Full Support

by Woods, Natalee

  “Claire Whittler.” She introduced herself with poise, firmly gripping my hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Claire.” I moved toward the door. “I’m glad I got you.”

  It didn’t take long to gather a few different bra options for Claire. I wanted to be thorough and mindful of her needs, so I figured the more the better, throwing in a few sexy push ups I loved to look at as I wandered the floor.

  “Excuse me?” A fitter I had never seen tapped me on my shoulder. “You have a phone call.” I looked at her, confused, thinking that she might’ve had the wrong associate.

  “A phone call,” she repeated, staring at my blank face. “Yeah, sorry.” I headed for the counter. “Thank you.”

  Preparing for the worst, I offered a reserved greeting as I picked up the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, I was wondering if y’all carry crotchless panties? The V-shaped ones?”

  My eyes darted across the floor, hoping Kristy was far from nearby.

  “Farah!” I laughed, missing her playfulness.

  “Damnit!” she yelled, wrestling with the phone. “I thought I’d get you with my southern charm. How’s it going up there?”

  Her question made my heart sink a little. “It’s okay, I guess. Still acclimating.”

  “Guess who came in today?” she asked buoyantly.

  “J.Lo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Madonna?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “The dude from Lost?”

  “No, but good one.”

  “I give up.”

  “Harry Curly.”

  “What!” I nearly spit into the phone. “How could he?”

  “I think it was the shipment of crotchless panties,” Farah said, laughing.

  “So he really did want lingerie for himself?” I asked, happy that Harry found the courage to go in and actually shop without making anyone question his intentions. And then I imagined him buying crotchless panties.

  “Wait, you guys actually carry them? To sell?”

  “Yep,” she answered casually. “They’re a real sight.”

  I tried visualizing what a crotchless panty looked like, as well as where everything would go, but I gave up until Farah did the honors.

  “There’s basically two pieces of fabric that hang in midair.” My stomach started to hurt from cackling.

  “And they’re cut into a V-ish shape so you can slide your bits right in there.”

  “What?” I fought for air as I leaned into the counter. “And Harry Curly bought—” I stopped abruptly, spotting Claire standing in the doorway of the dressing rooms holding a red silk bathrobe. “Oh, shit, I gotta go.”

  “Wait!” Farah tried keeping me on the line.

  Running over to Claire, I also noticed a light pink negligee hanging from her hand.

  “Wow,” she said, her face lighting up from the pile of bras I’d grabbed. “Well done! Do you mind getting me a size up in each of these?” She passed over the robe and negligee. I hurried to grab new sizes, still laughing at Farah, and then headed back to meet Claire. Passing the doorway, I noticed that Kristy had recently moved a rounder of new high-end nighties to sit right off the walkway, so I backed up and snagged a couple to throw into the mix, hoping for a victory.

  “I think you’re going to be pleased, Claire,” I said, organizing her options by style, size, color, and, of course, a group of my French favorites.

  “This is so awesome!” Her face beamed with gratitude. “Would you mind helping me?”

  I paused from the seriousness in her voice. I was certain Claire had wanted to be alone with her thoughts, dispelling old concepts as she maneuvered under the lights in her new lingerie, uninterrupted and at her own fearless pace.

  “Absolutely.” I unhooked a red lace push-up bra. “Let’s start with this.”

  I could hear Claire’s heartbeat as I slid the straps over her shoulders and hooked the band. “I’m just going to move your breast over this way.” I positioned her cleavage while walking her through the steps.

  “This looks great!” I cheered, admiring the fit and her silicone.

  “Wow.” She stood speechless, turning her body from side to side. “This is my third time doing this.”

  “Remember what you said about comfort? If it’s too tight, let me know.”

  I waited as she wiggled her shoulders and moved in circles around the room.

  “It’s definitely tight.” She slowed her shoulder rolls. “Let’s try another band size.”

  I unfastened another bra and let Claire put it on, encouraging her to hook the band in front of her navel and then pull it up and around her torso. It was far easier than trying to hook the bra from behind. I’d always admired women who had enough skill to fasten their slingers with their hands behind their backs.

  “What do you think?” she asked, running her eyes along her chest.

  I examined the fit, wondering if maybe we should try one more size up. As expected, her silicone was tricky and looked like it had been smashed into the cups, cutting off parts of her skin. I immediately unhooked another red lace bra and handed it to her. Thankfully she was easygoing and tolerant of my changes.

  “I think we’ve got a winner,” I said, smiling as I adjusted the straps.

  Claire tilted her head to the side. I could tell she was deep in thought, so I backed into the chair and removed the hangers from a few more bras, as well as her pile of negligees.

  “This looks good,” she said, smiling at me through the mirror as she placed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “And it feels good.” I continued to stare at her slender physique, grappling with the thought of asking too many questions about her transition and then with the thought of not asking enough. Either way, the sudden bouts of silence started to make me feel like maybe I needed to give Claire her privacy. She had a lot of merchandise to get through and my awkward presence wasn’t always soothing or timely, considering the space we shared. So I waited.

  “Are you married?” I asked, forgetting everything I had just overanalyzed. She looked down at the ring on her ring finger and stopped.

  “This was my mother’s ring,” she said, moving in closer, extending her long fingers for a better viewing. The vividness of sapphire blue and small-cut diamonds glowed brightly under the lights. “Too bad my father was such a dick. I’d prefer to wear her wedding ring,” she added after grabbing a negligee from off my lap.

  Trying to keep up with her quickening pace, I unhooked a couple more double-D bras and remained sitting. “Is he still alive?”

  Claire thought about my question. “You know, I don’t know. My mother died shortly after my father disowned me, and that was it. I was seventeen and an only child, desperately trying to understand what was wrong with me.” She threw up air quotes to accompany the term “wrong” and then drew in a deep breath, sucking me in with every word spoken. “Almost thirty years have gone by.”

  I sat attempting to do the math in my head but failed. I needed my fingers to count and it certainly wasn’t the time or place to start adding like a fourth grader.

  “He disowned you because you’re transgender?” I hesitated to ask, but pushed anyway, hoping Claire picked up on my sincere efforts to understand.

  “Transgender, gay, feminist, you name it,” she replied, sliding a negligee over her head. “He came home from work early one day and caught me wearing one of my mom’s satin nightgowns. I’ll never forget it.”

  My body twitched from the intensity of Claire’s delivery. “Called me a faggot, a fraud, a poor excuse for a son and a man.”

  “Jesus,” I whispered.

  “And then he told me to get out,” she finished, dropping her jeans for a more realistic assessment, first assuring me that her “piggy was in a blanket.”

  All I could do was sit, stuck in a cobweb of unspoken words suspended in air. The feeling was awful, which couldn’t possibly compare to
Claire’s reality, coupled with the long, insufferable years of losing and hating and questioning and loving without conditions.

  “You look great, Claire,” I said, staring at her jeans piled around her ankles.

  She drew in another long breath and then slowly exhaled. “It’s taken a lot of balls.” She smiled, turning around to face me.

  I exploded with laughter, completely taken aback by her comment. “I bet it has,” I replied, shaking my head. “So why now?”

  “Time and money.” Claire picked up on my vagueness.

  “I worked high up in business for years and never felt that I could be myself, so I lived a very private life, putting on lots of fake smiles.”

  “Makes sense,” I quipped, referring to the latter part.

  “That was just it, actually,” she said, removing both the negligee and bra. “I had to make sense of everything all while trying to wipe out the noise. Thoughts of suicide, couch hopping, and lots of alcohol were my only escapes. I spent many nights fearing my life … while fearing for my life.”

  Completely immersed and feeling every draw of despair, I handed Claire another bra to try and continued to listen.

  “I could never understand why anyone would ever think that a person would choose a life filled with so much confusion and self-loathing.” Claire’s quick wit faded. “I had no idea what was happening to my eight-year-old body. I couldn’t understand why I hated dragging around a penis so much. But the hate I received? Now that was clear.”

  I could feel the fullness of her humanity moving in. “I’ve got nothing but clichéd compliments, Claire,” I joked, feeling the ease between us as I reflected on the gravity of one’s identity.

  “And a great sale,” She winked, throwing another bra into the “yes” pile.

  I drew in my own deep breath and evaluated our success. “How about I let you have some time alone?” I stood up from the chair. “You’ve got a lot here, and you might want to try some things on again.”

  “You’re right.” Claire nodded, helping me clean up a small pile of items that needed to be rehung and put back in their designated areas.

  “Take all the time you need.” I bowed, feeling fortunate to have met Claire.

  Upon reentering the commotion that spread throughout the sales floor, I was surprised at how much time had passed. There were breaks and alterations to figure out, which immediately led me right back to the stockroom so that I could gather my task and make the delivery once and for all. I noticed that the outgoing alterations bar had filled up significantly with cups needing pockets for prostheses. Some tickets had explicit instructions and others just hung with a ticket that read “Please pocket right side.” My handful of worn-and-returned briefs continued to sway in a plastic bag at the end of the bar. It was obvious that fellow sales associates had separated their customers’ bras from the underwear, and who could blame them? It was time they came down, so I grabbed a cardboard box from the corner and filled it to the top, including a bathrobe and two pairs of Spanx body shapers.

  On the table next to me, I noticed one of our small gift boxes slightly opened with a card on top. I looked closer to find that it was addressed to Ruby, one of my new coworkers, and resembled chicken scratch for penmanship. Checking over my shoulders to see if anyone was nearby, I peeked inside to find one black G-string thong wadded up. I had no idea what it was all about; however, I did recall a conversation some of the girls had about a mysterious panty delivery for Ruby and only Ruby.

  “They struck again!” Caroline walked through the door.

  “They’re not from her significant other?” I asked, shamelessly hooked on the department’s compelling, yet disturbing, quandary.

  “Ruby doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Caroline replied, digging for the G-string.

  “Ohhh.” My response lingered as I stood staring at the panty’s scanty string. “This can’t be good.”

  Happy to see Claire, I apologized for the wait and led her toward the registers, lugging the box of alterations.

  “How’d we do?” I asked, looking over her stack of purchases that included a large handful of bras, two silk bathrobes, three negligees, and a huge pile of matching panties. I made certain every item was folded and placed nicely inside the tissue, and I also made sure to throw in a few packets of sample lingerie wash that would last her for months. I had a lot of admiration for Claire, who made our trade meaningful while respectfully acknowledging my role as a bra fitter.

  “Thank you,” she said, staring at me endearingly with her big blue eyes.

  “No,” I replied, walking around the counter with two full shopping bags. “Thank you, Claire Whittler.”

  After Claire left, I gathered my box of alterations and signaled to one of the girls that I was stepping off the floor. With a thumbs-up and a loss of dignity, I hoped that I had followed directions correctly, which was never my strong suit. Rumor had it the alterations “cave” was four stories up and buzzing with tickets. Of course, it was no surprise that when I finally found the secret elevator, there was an “under repair” sign on it, kindly asking employees to try again later. I thought about turning around, but decided that it wasn’t an option. The stairs would have to do if I ever wanted to leave on time.

  When I arrived covered in sweat, a woman shot up from her sewing machine and walked over to me. She was short, round, and commanding, leading me to believe she was the ruler of the alterations department, a fine matriarch who dominated her land with more order and precision than any other seamstress on the planet. Her dyed orange hair and thick penciled-in eyebrows made a statement that was impossible to overlook, as was the department’s output happening in systematized rows. Something about the energy reminded me of the scene from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer when Santa’s elves worked feverishly to get presents wrapped and ready to go. The place was overflowing with merchandise and time was of the essence, like always.

  “You new?” she asked, running her hard gaze along my face.

  “I’m new to the store,” I replied.

  Eyeing my box of goods, she pointed to a long bar with a sign that read “incoming lingerie.”

  “They go there,” she said flatly. I noticed that a couple bras had already been delivered, presumably needing pockets ASAP, so I pushed them toward the front of the bar and started to hang the remainder of lingerie. She watched with eagle eyes as I organized each item and then moved closer once I hung the bag of underwear on the end of the bar. “What is this?” she asked with a heavy accent while carefully examining the bag.

  We both stopped to stare at the pile of washed chonies, long and threadbare.

  “Um.” I hesitated to explain. “A customer would like to have the top stitching resewn.”

  The clatter of sewing machines came to a halt as members of Team Seam turned to help investigate.

  Fucking great.

  “The tops?” she confirmed, looking over the ticket with my name inked in bold print.

  “Yeah, my manager passed it off, so I have no idea what the conversation was like. They’re coming undone.” I pointed to the band. It was clear our matriarch was as perplexed as I was and running on the same level of patience when it came to certain human actions.

  “Leave ’em.” She turned to walk away, muttering something under her breath in a language I couldn’t understand. I quickly moved toward the doors and stopped, offering a kind wave goodbye as a room full of seamstresses and tailors stared on, straight-faced and tight-lipped.

  Relaxing into the cinema’s plush recliner next to Larry, I reflected on my time with Claire. I couldn’t get her, or her disgrace of a father, out of my head. I was so disheartened by her story, which was something I certainly didn’t hear on a daily basis. I couldn’t comprehend the idea of abandoning someone, let alone your own child, because of their sexual orientation or preferred gender. The ignorance and bigotry enraged me, like nothing I had ever experienced inside of the dressing room before. And t
hough we only shared a couple hours together, Claire taught me about the true meaning of empathy while shining a light on all the things I had directly in front of me, like opportunity, freedom, and a father who allowed me the time to figure out life because he knew that I was lost without my mother. He knew that I needed him. And while he listened intently about my day, digging into a bucket of popcorn as the lights dimmed, I held onto his whisper with a heart full of gratitude.

  “Have you ever thought that just maybe things have a way of working out?”

  something

  blue

  Sitting alone in a cramped food court, I chewed the last of my greasy pizza to the tiring cadence of Christmas music. The corny and clichéd songs had come early, playing on a slow and burning repeat. Mile high Christmas trees, gigantic poinsettias, bright lights, and bold, life-sized nutcrackers started to make their entrance, as did an influx of seasonal shoppers. It was a favorite place among many and a retail worker’s worst nightmare. Or maybe just mine.

  I paced myself back to the lingerie department, having wolfed down three pieces of mall pizza and one of Mrs. Field’s chocolate chip cookies. Due to a late lunch break, I didn’t have much longer to go with my shift, which was always the smartest way to play it. However, when I finally returned fifteen minutes past the hour—with an eggnog latte in hand—Kristy didn’t hide her disapproval.

  “I need you to take the bridal party on the end.” She shot me a glare in appreciation of my punctuality, her eyes wide and pleading. I quickly headed for the stockroom so that I could set down my latte, remembering that I forgot to drive the chalk off my tires. A ticket on my windshield was imminent. But all I could do in the moment was pray for a reasonable bride, who undoubtedly led the pack.

  Laughter filled the hallway as I made my way back to their room, confirming the fact that I was moments away from multiple requests and a lot of size runs.

  “Knock, knock.” I cracked the door open to find a room full of loud, dynamic women talking amongst themselves.

  “Come in!” one of them shouted, kindly making room for me in the middle of the dressing room. The smell of alcohol, mixed with an infusion of perfumes, instantly hit the air, suffocating our small zone in big waves. At first glance, I noticed that all the women varied in size, starting with their boobs and down to their backsides.