Luke Mall-Walker

That's my name

“Luke Mall-Walker. That’s my name.” That’s what I tell Ellen when my earbuds are in and I’m ready to do our 2-miler. She rolls her eyes. Nothing about the ancient life form she married resembles “Luke Skywalker”. My light saber is a Gatorade bottle repurposed to hold drinking water. I holster it in my day-glo orange fanny pack. “Ready to explore this world?”

It’s summer’s end and we are weary of circling the cool concrete canyons of our nearby mall. But walk we must. Use or lose it. We tried to hike outdoors one morning this hot and humid week. Too much. I am resigned to walking the mall for a few more days.

We mall walkers recognize the other mall walkers.

We nod knowingly at each other. Tap of the cap, stranger. We’re easy to identify. First, there’s our uniform: shorts, t-shirt, cap, sneakers. Or in my case, sandals. No shopping bags. Fanny pack optional. Water bottle mandatory. Ear pods in. World tuned out. Probably tuned to NPR.

Or oldies. The music of my generation’s death march. Old familiar pop songs by howling teens whining about how heartbreaking life can be when you’re barely out of the pupae stage. Boogie-oogie-woogie. Rock on. Walk on. March! Hup, two, three four.

Must. Stay. One step. Ahead.

Of the hip replacement.

Of the Grim Reaper.

Of the ER cardiologist.

Of the Happy trails Hospice.

March! Hup, two, three, four. When the right song is on the playlist I can really pound tile. Anything by Earth, Wind and Fire, Lou Reed or Stevie Wonder. Our pace is our pride. Out of our way, punks (strolling 40-year olds).

Ellen and I give the other walkers nicknames. Scooter. Marathon Man. Thelma and Louise. Wheezy. Skippy. Spandex. Ike and Mamie. Windbreaker.

The unwritten rule? Never crop-dust another mall walker. Save that ill wind for the gaggle of teenagers who took their time moving aside.

Our 2-mile track takes at least 45-minutes if I don’t stop to ridicule the Victoria’s Secrets window displays. It’s a circular looping path up the stairs and down and in and out of the side canyons. Mall directories and stairwells are our landmarks. We round them like buoys at sea defining the boundaries of a yacht race.

We always choose stairs over escalators. No rest for the wheezing wicked.

Another way to identify a mall walker? We often check the health app on our watches to see if our hearts haven’t exploded.

You’ve been mall walking a while when you start to recognize the mall security guards. They recognize you and give you that look. “Wow. Back again. He’s still alive.”

We walk four or five times a week at our town’s large nearby mall. It has air conditioning, teenagers selling overpriced brand clothing to other teenagers and young families with little screamers desperate to escape their tiny apartments.

I deny myself the cinnabon‘s and pretzels as I pass by the Devil’s temptations. “No”, I say. Ever onward.

Past the games, gadgets, comics, dungeons and dragons shops.

Past the Spencer‘s crammed with kiddos, losing their little minds over the fluorescent sex toys and vulgar T-shirts. Glad I’m not a parent who has to explain their wry wit to a child.

Past the Dillard’s, the beauty shops, the Penney’s, the Photo Booth, the lonely arcade games and the idle cart vendors scrolling their phones.

Past the young retailer handing out cologne samples who deduces I’m not the type of customer who would care for a sample, an ancient life form who reeks of Ben Gay and baby powder.

I’m impressed by the “big girl” mannequins. In this mostly sedentary completely artificial world of artificial pizza slices, cinnabon’s and pretzels it’s only natural.

I zip past one deserted shop and I wonder how they stay in business. I make eye contact with the bored young sales associate looking back at me. He wonders how I stay alive.

Mall walkers are competitive. Nothing makes me double-time my pace like a 90-year-old whippersnapper whipping past me. “On your left.” Racing to the grave are you, grandad? Geezer hasn’t been humble since he won the 1936 Senior Olympics in Berlin. Folks who age well are my role models. Like “Speedy” here. Vintage punk. Probably hopped up on Geritol spiked with STP.

We make it back to the store entrance where we first came inside. Alive. High five. We exit the mall and head to our car parked in the shady parking garage. I check my watch to see how I did. My fitness app tells me I had a good mall walk.

57:49 minutes.

135 calories.

2.05 miles.

Got my heart rate and appetite way up and my blood pressure down. I have a good appetite for the dinner we made at home that’s waiting for us. A huge Greek salad. I have renounced most nutritional sins.

Save for the latte on the way home. No sugar. Oatmilk, please. What has become of me?

And I am highly motivated. I’ve given up a few bad habits. Fear of death is a superb motivator. Best cheerleader I’ve ever had. In fact, the Grim Reaper is my life coach.

I have to live long enough to see the grand kids graduate.

To pay off our mortgage.

And to see how America’s shit show ends. Who will heart disease nail first? Me or him?

Best reward of my exercise routine is the mental health component. I did not pass by a single television with Fox News on the screen. Not one.

True escape.