Full Support Page 8

  “It is.” I stood up slowly and guided the woman toward the door. “Is there something I can help with?” She waited, carefully choosing her words while looking over my sullen black eyes.

  “I need to get a few things.”

  “Yes, of course. I can help,” I replied. “I actually work in lingerie and was just taking a quick breather.”

  She stared at me longer.

  “I’ll walk with you.” I smiled, noticing the same soggy darkness under her eyes.

  “I’m Natalee, by the way.” I extended my hand.

  “Julie,” she responded with a faint smile.

  “So, what are you looking for?” I asked, still staring at her bleeding eye makeup, knowing that my own mess, suffocating my pores from the night before, was CoverGirl’s dream come true.

  “I’d love to have some new lingerie. Maybe some bra-and-panty sets,” she replied, looking around the department before running her finger along the elaborate stitching of one of our lace demi cuts.

  Picking up on her attention to detail, I waited to investigate her purpose. Meanwhile, I introduced as many bras and bra sets and other stray pieces of lingerie from both the practical corner and the not-so-practical corner.

  “I want sexy,” she interjected firmly, picking up three sheer bras from our French collection. “I want really, really sexy.”

  “Done and done,” I replied, moving my gaze down to her boobs, wondering if she’d even fit in our French collection. I had no idea what size of tissue she was hiding under her oversized top.

  “How about I measure you first, Julie?” I tried saving time. “I can bring you sexy.”

  She quickly followed me back into the dressing room, promptly hanging her purse against the door. I waited as she slid her top over her head, thinking about how quickly my day had changed and praying that a fourth customer hadn’t arrived.

  “I’ve been measured before,” she said, moving closer to the mirror. “It’s been awhile, though, and two kids later.”

  “Alright.” I moved the tape under her bra, keeping track of how many times she looked at herself in the mirror and then down at the ground.

  “I’m going to grab you some 34 Ds. And if you don’t mind, I’d love to bring you some of my personal favorites, also in the French collection.”

  Julie nodded quickly and then tapped on her belly a few times.

  “You have anything for this?” she asked, pulling on a thick layer of skin.

  “Uh.” I paused, still trying to understand her motives. “You mean like a Spanx?”

  “Yeah, something that will help suck it in when I’m wearing jeans or something.”

  “Got it.”

  Within minutes, I had a few styles of black, red, and white lace bras in addition to a couple florals, bralettes, matching thongs, and a pair of tummy-tucking, thigh-sucking Spanx. I tried my best at keeping the bras sexy, noting where the nipples peaked through the lace.

  “Alright.” I unlocked the door. “Let’s put this on.” I stopped short, surprised to see Julie sobbing in the chair, her breasts exposed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied. “I thought I could do this. I really thought I could do this.”

  I quickly hung her pile of bras on the bar and stepped back over to the door.

  “Can I get you some water or something?” I asked, trying to understand what had happened. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. I just ...” She paused, wiping her eyes before letting out a lengthy sigh.

  I waited, trying to figure out where to stand.

  “I just found out my husband has been having an affair with a young woman in his office.”

  “Shit” came rolling off my tongue faster than I could try to take it back.

  “That’s exactly what I said.” She shot me a glance.

  I stood in silence, wondering if she needed Kleenex or chocolate or whiskey from the bar next door. Maybe an extra fruit snack from Farah.

  “Julie, I can go get you some Kleen—”

  She cut me off. “Fifteen years of my life.” She sat with her head down. “A twelve-year-old son, an eight-year-old daughter, two miscarriages, and a fucking dog.”

  I listened, watching her leg jerk up and down.

  “I drove here thinking it was me. I’m getting older and fatter and grayer. I wear cotton briefs because they’re comfortable. My bras are old and tattered because my children’s needs come first. I grocery shop, cook dinner, do everyone’s laundry, take the dog to the vet or the park, and then do another load of laundry before reading a bedtime story. I’m always home because that’s what he wanted.”

  I could almost hear her heartbeat, moments away from exploding into thin air, bloody and beaten.

  “I can—” I began, but she cut me off again.

  “And then to stand in this dressing room, alone and naked while you gather my pathetic efforts to prove lord knows what. My god, my god.”

  Her last string of words made my stomach turn as they faded into whispers. I tried opening my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I felt awful. Her dejection was profound, yet authentic and admirable and really unexpected. I could see the loneliness cast its spell over her sunken brown eyes, understandably making room for a bank of hard questions and sleepless nights.

  “I say you try on a bra.” I hesitated, hoping Julie didn’t interpret my wanting to make her feel good into an untimely sales pitch. She looked up at me and then at the mirror, quietly standing to her feet. Silence pervaded our tiny room as I slipped a red lace bra off its hanger. Julie watched me through the mirror as I carefully moved the straps up and over her shoulders. After fastening the band, I pulled her breast tissue in tight from the sides, hoping to give her a quick pick-me-up.

  “That feels nice.” She nodded in my direction, wiggling her shoulders and arms.

  “Just know it’s an option, and the fit looks pretty good. We could try going up a cup size to see if it feels any better.”

  I watched as she stared at herself in the mirror, examining every last mole, stretch mark, and bright squiggly vein. Her eyes began to well up as she stopped to study her loose curls.

  “I thought I was good to him.” She spoke softly, running her hand through her hair. “I just don’t understand.”

  I looked down at the ground, searching for every right thing to say, knowing I had never been in her position and was scared shitless of it.

  “You’re really brave, Julie.” My eyes started to water as I thought about the sequence of my day, including Gladys and Archie and Julie’s kids and Julie’s dog, whom I didn’t even know. The heaviness around their truths came with forceful markings, making me slow my responses in an effort to offer some kind of hope, which seemed imbalanced because I was also searching for hope and all life’s answers. Julie was completely drained, stone-cold, carved into nothing, and it was hard to watch.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered under her breath.

  “You found me hiding in the women’s restroom,” I added quickly.

  She turned to look at me, staring at my disheveled mass of hair and thrown together ensemble with hair color stains on the collar. I could feel a sudden awareness with her, like we had both implicitly communicated our separate crusades and grasped every second of the hard, lingering woes.

  “Embarrassing is that wire popping out,” I joked, pointing to her raggedy, discolored bra.

  She laughed, looking back at the mirror. I could tell she was ready to leave.

  “I’ll take this one.” She double-checked the price on the tag. “I’ll see how I like it and then come back for more.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, not wanting her to feel pressured. A big part of me just wanted her to walk away and start all over and have what Gladys had. Not the swim trunks or the heart attack or the crippling anguish, but the bourbon and the clarity and whatever absolute kin
d of love and honor I felt just minutes before.

  “I came for sexy,” she responded decisively, handing me the tag after ripping it from the side of the bra. “And I got sexy!”

  “You did.” I smiled, feeling her pulse.

  “Thank you.” She waited, stopping with her shirt in hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  The sound of her apology hit hard. I’d heard it too many times, immediately making me question why women have somehow been made to feel embarrassed or weak for becoming “emotional.”

  “Apologize for what?” I shot back, desperately wanting her to leave the store with some kind of ammunition that I had no business trying to give. I wanted Angela Bassett’s gas can from the movie Waiting to Exhale in Julie’s firm grip and a black silk robe on her back. But she had her own path to pave, and setting her husband’s belongings on fire may or may not have been the answer.

  Julie looked down at the ground. “Thank you,” she whispered, choking up again, her tears heavier. “I’ll definitely be back for more when I can.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I replied as I casually opened the door, eyeing her rags one more time. “Don’t forget to take out the trash.”

  money makers

  Dragging my feet back into the store after Farah begged and pleaded for me to cover her shift, I surrendered to whatever look I could put together in fifteen minutes, once again the epitome of LA’s upscale swank.

  “Are you serious?” Rachel peered up from her morning paperwork, her tone far from lost.

  “She had an emergency and couldn’t really talk.” I lied as best as I knew how, using the only key word that Rachel couldn’t rebut so Farah could continue her impromptu getaway with Lorenzo.

  “Go ahead and restock the tissue,” Rachel sighed. “I’ll get the money bags and open the registers.” Within seconds, Roxanne’s voice hit the loudspeaker, offering a nice morning greeting before moving straight into business, trapping everyone in time.

  “Remember, sales associates, it’s always about the customer. Let’s make every effort to promptly welcome our shoppers into our departments,” Roxanne laid it out, altering her inflection on every third word. It came as no surprise that the phones started ringing right as we opened, too, with an expectation of three rings tops.

  “I can’t do it today.” Rachel quickly handed me the phone as I approached the register.

  “Hello,” I said cautiously.

  “Hi, Natalee? It’s Harry.”

  I shot Rachel a swift glare, mentally adding one more item to Farah’s IOU.

  “Hey, Harry, what can I do for you?”

  “Natalee!” I sensed his excitement. “I’m glad I got you.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t come in, Harry.” I tried prodding him as usual. “I told you I’d set you up with a room and you could try something on for yourself.” He sighed, evading my invitation while quickly getting to his list of inquiries.

  “That new satin bustier set, do you have it in red?” he asked.

  “I do” slowly left my mouth as Chase snuck up from behind, setting a folded note by the register before leaving with a sly grin.

  Trying to focus on Harry’s specifics regarding the cut of the piece, I couldn’t help reading the note, excited to see: “My place, tomorrow night?” Tomorrow night? I repeated in my head, suddenly inundated with way too many questions. I slid the note into my pants pocket and looked around the department, wondering if Chase decided to stick around, but instead found a woman circling our high-end lingerie and Rachel staring at me while frantically nodding her head toward the customer. “I’m going to have to call you back, Harry.” I barely waited for his reply, once again taking down his number with a dried-up, inkless pen, knowing he’d call back later.

  I quickly moved out from behind the counter, conscious of Roxanne’s spiel about “promptly” welcoming the customer once they’d hit the department.

  “Hi there.” I patted down a tree of bras, awkwardly fidgeting with their arrangement.

  “Hey,” a bronzed-over brunette nicely returned my greeting, already holding a few sale items and Harry’s desired bustier.

  “Can I start you a fitting room?” I asked, ready to grab her merchandise.

  “Yes, absolutely.” She smiled. “And I’ll keep looking.”

  She moved fast. It was clear she knew what she liked. And judging from her selection of frilly panties and a few bras, her sizes were consistent, leading me to believe this wasn’t her first round in the lingerie department. She picked up G-strings, thongs with ties on the side, a couple sheer crotches, and bright lacy bras matching perfectly with the bottom half. She was a good mixer, making me think I needed to clean out my own panty drawer and start all over.

  While she continued to look around the floor, still gathering random pieces of lingerie, I tried looking productive by tidying up the counter area but got stuck on the department’s daily overview written down in our team booklet, highlighting Yvonne’s impending arrival, Michelle’s verbose recap about the order in which bras should hang on the wall, alteration pickups, panty table fill-ins, and our new hire, Tabitha, shadowing Rachel for the day. We had a lot to cover. And with a newcomer on board, I suddenly realized I’d be responsible for most of it.

  “I think I’m ready to head in,” my customer stated softly, concluding my ill-fated analysis.

  “Yes, of course, follow me.” I smiled, catching a glimpse of her additions, noting push-up bras, string panties, garter belts, and a couple black satin corsets. “Do you need help with any of the bras?” I asked, trying not to stare at her amazingly tight backside crammed into an old pair of Levi’s.

  “I think I’m good.” She smiled, reaching for the doorknob. Back out on the floor, I figured I would get started on filling one of the panty tables until enough time had passed for me to head back into the dressing rooms. It didn’t take long, however, for my customer to appear in the walkway, attempting to mask her naked body with her shirt.

  “Is there any way you can grab me a 34 triple-D in this and maybe a pair of black stockings I can try with one of the garters?” She stood, pointing to her boobs as they sat atop the bra’s ruched lace, mimicking the roundness of two eight-pound bowling balls covered in a brownish-orange metallic coat and glistening under the entryway lights.

  “Yeah, no problem.” I nodded her way, knowing exactly what pairs of lace-top thigh-highs she’d be getting.

  After a quick jaunt to the hosiery department down the way, and a pit stop at our sidewall of sheer lacy bras, I felt good about my recommendations and to my surprise, Yvonne’s arrival. The top floor was filling up quickly and my curiosity had already determined my whereabouts.

  “Hi, there.” I crept into the hallway outside the dressing rooms.

  “It’s Nicole.” My customer opened the door wearing nothing but a string between her bulletproof buttocks and a v-shaped patch over her lady bits.

  “Alright, Nicole.” I stood holding onto her lingerie as I fought hard not to stare at the rest of her body, seemingly inscrutable and firmly intact.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a few suggestions,” I continued, struggling to comprehend the words inked along her spine as she turned to grab a bra off the bar.

  “That’s great!” she lit up, putting her arms through the straps. “I’ll try anything!”

  “Sounds good,” I replied, steadily nodding my head, hoping to find the right wording in an effort to remind her about dressing room etiquette and placing her potential purchases over her already owned panty.

  “Do you happen to have your own pair of underwear?” I finally asked, spotting another trail of black ink along the inside of her forearm. And if truth be told, I couldn’t care less about one’s try-on methods, especially if it brought us to the register, but when I’m left to strategically rehang small pieces of fabric on plastic hangers, moments after seeing them placed elsewhere, aversion tends to come on strong.

&nb
sp; “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologized then paused. “It’s just so hard to get the right look. I promise I’m buying most of this. I’ll definitely buy the ones I have on. I, uh, actually don’t have my own panty,” she replied, making me rethink my need to say anything at all, though the number of panties I spotted on the chair was slightly alarming.

  “No problem,” I replied, hoping to change the topic as I noticed the bra’s band riding up her back. “Have you tried going down a band size?”

  “You mean a 32?” she asked, turning her body in front of the mirror. “Yeah.” She hesitated, examining her backside. I stared at the dry drippings of dark hair dye encrusted around her hairline and then down to a subtle map of stretch marks along her hip bone. “It’s the back fat,” she continued. “My job won’t have it.” I paused at her sudden ambiguity, reeled in by the second and wanting every last piece of the particulars.

  “What do you do for work?” I asked after a short delay.

  “I’m a good old-fashioned stripper.” She smiled, unhooking her bra.

  “Oh, alright.” We both laughed at her unfiltered reveal.

  She was forthright and not remotely timid, moving around the dressing room with little regard for wasted time.

  “I tend to clean out your sale racks.” She shimmied out of her panties. “I bring a bunch to the house for the other girls.”

  I fought to stay audible as my eyes moved from the small patch of pubic hair immaculately groomed into a shape I couldn’t quite make out.

  “You guys all live together?” I asked, swiftly moving my gaze.

  “No, no.” She laughed. “The house is where we dance. Some of the girls are in school or working another job or playing mommy. It’s hard to go shopping with the hours.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded like I knew what she was talking about, wondering who had been helping her from my team.