight months, but, I mean, I don’t post a lot.

“Shawn,” Amir said, “give me your phone.”

Dayshia strolled in, hugging herself against the arctic air-conditioning. I handed my phone to Amir, no questions.

“What’s your PIN?”

“1955.” The year Marty McFly traveled to in Back to the Future.