Happy to be out of the lingerie department, I welcomed the cool night air. I couldn’t help finding humor in Farah’s debacle as we sat parked in a convenience store parking lot in West Hollywood, ready to pass off a bag of purchased lingerie to one of Farah’s personal customers, Cece Jones. It was common practice at the time, and a surefire way to iron out any discrepancies while ensuring good faith with the customer.
As usual, Farah was good at smoothing things over in a pinch. She was also really good at handling Cece Jones, who by all accounts was a force to be reckoned with. How Farah dropped the ball and managed to land us in the parking lot of a convenience store holding more than five hundred dollars’ worth of lingerie was beyond me.
Sharing bags of Gummi Peach Rings and Cool Ranch Doritos, we watched cars make their way into the parking lot while we waited for Cece’s arrival.
“What’s in the bag anyway?” I asked, eyeing a group of guys buy beer at the register.
“A few of her staple bras, a lot of panties, and that new black garter,” Farah replied, pulling out the mile-long receipt.
“And an emergency,” I added, turning around to the high-pitched release of the song “Stayin’ Alive”— and Cece Jones enthusiastically maneuvering a black Cadillac Seville.
“Holy shit” barely left my mouth as she screeched her way into a parking space, full of life ... and the potent rush of nicotine. It was perfect.
“Hey, girl!” Cece smiled wide while walking over to Farah’s car. “Thanks for doing this.”
“No problem at all.” Farah’s retail tone emerged. “I messed up, and I know you need these.”
Handing over the receipt, we watched as Cece began rifling through the bag, still smoking her cigarette and full of excitement.
“This is what I’m talking about!” She pulled out a black-laced bra and held it up to her full double-Gs, slowly moving her hips from side to side while dressed in an extra short denim skirt. “This is where you put your money, ladies. You got to make sure your shit is straight, sisters up, and your panties proud!”
Farah and I laughed as people stopped to watch Cece present her new lingerie outside the convenience store. She reminded me how beautifully bodacious one woman can be with her unrivaled spunk and zest for life. Her lead was all I needed in that moment. And before the sunset and cold malt liquor whisked her away, I held on tight to her parting words.
“Ride or die.”
Turning to look at Farah, who couldn’t stop laughing from the rawness of our moment, made my own stomach hurt from cackling.
“Who does this?” Farah asked, snorting from her nose. “Who delivers lingerie in a 7-Eleven parking lot?”
Laughing uncontrollably at the absurdity of our reality, I knew Farah and I weren’t ready to call it a night.
“Where to?” I asked, trying to gain composure.
“The promised land.” Farah smiled, pulling out a joint from her console before running her finger along its well-packed leanness. “And then to a jukebox.”
Wrapping my lips around Farah’s kind offering, my body began to float in a matter of seconds as we puffed and passed on the depth of our clouded flight.
“Work was crazy today,” Farah barely choked out as the inside of her car began to fill up with smoke.
“Crazy,” I repeated, sinking into the passenger seat. “I’ve been thinking about that little girl, too, wondering if she really gives a shit about being in a beauty pageant or if it’s just her mom’s personal failure.”
“I’m sure it’s her mom’s long-lost dream,” Farah said, going ten miles under the speed limit upon pulling out of the parking lot. “I could hear her demands from all the way down the hallway. She sounded desperate.”
“Right,” I mumbled, taking my last drag while thinking about the long list of ridiculous demands and the poor young girl stuck in the corner of the dressing room, embarrassed and confused. “She was so young. I can’t imagine what this is going to do to her.”
I sat staring out of the window, high as the night sky, and really hating my job.
“She was just a little girl.”
Pointing to an old lit-up tavern on La Brea Avenue, Farah half-assed her one and only attempt at parallel parking and headed straight for the entrance. “No more shop talk except for Chase Maxwell and maybe that new guy down in shoes. The tall one with all the tattoos.”
“Deal.” I laughed, relieved to see a wide-open jukebox as we turned the corner and walked into a dimmed ambience full of seemingly tempered vibes. “I’ll meet you at the bar.” Eager to set the mood and forget about tiaras and back fat, I sifted through the jukebox’s crowd pleasers, leisurely punching in my long catalog of bad and bluesy ballads.
“Tequila!” I heard Farah yell from afar, already schmoozing the male bartenders with her charming wordplay. The feeling was just right. Cece Jones was just right. And as the shuffling of music seized our moment, landing on Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart” before greenlighting my heels across the floor, I took the plunge, grateful to have felt free.
up for grabs
Staring out my kitchen window, I tried bringing in order with a moment of meditation. The time on my microwave turned in flashes, making me feel rushed as my day ahead had already crystalized into sheer madness inside my head. The first day of our big annual sale had arrived, and I had no choice but to pony up and ride the riptide. Marking my fifth or sixth sale, I expected my nerves to be slightly curbed, but they weren’t; the buildup was well fortified and it was up to me to stand and deliver, free from error, as best I could. The expectation on opening day had always carried its own set of demands: You moved, and then you moved faster.
After parking in a makeshift employee lot, I headed straight for the first floor and huddled around Roxanne’s circle of love, slowly absorbing my surroundings as she closed her morning pep talk. Colorful balloons hung in clusters around each department, overworked waiters from our café were stationed with small pastry bites, and our pianist, dressed to the nines, had already taken to his bench, playing everyone a friendly jingle as we prepared for the rush of frenzied shoppers.
“Stay hydrated and make it a great day, West Hollywood!” Roxanne cheered us on. “You are here for the customer!”
Hurrying to get up to the lingerie department, Michelle stopped me before I could land both feet on the escalator.
“So, your customer from the other day, the pageant mom.”
“Yes,” I replied warily.
“She wrote a letter to Roxanne about her experience in the department, and I thought maybe you could give her a call.”
“A call?” I stared at Michelle blankly. “To say what?”
“Well,” Michelle checked her tone. “She’s a high-level customer, and she spends a lot of money with us.”
“Ahhh, right,” I replied, noticeably agitated. “And you want me to smooth things over?” I asked, walking off the escalator. “I already did that ... for a ten-year-old girl,” I added in jest, though burning with resentment just thinking about it.
Michelle shot me a look and proceeded toward her office. “Let me know when you call her.” She left with a smile.
Sinking to a new morning low, I pondered Michelle’s suggestion and took it as just that: a mere suggestion. I didn’t have time, nor did I have interest in making a phone call to a woman who I’d love to watch eat shit. However, I was interested in reading her complaint letter, hoping to make room for it on my refrigerator ... after I sought counsel with the Employment Development Department down the way in Van Nuys.
“Five, four, three, two, one,” I heard Rachel and Michelle chant from the front of the department while nonstop clapping ensued. And within a matter of moments, just after seven o’clock in the morning, the floor was crawling with shoppers. Women began grabbing items all around them, stocking up on sleepwear, T-shirt bras, push ups, and panties. It took a moment to get going, as I always stood in awe of the people who arrived so ea
rly in the morning, wondering how they did it.
“Three customers need help by the sale bras.” Michelle pointed to the corner of the department, leading me right to my first customer and officially marking the longest day in retail history.
“Do you need help with a fitting?” I asked, glancing at the size on one of the tags.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable being measured,” she replied, holding a growing pile of bras along with a stack of shapewear. “I was just hoping I could throw something on and you could double-check the fit.”
“Follow me.” I smiled, hoping to keep things moving.
As soon as we entered the fitting rooms, constant chatter surrounded us.
“You want to put one of the bras on first and I’ll come back to check it out?” I unlocked a door.
She looked around the room and then nodded, noticeably relieved that I was leaving her to change out of her clothes. However, I didn’t make it far. Women came rushing; I had no other choice but to stand and wait, knowing that if I tried to make it back out onto the sales floor, I’d get eaten alive by questions, requests, and pestering demands, all of which came with the taxing operation I’d signed up for.
The moment my customer opened the door, I could tell something was wrong. The energy had shifted drastically and her facial expression read emptied and overpowered.
“Alright,” I said, glancing at her boobs’ tissue that overflowed in great portions from every corner of the bra.
“I know, I know,” she cut me off, quickly putting her hands on her hips. “You don’t have anything for me.”
I paused for a minute, knowing I had to get creative with her bras due to her size. She was a larger woman and not just in the breasts. She was also really uncomfortable, making the room tense and my replies tougher.
“We have options,” I said, grabbing the measuring tape from off the hook. “Can I at least get a starting point?”
She looked down at the ground and then toward the mirror.
“I don’t want to know my size.”
Hoping to create as comfortable a space as possible, I moved in slowly and helped raise her arms to the side. Her skin jiggled with every movement as she tried finding a place to stand.
“I’ll be quick,” I said, extending my arms as far as they would go in an effort to get the measuring tape all the way around her. I tried three times until I could read a number.
“It’s okay if you don’t have anything for me to try.” She backed away after I peeled the tape out from under her.
“I have ideas,” I replied, “Give me a few.”
As soon as I stepped out, I noticed the line to get into a room had moved well beyond the doorway. Empty coffee cups had already been left in random places, and women were flying high. It was a madhouse, making me wonder what the shoe department looked like.
Rifling through a rounder of sale bras, I gathered as many 42 double-Ds and triple-Ds as I could find, and then headed for a box of band extenders from the stockroom, hoping they would offer more comfort as I began the trial-and-error process. When I returned, I found my customer sitting in the chair against the wall, fanning herself with a folded piece of paper.
“How we doin‘?” I asked, following her stare over to the package of extenders.
“I’ve tried those,” she replied abruptly. The firmness of her tone reminded me to tread lightly, as I could feel the mood shift again.
“Okay.” I searched for all the right words. “I think we should try them again, but with a different cup size.”
She waited for a minute before asking me to step outside while she put one of the pink lacy T-shirt bras on.
“It’s okay if you don’t like the pink.” I continued to pull from every angle. “I have it in black, too.”
Trapped against the wall, I waited in the hallway as a long stretch of customers crowded the narrow space, modeling their sale items in front of one, oversized mirror. I focused my observations up and down the pathway, noting a lot of moving sports bras, push-up bras, butt cheeks, and … Raul. Shit, I whispered, watching Diane turn the corner. I felt scared, and oddly grateful to see her all at the same time. Her presence had a way of making me feel secure, no matter how intense she was. As I did with Gladys, I valued Diane’s perspective on life and the deep thought she put into it. Though different from a lot of customers, Diane had a special spunk about her that really made me think outside the box.
“Natalee!” Her smile beamed.
“Hey, Diane.” I smiled back, eyeing her stack of bras, underwear, and clothes from downstairs draped over her arm. “You need a room!”
Carefully looking through the cracks of a few doors, I found Diane a spot right as a woman exited.
“I’m with a customer right now, but I’m happy to check back.”
“No rush at all,” she welcomed herself into the room. “I’m going to be a while.”
Moving back down to my customer, I responded to her hand gesture and shimmied back into the room as she held the door only halfway open. I noticed that the cups were still too small and that the band was savagely pinching her back, creating the same amount of overflow as before.
“Let’s try another cup size.” I didn’t bother adjusting the bra.
“You know what,” she replied, looking around the room. “I’ll come back when it’s not so crazy and I have the energy to actually do this.”
Staring at the heavy circles under her eyes and along her dark, blotchy skin, I felt a surge of hopelessness, which was nothing compared to what she was feeling.
“Let me grab one more sale bra that I think will work.” I kept at it, hoping she’d consider the offer.
Silence crept in while she sat down in the chair.
“I so thought this was going to be easier,” she spoke calmly. “I would come in early, grab a couple bras, and bail. I wasn’t prepared for the mass of people or ... this.”
I hesitated before I replied, though in full agreement with the overload of people and feeling unprepared.
“Is this your first sale?” I tried not to fixate on her breast tissue pouring out of the bra.
“I came years ago ... and many pounds ago. I didn’t realize it was a morning thing.”
“Yeah.” I nodded steadily. “We have some real diehards.”
She sighed before the uncomfortable silence came back. I wondered what she was thinking about as she assessed her sale items. Turning around to exit seemed unfair, yet I didn’t want to pressure her into trying anything else on.
“Can I have a moment?” she asked, looking up from the chair.
Nodding silently, I squeezed my body out the door and back into the pandemonium and immediately grabbed a couple more bras from a sale rounder. Merchandise was already strewn about and I could see that Michelle and Rachel were stuck at the register, leaving Tabitha to drown in a sea of chaos. I thought about knocking on Diane’s door, but stopped when I realized I couldn’t get stuck in the room with her. I had a woman down the way hating everything about her experience, and I couldn’t abandon her.
“How’s it going?” I asked, returning to the customer’s room. “I snagged one more bra to try.”
It took her a minute to let me in, as she was in the middle of trying on one of our slimming body garments.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.
“Christine,” she mumbled, quickly closing the door. The air was still tense, and I noticed a pile of body shapers folded in the corner.
“Am I too early?” I asked with hesitation, holding onto a black-laced minimizer.
“It’s okay,” she replied tiredly. “Nothing seems to be working.”
“Well,” I said, resting against the wall. “Can we at least try this and an extender?”
Frustrated and run-down, Christine stepped to the middle of the room and quietly raised her arms to the side. I watched as she examined her stretched-out underarm skin.
“I ha
te being fat,” she said, pushing me to quickly fasten the extra piece of fabric onto the band and shove her boobs into the cups. I could feel her discomfort as I rearranged her breast tissue with my hands, carefully pulling it in from the sides and out from the splits of my fingers. “I did this to prove something to myself, not to stand here and look at all this.”
Loosening the straps, I backed away confused.
“You’re doing good, Christine,” I replied, relieved that the bra extender helped. The fit was far from great, but her breast tissue was covered and the ladies had risen to some extent. “Do you want to see how it looks under your shirt?” I asked.
“Sure.” She lowered herself into the chair. I waited for a response.
“I feel dizzy,” she said, staring at the ground.
“Oh, okay.” I quickly moved over to her. “Umm, what do you need?”
“I think I’m having a panic attack,” she responded while trying to catch her breath.
“Shit,” I said, beginning to feel my own panic. “In through the nose and out through the mouth.”
She followed my lead and continued to sit, breathing in heavily as she ran her hands back and forth along her legs.
“Breathe, Christine,” I recited like a chorus, hoping the panic would subside.
I didn’t know what to do, considering life outside of the dressing room was bound to exacerbate whatever was happening inside of Christine.
“You can stay here for as long as you need,” I said, awkwardly rubbing her back while checking out her bra fit. “Are you okay if I grab you some water?”
Responding to her intensified head nod, I bolted straight for the café and fought my way toward the front of the line. Of course, Roxanne was ever so present, making sure things were moving at the speed of light. It was a well-oiled operation with a lot of money at stake and a reputation on the line.
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