16 Things Every Kid Did At The Mall In The ’80s And ’90s That Don’t Happen Anymore
Remember when malls weren’t just places to shop—they were magical kingdoms of endless adventure and possibility?
If you were a kid growing up in the ’80s or ’90s, you know exactly what I mean. Every Saturday felt like a mini vacation: cruising those fluorescent-lit corridors with a few crumpled bills in your pocket, maybe a Slurpee in hand, and absolutely zero adult supervision.
The mall was where friendships were forged, crushes were spotted near the food court, and the latest trends were discovered one window display at a time. It was our hangout spot, our movie theater, our arcade, and our fashion runway—all rolled into one glorious, air-conditioned escape.
So let’s rewind to those glory days, when the mall wasn’t just a destination—it was the destination, and life felt just a little more epic.
1. Feeding quarters to arcade machines
Nothing beat the rush of entering the mall arcade with pockets jingling full of quarters. I’d save my allowance all week for those precious silver coins that bought temporary gaming glory. The cacophony of electronic beeps, the smell of cheap carpet, and the glow of screens created an irresistible vortex.
Remember hunching over Pac-Man or Street Fighter II until your fingers cramped? We’d form unofficial tournaments around popular cabinets, creating instant friendships with strangers based solely on gaming skills.
Parents would drop us off with strict instructions to meet at the food court later, giving us sweet freedom in this pixelated paradise that smartphone games simply cannot replicate.
2. Getting lost in Spencer’s Gifts
Spencer’s Gifts was the forbidden temple of adolescent curiosity. Half novelty shop, half risqué wonderland, it beckoned with its blacklight posters and edgy merchandise. I’d sneak in with friends, giggling nervously at lava lamps and adult-oriented gag gifts we didn’t fully understand.
The deeper you ventured into the store, the more questionable the inventory became. Front sections featured harmless magic tricks and band t-shirts, while the back housed items that made us blush and whisper.
Store employees watched with knowing smirks as we worked up courage to touch the plasma balls, pretending we weren’t eyeing the suggestive posters. Spencer’s was our introduction to counterculture—a mall-sanctioned rebellion zone that parents pretended not to notice.
3. Posing in photo booths with your BFFs
Mall photo booths were our Instagram before social media existed. Cramming four giggling friends into that tiny space was an Olympic sport—someone always ended up half in someone else’s lap while we made ridiculous faces.
The anticipation killed us! We’d stuff in our dollar bills, pray the machine wouldn’t eat our money, then freeze in increasingly silly poses as the countdown flashed. Those agonizing minutes waiting for the strip to develop felt eternal.
When the damp photos finally emerged, we’d huddle around them, deciding who got which picture before carefully tearing along the perforations. I still have faded photo strips tucked in old diaries—tiny time capsules of mall adventures and friendships preserved in chemical development.
4. Testing every perfume at the department store
Department store perfume counters were magical chemistry labs where we’d transform ourselves through scent. My best friend and I would approach with scientific precision, systematically spritzing every tester on different body parts until we reeked like walking fragrance explosions.
Those poor makeup counter ladies! They’d watch us with thinly veiled annoyance as we dabbed, sprayed, and sampled with absolutely zero intention of purchasing anything. Our arms would become striped battlefields of competing scents.
We’d collect those little paper testing strips too, tucking them into our pockets like fragrant souvenirs. By the time we left, our combined scent cloud could clear entire food courts—a teenage perfume bomb that announced our presence thirty seconds before we physically arrived.
5. Browsing endlessly at Sam Goody or Musicland
Music stores were temples of possibility where I’d flip through endless rows of cassettes and CDs, judging albums entirely by their covers. Sam Goody’s distinctive yellow bags were status symbols—proof you had disposable income and musical taste.
The listening stations were revolutionary! Bulky headphones tethered to the wall let you sample tracks before committing your hard-earned babysitting money. I’d stand there for ages, blocking other customers while pretending to deliberate over purchases I couldn’t afford.
Nothing beat the thrill of finally buying that album you’d saved weeks for, then carefully removing the cellophane wrapper without tearing the case. Today’s kids will never know the satisfaction of building a physical music collection, one $15.99 CD at a time.
6. Hanging at the food court without buying anything
The food court was our teenage headquarters—a fluorescent-lit oasis where we’d claim tables for hours with minimal purchases. My friends and I mastered the art of nursing a single Orange Julius for ninety minutes while watching mall life unfold around us.
Weekend afternoons stretched gloriously as we gossiped about classmates, traded mixtapes, and played elaborate games of truth or dare. One $1.99 order of fries could legitimize a table of six teenagers for an entire afternoon.
Security guards knew us by sight but rarely intervened unless we got too rowdy. Today’s malls have eliminated those lingering spaces, replaced by quick-service kiosks and perpetual turnover—no more teenage loitering allowed.
7. Riding the glass elevator over and over
Glass elevators were mechanical magic—transparent boxes that defied gravity while offering panoramic mall views. My brother and I would ride them up and down repeatedly, pressing every button to maximize our journey time while exasperated shoppers glared.
The best elevators were the exterior ones that projected outside the building. That stomach-dropping sensation as you ascended three floors while suspended over the food court was better than any amusement park ride.
Mall security eventually recognized us as “those elevator kids” and would intercept our joy rides after complaint number five or six. We’d slink away to find new entertainment, only to return an hour later when shifts changed. Modern malls have replaced these wonderful contraptions with boring escalators or tucked-away elevators that prioritize efficiency over fun.
8. Begging for quarters to ride mechanical animals
Those coin-operated mechanical animals stationed throughout the mall were the original pay-to-play experience. I’d spot that red rocket ship or brown horse from fifty yards away and immediately launch into negotiations with my parents. “Just ONE ride, pleeeeease?”
The rides themselves were hilariously underwhelming—just gentle rocking motions accompanied by tinny music. But in my imagination, that plastic elephant was taking me on a wild safari adventure worth every cent of that precious quarter.
The best mall visits ended with permission for one magical ride, typically granted to ensure good behavior during the drive home. Modern malls have mostly eliminated these clunky contraptions, replaced by sleek phone charging stations—practical but painfully devoid of childhood wonder.
9. Flipping through posters at Strawberries or The Wall
Poster shops were galleries of teenage identity where I’d spend hours flipping through cardboard sleeves searching for the perfect bedroom decoration. Each flip revealed potential personalities I could adopt—was I a Bon Jovi girl or more Depeche Mode?
The forbidden thrill of reaching the “Adults Only” section behind the beaded curtain! We’d dare each other to peek, then retreat giggling at glimpses of Cindy Crawford or shirtless Marky Mark posters we were too young to purchase.
Eventually, a bored employee would notice us handling merchandise without buying anything and shuffle over. “You gonna buy something?” they’d drawl, forcing us to either commit to a purchase or slink away. My bedroom walls became a collage of these carefully selected identities—visual declarations of who I was becoming.
10. Watching the cookie-making machine at Mrs. Fields
Mrs. Fields cookie counters were sensory wonderlands—the hypnotic ballet of the cookie-making process combined with that intoxicating buttery aroma. I’d press my nose against the display glass, mesmerized by employees scooping perfect dough balls onto trays.
The best part was timing your visit perfectly to score a warm sample fresh from the oven. Those tiny paper cups holding bite-sized heaven made me feel chosen, special, blessed by the cookie gods.
Sometimes I’d linger so long that employees would give me an extra sample just to move me along. The transparent food preparation was revolutionary before open kitchens became trendy. Today’s mall cookies come pre-made from commissaries, denying kids the magical behind-the-scenes glimpse of culinary creation that made Mrs. Fields an experience, not just a snack.
11. Playing with everything at KB Toys without buying anything
KB Toys was a fluorescent-lit wonderland where my friends and I would conduct elaborate product testing without any intention of purchasing. We’d methodically remove every demo toy from its display mount, press every button, and thoroughly evaluate each feature while sales associates followed our destructive path.
Remember those basketball hoops mounted above trash cans? I’d spend thirty minutes perfecting my jump shot using the store’s display balls, creating impromptu tournaments with complete strangers.
The unspoken rule was that you could play with anything as long as you eventually put it back—somewhat—where you found it. Modern toy shopping is sterile by comparison, with everything sealed in theft-proof packaging, denying children that essential hands-on experience that helped us decide which toys were truly Christmas list-worthy.
12. Spending hours in the bookstore reading without buying
Waldenbooks and B. Dalton were literary sanctuaries where I’d camp out in a corner with a stack of books I had no intention of purchasing. The carpeted floors made perfect reading nests as I devoured Sweet Valley High or Goosebumps books cover to cover.
Staff members developed a sixth sense for identifying genuine customers versus freeloading readers like me. They’d periodically check in with suspicious helpfulness: “Finding everything okay?” Translation: “Are you actually going to buy that book you’ve been reading for two hours?”
Sometimes guilt would compel me to purchase a bookmark or cheap paperback to justify my extended stay. Today’s few remaining bookstores have eliminated those cozy reading corners, replaced with uncomfortable chairs strategically positioned to discourage the very browsing experience that once created lifelong readers.
13. Making wishes at the fountain while throwing pennies
Mall fountains were magical wishing wells that transformed ordinary pennies into vessels of hope. I’d clutch copper coins in sweaty palms, formulating the perfect wish before launching them into chlorinated waters with theatrical flair.
The strategic calculations were intense! Should I wish for something realistic like a new bike, or go big with dreams of meeting New Kids on the Block? Sometimes I’d try to land coins on specific spots in the fountain for extra luck.
Mall maintenance workers probably cursed us while fishing out thousands of corroded coins each night. Yet those fountains represented something beautiful—communal spaces where strangers collectively participated in an act of optimism and whimsy. Today’s sleek shopping centers have replaced these water features with seating areas or kiosks, prioritizing revenue-generating square footage over spaces for innocent childhood magic.
14. Getting your ears pierced at Claire’s while friends watched
Claire’s ear piercing was a pre-teen rite of passage performed not by medical professionals but by a 16-year-old with a piercing gun and five minutes of training. I still remember white-knuckling the purple plastic chair while my friends gathered around to witness my bravery/potential tears.
The ceremonial selection of starter earrings from the display case felt monumental. Would I choose the dolphins? The tiny hearts? Each option represented a different version of my new, more sophisticated self.
That distinctive CLICK-SNAP of the piercing gun still triggers my fight-or-flight response. Afterward, we’d parade triumphantly through the mall, me with my newly adorned earlobes and instruction pamphlet about proper cleaning, my friends suitably impressed by my courage. Modern piercing is clinical and private—missing the public spectacle that made Claire’s an adolescent landmark moment.
15. Creating masterpieces at the Lego table display
The Lego display tables were architectural playgrounds where I’d spend hours constructing magnificent structures destined for immediate destruction. No purchase necessary—just pure creative freedom with an unlimited brick supply.
My engineering ambitions far exceeded my skills, resulting in colorful towers that inevitably collapsed under their own ambitious weight. Other children would join spontaneously, forming temporary construction crews of strangers united by plastic bricks.
Parents used these tables as free babysitting while they shopped nearby, checking in occasionally to find their children deep in concentration. Today’s Lego stores still have play areas, but they’re smaller, more supervised, and designed for quick turnover rather than the extended creative sessions we enjoyed. The communal building experience has been replaced with structured, time-limited activities that lack the beautiful chaos of those original play tables.
16. Exploring the waterbed store just for fun
Waterbed stores were the weirdest mall staples—inexplicably common despite nobody I knew actually owning one. My friends and I would bounce from mattress to mattress, testing each bed’s unique wave dynamics while salespeople pretended not to notice.
The forbidden thrill of removing shoes and climbing onto those vinyl surfaces! We’d press our hands into the strange fluid-filled mattresses, creating ripples that would travel across the surface in mesmerizing patterns.
Eventually, an employee would approach with rehearsed patience: “Can I help you find something specific?” Code for: “Please stop treating this place like a water park.” These stores mysteriously vanished in the late ’90s, taking with them a uniquely tactile mall experience that today’s children—raised on memory foam and sleep number beds—will never understand.