Full Support Read online

  “Besides, Natalee,” Farah’s tone changed, “it’ll make you feel good.”

  Startled by her seriousness, my eyes met her gaze. I had never heard her speak my name so tenderly before, filling the space with subtle endearment. We had always communicated through playful sarcasm, our lack of interest in working retail, and a deep love for French fries and orange Starbursts. Something had suddenly shifted, and it caught me off guard.

  “Don’t move.” Farah smiled, planting me in the middle of a dressing room before running out to return the room key. I turned toward the mirror and stared at myself, quietly welcoming the mellow draw of morning. I took off my new yellow button-up and paused. My reflection looked older and run down under the beaming lights. The stretch marks lining the tops of my hip bones appeared deeper and more visible, reinforcing a bitter redundancy.

  I stepped closer to the three-way mirror, slowly examining the vacancy in my eyes. I felt a sudden rush of deep understanding as I thought about my customers standing in the same position, under the same unflattering brightness, cracked open and bleeding from the inside out.

  “Let’s try this one first.” Farah stepped back into the dressing room holding a smooth laced push-up bra. “Throw on one of your 1964 vintage finds with a good push up underneath, and you’re ready to rock ’n’ roll.”

  My boobs jiggled out of my bra as I laughed at Farah’s friendly jab. We both stared at the paleness of their complexion.

  “I think they’ve gotten longer.” I looked down at my chest, eager to strap them in. After pushing and pulling and lifting and tightening, Farah stepped back to examine her selection.

  “And there they sit.” She stood behind me, crossing her arms. “Own it!”

  I turned to the side, carefully studying the bra’s placement as bits of my back’s flesh rolled over from the tightness of the band.

  “Back fat or saggy tits, take your pick.” Farah’s charming benevolence put me at ease.

  “I don’t want the double bubble,” I replied, taking off the bra while thinking about some of my customers’ requests. Many similarities came to the forefront.

  Pleading her case, Farah slid the straps of a French-made demi off a plastic hanger. It was one of my favorite bras to look at. The sex appeal was spot on, with just enough black lace stitched around the cups. It was the kind of bra that made me understand Farah’s push for “dressing to feel good.” Her position was valid, and I respected the certainty in her voice.

  “This is it!” Farah quickly moved to the side, making one last strap adjustment as I settled into the bra. I stared at the fullness of my boobs, noting two Ds on the tag, and once again lost within a complicated balance between desire, need, and what the bra was supposed to look like as it held up my meaty assets and blurred perceptions.

  “You should be getting cramps in your toes and sweat down your forehead in that thing!” Farah said as she lowered her voice to the sound of a customer and her toddler son.

  I laughed out loud, shaking my head to her gracious conduct and all of its truth. It’s just a bra, I told myself. One big sexy bra.

  Later that evening, when I arrived at the theatre, I was pleased to find an open spot in the back. All I could think about was blending in as much as possible, giving me more opportunity to sit and people watch. I marveled at how unique the theatre was: a perfect vintage find equipped with old chandeliers, red velvet seating, and bright, ambiguous paintings that could lead one to believe in fairy tales. The intimacy was just right, as was the creaky hardwood stage furnished with a minimalist’s touch and, ironically, a glaring spotlight on a woman’s dressing area. The mood felt comfortably strange, too, leading my pensive stare directly onto Chase’s well-fit blue jeans while I watched him take a seat toward the front of the house, his dark hair perfect. My attack of extreme nerves wasn’t lost for him; opening night had to have been the biggest hurdle of them all with more demands than I’d know what to do with.

  Darkness settled quietly, the spotlight casting a shadow around a tall woman as she walked across the stage alone. She spoke with a stern face, sharing an anecdote about hating her body. Powerfully uncompromising, she cut the dialogue wide open, making room for other castmates to boldly share their own stories of heartbreak, loss, trauma, and the hardships of being a woman in society, especially a woman of color.

  Pondering a barrage of inquests, I thought about some of my encounters in the dressing room and all the women I had met in a short time. There were so many parallels between the stage and the fitting room, bringing forth a deep articulation of fear, invisibility, self-loathing, and the shameful fact that our history’s principles were built on misogyny, racism, and bigotry. My experience as a bra fitter had suddenly spilled its glaring contents while I sat analyzing its impact. I couldn’t get away from it or make sense of it. And as a band of women formed their presence around me, softly and boldly sharing their truths from a backdrop of mirrors to a hardened platform, I had one realization after another, quietly acknowledging a lineup of maddening disparities. Everything about my evening thus far gave me a mixed bag of feels. The world had so much to listen to and learn from. So much to resist and change. The tensions tightly woven around gender—and my own privilege—came into a sharp focus, making me want to rewind some of my time in the dressing room. A startling thought for sure.

  “You’ll join us for the after-party, right?” Chase asked with a small nudge. Quickly thinking about Farah’s parting words, which were along the lines of “saddle up,” I accepted without hesitation. Chase had depth far beyond his three-piece suit, and it rattled my brain, causing another round of ceaseless probing: Maybe it’s just sex. There’s nothing wrong with just sex, I don’t think, though I’m not on birth control and motherhood is really a stretch right now. He’s also slightly awkward, and I like it. I wonder what kind of hair products he uses. I need to invest in a better dry shampoo. There’s nothing wrong with ‘just sex.’ I’m human. Humans have sex. Women have sex. And then we get labeled for ‘just having sex.’ Vodka it is.

  Magnetized by the strip’s flashing lights and lively confusion, we entered Hollywood’s universe and all its dirty corners. I followed Chase and his group of friends into the bar, taking in the scene while trying to remain carefree.

  “So why LA?” Chase asked, moving his eyes along my collarbone as soft music played from a variety of turns. Thinking quietly, I had hoped for different circumstances in terms of what brought me to LA. Ones that didn’t require uncomfortable explanations, or a complete evaluation of familial constructs. I didn’t have it in me to revisit the tennis-ball-sized tumor bulging from my mom’s lower back, or the golf ball protruding from her forehead.

  “I needed something different,” I finally replied, running my eyes around his mouth. “Something that offered sunshine and culture and purpose. I wanted mileage.”

  “Mileage?” His eyebrows sprung up. “Open window, Tom Petty.” He smirked, quietly understanding my search.

  “Sometimes it doesn’t make sense to stay with what’s familiar,” he sighed. “Chicago was killing me.”

  Silence cut between us. I waited. Candles flickered as the ambiance transformed into a boisterous revelry, making the butterflies in my stomach spread across my sides. Tapping my foot against the barstool, I watched as Chase ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Just sex” is perfectly okay.

  “So what’s next?” he asked intently.

  I took a deep breath and looked down at the floor. I could feel my limbs loosening as his open-ended query pushed a blast of panic through my upper body. I instantly thought about my dad and his box dinners.

  “I have no idea.”

  Chase remained quiet. It was obvious that he picked up on my troubling uncertainty.

  “Tequila toast!” one of his friends yelled over the music, signaling for the bartender to revisit our end. “And then it’s bull riding!”

  I nearly choked on my straw at the me
ntion of bull riding.

  “Bull riding?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  “It’s a bar a few doors down. Have you not been to the Saddle Ranch?” Chase asked with a grin.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Bulls and rock ’n’ roll!” another friend chimed in. I tried gathering as many images as I could, none of which involved me getting on a mechanical bull. There wasn’t a dollar amount in the world that would even prompt me to consider gyrating my lower half in a room full of gelled sideburns and infantile hard-ons. Besides, I would’ve ended up on YouTube faster than the medic could’ve rolled out the stretcher, my Hanky Pankys on display from my legs wrapped around my neck. The idea was nonsense. But I was slightly intrigued by the opportunity to participate from the sidelines.

  “Bottoms up!” Chase slid a shot of tequila into my reach.

  I started to feel a little nervous, making sure my taxicab number was still buried deep in my clutch and remembering that Sunset turned into Beachwood Drive after approximately five turns. I needed to keep in mind that I really didn’t know Chase. I wasn’t sixteen and riding in cars with strange boys. I was in the early stages of adulthood and riding in cars with strange boys. And though my intuition calmed my apprehension, I had to be somewhat responsible while continuing to foster my “in the moment” mantra. I also had a Ford Escort to find in the morning, hopefully still squeezed into a back alley, and then prepare myself for another long day of bra talk and body parts. But as the crashing of glasses resonated alongside the burn rising in my throat, I couldn’t resist Chase’s declaration as he reiterated our plan with great enthusiasm.

  “Bottoms up!”

  struggle of

  the juggle

  “Excuse me, ma’am? Ma’am. Ma’am?” a voice crept into my eardrums, pushing the pain inside my head closer to a full-on explosion. “Do you work here?” the woman asked, moving closer. Sliding my tongue along the fur growing on my two front teeth, I tried pulling myself together, hoping that the smell of tequila wasn’t seeping from my pores. I hadn’t showered or brushed my teeth or deodorized or found even the slightest bit of hope to get me through my eight-hour shift, which I was praying to cut to five. I was an absolute tragedy, hauled from the rubble, packing a wad of spearmint gum on the roof of my mouth and dirt along the short white edging of my once well-groomed fingernails. Keeping up with my high-end department store’s expectations as far as “proper” appearance didn’t exactly earn me poster child status. I was one burning Jameson away from losing teeth, and one tequila shot away from seeing dead people. And for the first time in my life, I hoped it wasn’t my mother.

  “Yes, I do work here,” I replied cautiously, my head spinning like a tumbleweed. “What can I help you find?”

  “I was actually just hoping you could point me in the direction of your Spanx body slimmers.” Point? I thought. Yeah, I can point. I can point all day from my corner of recovery while pretending to resize a fixture of bras if it meant keeping silent with a long phony smile. Time was all I needed.

  “Can I grab a style?” barely left my mouth when the customer nicely shunned me, walking away to fend for herself. I was momentarily saved, feeling less of the panic due to the severe dehydration I suffered. What the hell happened last night? And are my limbs intact despite any rough handling? Determined to work through the fuzz piece by piece, I turned back to the bra wall and started with the Saddle Ranch. I couldn’t understand why I felt so uneasy about my evening. I had found my way back to Beachwood Drive via Yellow Cab after a fare negotiation through Taco Bell, and Chase had kindly walked me to my door, and my limbs had indeed been intact. I didn’t do anything that would’ve led to regret, like premature slumber parties, bull riding, or, heaven forbid, a wet T-shirt contest. I was safe, but really anxious and slightly wobbly and so fucking thirsty I began to have a lisp. There wasn’t a person in the world other than fellow sales associates who understood the challenge of being on your game with my department store. There was no time for slacking or multiple brakes or poor hygiene. We were right on par with the Ritz-Carlton, and if you weren’t ready to serve the customer, so help you, Prada.

  “There’s a woman in five who needs a fit.” Rachel snuck up from behind. “Michelle and I will be in an interview if you need us.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said slowly as I watched both Farah and Yvonne enter the fitting rooms with a handful of bras, Farah stopping abruptly to give me a suspicious smile. I scoped the front of the department, wondering if Chase had made it to work yet. I was eager to see him, yet a little reserved due to the fuzz.

  “Hi there.” I knocked twice at the door to five, sniffing a pungent scent similar to what I imagined Woodstock would have smelled like trailing the hallway.

  “Hi!” a loud voice welcomed me in.

  Looking up, I nearly froze at the sight of a six-foot platinum blonde with a parrot adorning her shoulder.

  “This is Raul,” the woman said, widening her red lips. “He’s very friendly.”

  “Hello, Raul.” I lowered my chin in confusion. “What can I help you find?”

  “Well.” She paused in front of the mirror, slowly moving her shirt over Raul and then above her head. “I need cleavage to go with a specific dress I’m wearing tonight, and this isn’t doing it for me.”

  “Alright.” I continued to respond with a steady nod, quickly eyeing the measuring tape hanging on the wall and then the breasts hanging off her chest, trapped underneath her bra’s underwire.

  “I’m sorry to be so rushed, but I don’t have a lot of time, and Raul, though friendly, can grow restless. I just flew over here, realizing I need major help.”

  “Sure, I understand” came out as one big lie. I’m not only half alive, but I could potentially get mauled by an impatient bird while fitting a half-naked woman for a bra. Like cats, birds come as unpredictable creatures in my eyes. They present themselves as vultures that could wrap their barbwire claws around one’s neck at any moment, taking with them a vocal cord or a chunk of soft tissue. My uneasiness about being over-served at the Saddle Ranch had nothing on my uneasiness about Raul.

  “Tell me the cut of the dress.” I tried concentrating while looking over a blinding crest of florescent green coverings on Raul.

  “It’s fairly low,” she said as she moved her hands along her chest, stopping at her sternum. “And I want my boobs UP.” She moved her breast tissue accordingly. I examined the thickness of her breasts, in addition to their length, hoping I could nail her size based on assumption and determine my work was done. However, I knew it wasn’t that easy. Her ill-fitting bra threw me off, and because my cognitive impairment was substantially below average, I knew I needed to go in hands first.

  “Go ahead and raise your arms,” I said, moving strategically behind my customer while yanking the measuring tape from off the bar against the wall. I could smell a mixture of sweetened pines coupled with the hearty musk of the great outdoors. Eyeing Raul, I carefully wrapped the measuring tape around the woman’s rib cage. “You mind picking up your ...” She caught onto my fragmented guidance, lifting her breasts so that I could rewrap my intentions. I quickly settled on a number and discarded the tape, hoping for a little fine-tuning as I struggled to comprehend the simplicity of the same black linear markings from the day before ... and the day before that.

  “Who’s your customer talking to in there?” Farah asked, joining me at the counter with a pile of bras ready to be rung up.

  “A parrot,” I replied flatly, watching Farah’s facial expression transform into a cackling roar.

  “You mean a bird?”

  “No, Farah, a donkey who also goes by the name Parrot.”

  I waited as Farah gathered herself, watching drool hit the sides of her mouth.

  “How was last night?” she finally asked, catching on to my lack of interest in everything lingerie. “You look a little haggard.”

  “You think?” I asked sarcastically, eyeing the sales floor for a handf
ul of 40 triples.

  “You’re going to have to—”

  My name rolled off the tongue of the operator and echoed throughout the store: “Natalee Woods, 64.”

  “Shit,” I said, setting the bras on the counter. “What’s this?”

  “A phone call.” Farah signaled for her customer. “Hit pound first.”

  I stood by the telephone and went over a few possible scenarios. What if something happened to my dad? Or maybe Chase never made it home after dropping me off, and the cab driver threw him and his Nachos BellGrande off the Santa Monica Pier. Everyone had always called the department directly, so why, of all days, was someone seeking me out via the operator?

  “Thanks for holding, this is—”

  “Natalee, yes,” a direct voice spoke through the holes. “This is Roxanne, the store manager.”

  My legs nearly buckled as I gripped the phone cord. “Hi.”

  “Are you with a customer?” she asked, getting to the point. “Uh, yes,” I responded slowly, certain that I was moments away from filing for unemployment.

  “No problem. When you’re done with our customer, swing by my office for a second.”

  “Sure, yes, absolutely” flew out of my mouth as I stood staring at Farah wide-eyed. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Panic-stricken to hear from Roxanne Michaels, aka Big Cheese, Bitch on Spikes, the “I Couldn’t Smile If My Life Depended on It Because You’re an Insignificant Peon and I’m a Store Manager,” made me rethink my mind-set. She ruled the roost with more Gucci pencil skirts than the Kardashians. And her manner was thunderous when any nonsense got in her way. Michelle and Rachel, bless their severed hearts, bolted straight for the front of the department upon catching sight of Roxanne’s five-ten frame musing about. She packed her ass and top-of-the-line Bentley into tight spaces in high places. Her role was nothing short of scary, and I was about to experience its wake.