Escalators only, thanks: my life at Stoneridge Mall

Stoneridge mall in Pleasanton, built by Taubman, opened in 1980 with JC Penney, Emporium-Capwell, and Macy's as anchors. Nordstrom and an expansion came in 1990 and finally Sears joined in 1996. The only minor remodel since opening occurred in 2007, bringing with it new flooring inlays and plush seating areas.

Right out of 1985, here is a promotional picture of the center court.

It always looked like the sculpture was hanging a little low—like it was trying to get a better view of the shoppers below. When I worked at the mall, I used to sneak glances at it from the second floor, watching as it was raised or lowered depending on the mood or maintenance of the day. But the real thrill? Earthquake days. That sculpture would sway, slow and ghostly, like it was dancing to some invisible rhythm only California could provide.

For the trivia lovers among us: a nearly identical sculpture floats above the atrium at the Hyatt Regency Embarcadero 5. Same style, same quiet grandeur.

1989 Stoneridge Mall logo.

The curse of the Stoneridge elevator

I've probably been to Stoneridge Mall more times than I’ve brushed my hair—okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but it’s definitely my most-visited mall. And yet, for all those visits, I’ve baffled friends and family with one small, stubborn habit: I refuse to ride the elevator.

It’s not claustrophobia. It’s not some architectural gripe. No, it’s something deeper. Something... cursed.

Let me explain.

When Stoneridge first opened its gleaming glass doors, it did so with full Taubman flair. There were banners, ribbon cuttings, and even Foothill High’s marching band pounding out some celebratory beat. Alfred Taubman himself—yes, the mall mogul—gave a grand speech about a bright future of consumer joy.

And then... the brand-new elevator didn’t work.

Just stood there. Shiny, silent, sulking. From that moment on, I was convinced it was doomed.

But really, my grudge against elevators goes back even further—to the "incident."

I was just a little thing, trailing behind my grand aunt—the one who’d quite literally walk out of her shoes if a sale caught her eye. We were in a Joseph Magnin store somewhere, probably Serramonte Mall. She pressed both the “up” and “down” buttons in the elevator (dyslexia mistake), and in we went—me, my cousin, and our fearless, fashion-hunting aunt.

We ended up in the basement. Doors opened... but the elevator wouldn’t go anywhere else. It was as if we had been ejected from the matrix. Cue panic. My cousin and I, certain we’d be trapped forever, started bawling right there among boxes of perfume and pantyhose.

Eventually, we exited—not into the store, but into some forgotten corridor that led us outside. We had to hike all the way around the mall to get back in. For us, it was practically a survival story. From that moment on, I didn’t trust elevators—especially not in malls.

So when Stoneridge's elevator debuted broken? That sealed it. In my mind, it was cursed, too. Even now, decades later, I still take the stairs—or the long way around—just to avoid tempting fate.

Some people fear haunted houses. Me? I fear mall elevators with a history.

Behind the counter: tales from the glittery trenches

Working in this mall was like living in a tiny, fluorescent-lit universe all its own. It had a rhythm, a pulse—its own language and unspoken rules stretched across a million square feet of tile, glass, and perfume mist.

We had cliques, naturally. The fashionistas were the royalty, gliding through the mall like they were on a runway. You just knew they worked at Macy’s or some glossy boutique with black velvet hangers and a dress code stricter than most private schools. They didn’t walk—they floated. It was all very Mean Girls, minus the cafeteria trays.

A lot of us dreamed of escaping. Of someday trading in breakroom burritos and late-night folding duty for corporate badges and business cards. We told ourselves it was temporary. Just a stepping stone. A summer job. A way to pay for gas and clothes.

Then some of us made it out—and quietly admitted that part of us missed the mall.

2007 mall directory

Minor renovations occurred at Stoneridge Mall in 2007. All of the sunken sitting "pits" have been removed. You can see exposed dirt, which hasn't seen sunlight since 1979. Towards the Macy's Women's store, new floor tiles are being installed in multiple circle patterns. The color is more brown with a marble look. The original floor is white terrazzo. A giant sculpture was precariously moved and leaning against the glass rail on the second story. I tried to push it to see if it would topple, but it wouldn't budge.

The most exciting part in the renovation is the opening of P.F. Chang's China Bistro and The Cheesecake Factory. Nothing thrills suburbia more than the opening of a national chain restaurant. Wait times to get into Cheesecake factory exceed 2.5 hours, with scantly less for P.F. Chang's.

2013 mall directory

Stoneridge isn't just a mall—it was a backdrop to my awkward youth, my retail education, and my lifelong grudge against elevators. It was where I learned that cliques don’t stop at high school, that sculptures can sway like slow-motion metronomes during earthquakes, and that sometimes the most memorable part of Cheesecake Factory is the three-hour wait.

Sure, the terrazzo floors have been covered, the sitting pits filled in, and the anchor stores keep shifting with the times. But walk through that center court today and you’ll still catch echoes of everything that made it special: the hum of escalators, the scent of soft pretzels, and maybe—just maybe—that haunted elevator humming quietly in the background.

I may have taken the long way around more times than I can count, but every step brought me closer to a story. And really, isn’t that what a good mall always gives us?

Scott Parsons