Nightmare Before Christmas: the Mall

Here I am heading into the belly of the beast, a Nordstrom store three weeks before Christmas, with only my lovely and patient older daughter to guide me.

“Will they have clothes here?” I ask.

“Yes, Dad, they’ll have clothes here,” my daughter says, spinning over to a display of cotton shirts.

She looks, she spins, she looks, she spins. This is how she shops. Like great tailbacks shop. Cutting left, cutting right, making something out of nothing.

If Nordstrom ever awards the Heisman Trophy, she will be the leading candidate. And to think she’s only a sophomore.

“How about this?” I say, pointing to an outfit.

“Dad, you can’t buy the first thing you see,” she says.

“Are there rules or something?” I ask.

“Yeah, Dad, there are rules,” she says. “You can’t buy the first thing you see.”

So we move on into the mall itself, dodging little women with big purses and the people handing out fliers and the line of shoppers waiting for the restroom, a sure sign of the holidays, these lines for the restroom.

I follow my daughter into another major store, toward a big section near the front--the Ally McBeal wing, a special department of clothing for people who don’t eat. For women built like jockeys.

“How about this for Mom?” my older daughter says.

“That’s nice,” I say.

She is looking at a leather miniskirt, the kind Ally McBeal would wear for New Year’s. It is on a mannequin, with a silver sweater and a black leather belt. Raider colors. If I were married to an eighth-grader it would be the perfect gift.

“Let’s keep looking,” I say.

It is a Saturday night and the mall is buzzing, full of serious shoppers counting the minutes they have until Christmas. They stare straight ahead, like cult followers, jaws clenched, fingers gripping the bags as if they might blow away in a gust of mall wind.

They look like people who don’t get enough sunlight, these shoppers, like people who eat too much mall food.

“Let’s get some mall food,” I say.

“OK,” my daughter says.

So we eat some mall food, which reminds me of the food you get at ballparks, good old-fashioned American fare with lots of salt and other key nutrients, such as benzoate and carbonated water.

“Isn’t this fun?” my daughter says as she chomps a big pretzel.

“I can’t wait to shop some more,” I say.

“We’re just starting, Dad.”

“Great,” I lie.

Three hours we have been here and we’re “just starting.” If I had known in advance, I would have trained harder.

“Let’s go, Dad,” my older daughter says.

I am no expert, but after three hours of shopping I can tell you this much about fashion in the ‘90s:

1. All the clothes look the same. Men’s. Women’s. Same stuff. My daughter is constantly pulling me away from the wrong department. Shoes. Shirts. Doesn’t matter, I cannot tell the difference. It is as if we’re becoming one of those same-gender nations. Which is OK, except proms and toga parties won’t be as interesting.

2. Women buy lots and lots of underwear. Every store seems to have a huge display of women’s underwear. It is a mystery, all this underwear. I suspect that America is now at a point when there are not enough women for all the women’s underwear. Either that or some women must be wearing two or three layers of underwear, like the women I dated in college. In the men’s stores, meanwhile, there is one small shelf of underwear--down low. “Got any underwear?” you ask. “Yeah, I think we have a couple pairs in the back,” the clerk says. “Let me look.”

Fortunately, unlike the other clothes, you can still tell the difference.

“Come on, Dad, you’re slowing down,” my daughter says, still lively after almost four hours of shopping and only a couple of purchases, mostly for herself.

We slip into a small boutique. I know it is a boutique because the clerks have lots of body piercings.

A clerk sits behind the counter, looking at her reflection in her fingernails.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asks.

“Got anything in a straitjacket?” I ask.

“Nope,” says the clerk, looking a little annoyed to have to answer questions when she’s busy looking at her reflection.

“Just my luck,” I say with a shrug. “No straitjackets.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” she says. “We’re just starting.”

“Just my luck,” I say.

And, with a another burst of speed, my older daughter sprints off for the next store.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.