Full Support

by Woods, Natalee

  Barely able to control my nerves, I came to a screeching halt as I entered the dressing room and found Raul eating pellets off his owner’s shoulder.

  “I, uh, brought you a few styles of triple-Ds to try. I think the cup size will fit you nicely.”

  “Fantastic! Do you mind helping me get into it since I’m crunched for time?” she asked, tearing off her bra. I stared at the placement of Raul’s feet, noting his claws nearly carved into her flesh, reminding me of Freddy Krueger in A Nightmare on Elm Street.

  “They’re really a charismatic species,” she said, staring at me in the mirror while I unhooked a black plunge bra.

  Moving cautiously two steps closer, I examined the purple rims of her glasses as they boxed in the brightness of her blue eyes. “Does he talk?”

  “Does he talk?” She exploded with excitement, suddenly speaking Spanish and French and English while holding out her arms. Regretful that I encouraged life out of Raul as we coexisted in proximity, I helped carefully slide the bra straps up and over each shoulder, listening to my customer engage in trilingual banter with a bright plumage of filth. And though I appreciated her devotion and self-confidence, Raul’s responses came out in whistles and squawks and indecipherable “hellos,” making the black eyes plastered on the sides of his head appear creepier. I fastened the band and moved toward the door. I couldn’t bear another moment as time with Roxanne Michaels pended. Maybe she spotted me hiding in the corner, dazed and confused, like I had just been released from the dark, and the bright department lights finally proved to be everything but advantageous.

  “And then there were two! This is fantastic, I’ll take this one!” she yelled.

  Yes, I thought, cracking the door for air as I watched her breasts shake up and down.

  “Oh, and here,” she continued, handing me a business card. “Come see me.”

  Staring at the dark bolded words, “Diane Hart: Psychic Medium and Soul Guide,” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

  “Oh, okay, thank you.” I flipped the card over to find a picture of a smiling child riding a large stallion with the sun in the background. I wondered whether I should view the image as a metaphor for everything I needed to welcome into my life, aside from Pampers.

  “It’s pretty straightforward,” Diane spoke earnestly. “And it might lend new direction.”

  I paused at her sudden innuendo, wondering what she saw that I needed to see. I stuck the card deep into my pocket. She nodded quietly, unhooking her new purchase. I could feel a shift within our exchange, something indescribable and unexpected and oddly comforting. I worked against time only to want more. And as the tumbleweed slowed its surge, making room for an assembly of what-ifs, all I could do was hold onto the wall.

  “New direction?” I pondered its implications, realizing that Diane was no ordinary customer. We didn’t cross paths just for the art of placing her bountiful boobs into a few slingers and calling it a day. Our interchange felt much deeper, knocking me right off my escape-fueled clouds and into the light, mounting every cutting fragment of unwanted reality. Fear and self-doubt had their own mileage, as loud and uncompromising as they can be. A “soul guide” sounded promising.

  “Sooo, your work.” I prompted her to stop for a second. “What exactly do you do?”

  Mentally recording my situation with a naked woman and her parrot, I was prepared for anything.

  “I’m a psychic medium,” she replied, turning her body toward me. “I can connect with loved ones who’ve passed on and help guide those who might need new direction. Some people think of it as cheap therapy, others think it’s a crock of shit.”

  “Wow, alright.” I nodded as my stomach dropped to the floor. Connect to loved ones, I repeated in my head ten times, wondering what exactly it entailed. I’d never experienced such direct handling in the dressing room while in the opposite role. Her bold exposition threw me a little. But I was intrigued. My “spiritual path” was radically untraditional and full of suspicion. I sought tangible evidence, and a lot of amens for fried chicken and sweatpants. I was a realist who believed in nothing and the possibility of everything at the same time, hoping I’d get to my place of rest and find Ryan Gosling working door duty while Snoop Dogg passed out party favors. If Diane could give me something legitimately good to hold onto, I was in.

  Watching Raul adjust his stance, I surrendered to the novelty of Diane Hart and all the effects that followed.

  “How’d you ever—“ I paused before she quickly cut in.

  “Figure out who I am?”

  “Well, yeah.” I stared.

  “Since childhood, I’ve always had a pulse on different planes, I guess. And then my sister died unexpectedly and everything changed.”

  “You mean like … change like …”

  “I started to hear things and feel things, names and sounds. It’s hard to explain. But something brought me to a completely different place, yet I wasn’t the one driving, you know?”

  “Huh.” I stood motionless, completely transfixed in the moment.

  “Follow your intuition,” she smiled, checking the time. “Listen to who you are.”

  Who I am? I questioned, once again struck by the intensity of insight we experience as human beings. It often comes out of nowhere. Lost in an aching mind while leaning into our insecurities. Confused as a motherfucker. And then there was Diane, a kindred spirit, minus Raul, who seemed so … together, almost untouched by all of life’s weight. Or maybe she wasn’t, but knew how to survive the game. Either way, I was convinced Diane came into the lingerie department to shed light on something I needed to understand about myself—and the great big mysterious world around us. It was precisely the transparency one receives upon letting another person in far enough to make an impact that true transformation can happen, even when it shakes us from our comfort zones and comes from unexpected places. In a matter of seconds, Diane showed me how important it is to take cues from other people, however big or small they might be.

  “I’ll wear this tonight and let you know how they did,” Diane laughed, grabbing her new bra.

  “Sounds good,” I replied, still spellbound as I caught sight of Roxanne Michaels walking toward her office. “Let’s stay in touch.”

  Wiping sweaty palms down my slacks, I started for the double doors in customer service. Farah’s assistance in lending mints, deodorant, fruit snacks, a nail file, and a mist of perfume made me feel a little more put together. My desperation had no bounds.

  “Hi, Roxanne.” I knocked softly on the office door, eyeing one of Van Gogh’s tiresome nights above her desk.

  “Natalee, hi.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in her knee-length skirt as she stood up from her leather chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  Quickly sitting down to the slow motion of her hand, I felt another booming head-rush, hoping that at some point my bloodstream would flow its way back to regularity.

  “I won’t take up too much of your time,” she started in, relaxing into her chair. I couldn’t help staring like a fool. Roxanne Michaels was breathtakingly beautiful, a real stunner, as Farah would say. Her skin was Lancôme controlled from her forehead down to her chin, making way for a smooth, golden bronze, dark strategic lashes, and wet Chanel lips. Her brown hair, slicked with style in all the right places, reminded me of Twiggy. It was sexy and controlled, like the rest of her. Roxanne Michaels certainly fit the high-end mold, though I was afraid she knew it.

  “First up.” Roxanne faced her computer, squinting as she moved her eyes down the screen.

  My heart slid down my pants, cutting off all air. I hated being put on the spot.

  “I have something regarding your department.”

  I watched as she moved a piece of paper to the side.

  “I received a letter from a customer who was in last week. It involved a different sales associate from your department, but I’d like to bring it to your attention, as I will continue to do with the rest o
f your team.”

  “Okay,” I said, fidgeting awkwardly.

  “The customer said in her letter that one of the girls was a little too forceful with her breasts, and she felt rushed out of the department.”

  “Wow, alright” slowly left my mouth, adding even more bewilderment to our unexpected exchange. If there was a response in the world to Roxanne’s disclosure per our violated customer, I certainly didn’t have it. Especially after I thought I’d heard it all.

  “It’s important that we take as much time as needed with our customers and remember that their vulnerability is heightened. As a professional bra fitter, it’s your job to make them feel at ease, which I know you do.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I replied, nodding my head to a fleeting image of Farah snapping her fingers to the time clock in addition to my raging impulse to get Raul through the exit. I shouldn’t have thought of him as filth.

  “I know lingerie can get overwhelming from time to time, but I just want to reiterate the importance of acting appropriately. You ladies have an important job to do.”

  An important job? I’m just trying to pay rent, sister. And figure all this shit out.

  “Yes, of course.” I nodded.

  “Second,” she moved another letter into view. “I have a customer who’s requesting a seasoned bra fitter and structured one-on-one time.”

  “O…kay,” I replied, lowering my head in confusion as to how or why I was an option for the task. Seasoned seemed like a lot.

  “She’s specific about not wanting management,” Roxanne confirmed. “And you’re working when she’d like to come in. I’ll be reserving a room for her in women’s wear or maybe up in lingerie. She has requested as much privacy as possible.”

  My hearing started to fade as Roxanne’s words became jumbled. I had quickly come to understand how unpredictable the lingerie department was, as well as the human race, yet absent of the tools to deal with the changeability in a successful manner. Staying on your toes was an understatement at best. Each day brought something new, as did every woman, constantly pushing me to make sense of my place in the dressing room—and every subsequent step that followed.

  “Thanks, Natalee. I’ll follow up with a time frame,” Roxanne smiled while reaching across her desk, clutching every one of my fingers with convincing propriety before I bolted for the double doors.

  Rummaging through an out-of-place clearance rounder in the teenage-inspired subdivision, I paced myself back to the lingerie department. I felt even more on edge upon leaving Roxanne’s office, and I couldn’t quite figure out why. Maybe it was the anxiety from just being in her office while looking like death’s latest development. All I wanted was anonymity, which wasn’t lost on me as I considered Roxanne’s request and whoever needed seclusion in order to buy lingerie. Hiding beneath my bedcovers quickly took priority over everything, including the heart-stopping cheeseburger I had been dreaming about since I rolled off my mattress twenty-six minutes before I was due to shine. The abundance of adult beverages I consumed, coupled with unwavering heart palpitations, had me on serious tenterhooks.

  “There she is!” I heard a familiar voice welcome me back to the department.

  “Gladys!” I wrapped my arms around her small frame, trying to sound enthusiastic. “What a treat.”

  “Oh, honey, those cute boys are washing my car next door, and I thought I’d come in and see if you wouldn’t adjust the fit on this bra and send me with a few more swim trunks.”

  I smiled as her presence suddenly put me at ease. “Remember what I told you about the straps. When the girls are letting you down, tighten them up!”

  “Honey, that’s going to take a lot of strap!” She laughed out loud, kindly leading the way.

  Helping with her purse, I guided her into the dressing room chair.

  “It’s damn hot again.” She patted her forehead with a Kleenex before unbuttoning her shirt.

  “Your hair looks nice, Gladys.”

  “Beverly Hills has some damn good beauty parlors.”

  I laughed at the sound of “beauty parlor,” thinking about my grandmother’s visits growing up. She’d stick me in the corner with a lollipop and a book, and I’d watch as the room filled up with hot air and sticky fumes.

  Pushing the chair toward the center of the dressing room, I signaled for Gladys to stay seated.

  “Is this still comfortable for you?” I pulled on the straps.

  “Oh, yeah, honey. It just feels looser.”

  “Are you wearing this one more than the others?”

  “Well, maybe.” She stared at me in the mirror. “I can’t keep track of what slinger goes to what day.”

  “Well.” I laughed as her voice carried. “As long as you feel snug and supported, then things are looking up. Just remember to rotate your bras.”

  She snickered softly, continuing to stare at me in the mirror. “You look tired, honey.”

  “I am, Gladys.” I pulled on the second strap, flooded with splashing tequila shots and an image of me struggling to enter my apartment with my car key.

  “Long day at the office?” She sensed my hesitation as I fought her eye contact.

  “You ever wonder how nice it would be if we had all the answers?”

  “Hell no!” she snapped back, looking up at me with her glossy eyes. “We wouldn’t get anywhere, honey. And we’d sure as hell never learn anything.”

  I let her reaction resonate as the silence stretched between us. Carpet stains shined under the lights as I reached into my pocket to feel the corners of Diane’s business card, making sure it was still within reach. I could tell Gladys was deep in thought, moving through my question layer by layer.

  “It was sudden and quiet,” she spoke carefully. “I went into the bedroom to grab our checkbook and came back out to find Archie keeled over in his reading chair. I remember just standing there, frozen in time, knowing that just seconds before, we had shared our last words. It was so strange. And after I called an ambulance and tried CPR, I just sat staring at him alone one last time.”

  I stood speechless, choking up from Gladys’s reverent honesty. Her words came out in punches as I pictured her standing in the middle of her living room, surrounded by death’s quiet grip and the looming wail of sirens.

  “Oh, honey, I searched for all sorts of answers until I realized they didn’t exist. Why didn’t I get his heart checked? Did he know something was wrong and not tell me? Was he really a better pinochle player than me? I woke up the morning after I buried him and felt the loneliest sorrow I’ve ever known. You’re stripped of everything. Damn near dead yourself. But—” she paused, looking up at me dotingly, “sometimes you have to let time do its thing.”

  Staring at her half-naked body, I felt every blow of her sadness as her words echoed inside my brain.

  “I know it’s tough without your mom, honey. My trick is to think about the good, if you can.”

  “Yeah.” I breathed in deeply before exhaling, still holding on to every one of her words. “I just wish she could’ve known me as a woman. A good one, you know?”

  Gladys’s boobs swayed as she moved in closer to touch my hand.

  “She knows more than you think, honey.”

  Wetness seeped from my nose. Everything felt clammy and bare, yet reassuring in its truest form. And as I looked down at Gladys sitting in the chair with her areolas peering out through the bra’s lace, I realized what she meant about the power of timing. We both had something to say, big and small, with infinite parallels widening our onerous terrain. The moment was ours, given to us freely, and it couldn’t have been more complete.

  “So …” I waited, imagining Gladys alone, gazing at her husband’s lifeless body, “you just stared at him? I … can’t imagine what that felt like. I mean, a man you spent so much life with. Whom you loved. Achingly. Every day. And then … nothing.”

  Gladys stared at me quietly, searching for whatever response would
set her free. Momentarily free. Breathtakingly free. “I remember thinking, ‘I was just in our bedroom seconds before.’ It’s such a hard testament to how fleeting life is. It goes by so damn fast. You just—” she paused, rubbing her kneecaps again, “you just never know, which is why you have to treat every day as it comes. You gotta take the good and the bad.”

  I hung my head in the silence that followed.

  “How about another black Feather Light and some trunks, honey,” Gladys winked, softly brushing my arm. “Sounds like we both need to get the hell out of here.”

  I smiled, quietly embracing an unexpected reverence. “Are you sure you want another one?”

  “Why not?” She looked up with a twinkle in her eye as her mouth widened into a denture-shining grin. “Eat your heart out, Madonna!”

  Looking sharper than before, I emerged from the dressing room with Maybelline’s best smeared along my under-eye bags. I immediately started Gladys’s transaction at the register, discreetly throwing handfuls of sample lingerie wash into her shopping bag.

  “They’re all yours,” I said, smiling as I handed Gladys back her credit card and purchases while we walked toward the women’s lounge.

  “Damn right.” She winked again, giving her breasts one last shake as she headed toward the escalator.

  Upon entering the lounge, I took quick refuge in the nursing room, welcoming the dim lights and long strains from exhausted breast pumps. I sat with my eyes closed, knowing that if my department manager came in—or heaven forbid, Roxanne Michaels—I’d be pumping the gas right out of The Grove. My mind drifted as my eyelids grew heavier. I could feel my legs sinking into the soft cushions while I listened for small hints of life. Images of an imaginary Archie took the lead as I thought about him sitting in his reading chair, lucky to have had a woman like Gladys. My own heart pumped gently for the first time all day. And then reality came knocking like it always does, shaking me from my slumber.

  “Is the lingerie department on this floor?” a woman asked from behind the darkness. My immediate feeling was to keep quiet and continue relishing in my warm sanctuary. I couldn’t possibly take on another customer. No way. I needed French fries and water and fresh air and Diane Hart. I knew it was out of the question, though, especially since I was on Roxanne’s radar, with a killer work ethic.