Lost Souls of Ontario Mills

Lost Souls of Ontario Mills

The engine roared, a mechanical beast echoing through the desolate stretches of road leading us to Ontario, California. The town wasn't much—sunbaked streets and dust-coated memories—but it held one shining promise: Ontario Mills. I could see it in my rearview mirror, my boy's eyes on fire with anticipation, my partner's weary smile cracking like dry earth finally touched by rain. Shopping—didn't think it would save us, but hell, we were desperate for an anchor in the storm.

Ghosts of Commerce

Ontario Mills wasn't just any mall—it stood like a beacon of excess amid a barren landscape, luring souls willing to trade currency for fleeting happiness. Over two hundred retailers and countless entertainment pits lay in wait, each a siren song beckoning weary travelers. Names flickered in neon lights: Anne Klein, Banana Republic, Guess Factory Store, JC Penney's—like ghosts of better times, like promises whispered but never kept.

To some, it's paradise. To us, it was a sanctuary.

For the women—hell, why split the genders? We're all wanderers in this concrete labyrinth. My partner's fingers brushed against satin dresses like a forgotten lover's hand. And me? I found solace in the cool, synthetic smell of the Nike store, even if "Just Do It" felt like a cruel joke now. The kids? Eyes wider than saucers, dazzled by the cacophony of lights and sounds pouring out of Foot Locker and Finish Line. Elektro gleamed like hope on sneakers never meant to touch dirt.

Hunger and Heartache

But shopping wasn't just about the things we bought. It was about filling the void—patching up our frayed edges with something tangible. Stomachs growled, as if echoing the empty spaces in our souls. The food court rose ahead, a fragrant Eden peppered with temporary fixes.

Fast food, sit-down dining, snacks whispering sweet promises against rumbling hunger. We sank into ratty seats at Cinnabon, the sugary aroma masking our desperation. I watched my boy devour a pretzel from Auntie Anne's like it was his last meal. Maybe it would be. Who knew? Each bite felt like an escape from reality.

When the World Stops Spinning

But as the echo of commerce began to dull, fatigue wrapped around us. Shopping wasn't a cure-all, and like any good thing, it began to sting with overuse. We sought respite in the belly of the beast—the thirty-screen AMC theater looming like a cinematic panacea, a gateway to worlds where heroes wore capes and common men triumphed. We melted into the velvety chairs, allowing the darkness to wrap around us. The screen flickered, the world outside disappeared, and for two precious hours, we were more than the sum of our parts.

And when the credits rolled, the illusion shattered, each name another pinprick of our reminder that our escape was temporary.

The Final Frontier: Gameworks

Restless energy drove us towards Gameworks next, a cacophony of dinging bells and electronic bleeps. My boy vanished into the throng of flashing lights and immersive gamer worlds, his laughter eerily detached from the hardships we carried.

I watched him, heart heavy, a silent prayer slipping past my cracked lips—please let him stay innocent a bit longer. My partner's shoulders slumped, exhaustion pulling them inward. For the briefest moments, Gameworks wasn't just a haven for my boy—it was our last refuge from the crushing reality waiting just beyond the mall doors.

Remnants of a Day well-spent?

Ontario Mills played its role well—a Band-Aid for wounds deeper than consumerism could heal. We sat in a half-circle, clutching branded bags filled with hopes and dreams stitched in China. But beneath the glossy veneer, the truth lingered like a bitter aftertaste: Ontario Mills couldn't fix what was broken, couldn't fill the void. We'd spent the day drowning our sorrows in materialism, yet emerged from the sanctuary still carrying the same weight.

Yet for a moment, just a split second in time, we'd escaped. Our struggles forgotten, wrapped in the sterile, commercial womb of the shopping center. The day was more than a shopping trip; it was a canvas where our fears, hopes, and regrets painted a portrait of survival, even redemption. For each of us, the mall represented something different, but at its heart, Ontario Mills was a mirror—a reflection of our deepest selves pulled out by retail though fleeting, and turned into something touchable.

Blinking against the sinking sun, the mall receded in the rearview mirror as we drove away. Its echoes remained, whispering promises and half-truths. Would I recommend a visit? Damn right, if only because places like Ontario Mills remind us—it's the struggle and the escape, the yin and yang that makes life real.

As the concrete fortress shrank on the horizon, I glanced at my family, the ghosts of our day spent lingering in the depths of their eyes. And despite everything—despite the broken dreams and relentless struggle—I found hope. For in every fraught journey, there lies a place, a moment, where time stands still, if only just long enough for us to catch our breath. For us, Ontario Mills was that place. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

I hope this painting of our day's struggles, painted thinly on the canvas of Ontario Mills, will urge you to find your own brief sanctuary within these walls. Because sometimes, the greatest gift any place can give us isn't what it holds—but how it makes us feel, even if just for a moment.