The Chronicles of Wardrobe
The Bra Heard Around The World
The year is 2017. The location - Rose Bowl in Pasadena California. The Tour - unable to say due to signed NDA. The color of my hair - bleach bleach bleach white. Body weight - 136 pounds. The Boyfriend - some man who just told me I was pretty but not supermodel pretty. The Team - hands down the best of the best. We are the survivors of the mythical foretold zombie apocalypse.
The mission - to pick up the bedazzled bra from the end of the line of thousands of cars waiting to park and bring the bra to the wardrobe room behind the stage in fifteen minutes for artist’s fitting. As the fourth in charge and the person responsible for getting the bra resized, refit and re-bedazzled** this task is handed to me. The task of a lifetime.
THE TEAM
Phone in hand, I seize the opportunity to show my skills to The Team and to make sure The Boyfriend knows there is so much more to the bleached blonde than being less than supermodel pretty. Calling the bra-maker-resizer-re-bedazzler, I hide my credentials and head to the dangerous area known as the parking lot of the Pasadena Rose Bowl. Brake lights follow the mountain down for miles.
“But where in line are you? Can you see the venue?” I am yelling to the bra-maker-resizer-re-bedazzler and she is yelling back. Suddenly, a voice to my right, “What kind of car is she in?”
“What kind of car are you in?” I yell, repeating the same question without looking away from my timer, counting down now to ten minutes. “Oh my god, I’m never going to get this in time.”
“I’ll take you to her,” the same voice, unhurried, calm, to my left. Finally, I look up to this stranger, “What’s the car?” he asks me. I give him the requested info.
He radios over his channel and instantly we get a reply. The car has been seen. “Get on the back.” He hops on his motorcycle and I hop up behind him, unquestioning. “Copy, copy, we are en route. Hold the car. It’s for The Boss.” He knows enough not to say the boss’s name on a public radio.
In two minutes we are down the hill, zipping through red lights as I squint my eyes, keeping only my left one open to make sure we aren’t going to crash down the line of angry and excited car goers. I see the car, a familiar-faced woman gets out and we stop, “Oh my god, thank you thank you thank you. We have to get back, I only have,” I break to look at my timer, “seven minutes.” He maneuvers the motorcycle around and as we speed off I yell “I hope you enjoy the show!” The only way I can think to repay the woman who saved The Team’s life.
Heart pumping as I jump off the bike, thank the man for his help and run through the long halls of the Rose Bowl. I imagine hands clapping, The Team cheering and a standing ovation when I arrive, “She did it! Josie is THE QUEEN B!!” they will yell in unison. Instead, I am greeted with silence.
A sigh from the back of the room. “I’m going to the fitting now. Thanks for getting that. We probably won't even use it. You can hang it on the rack though. Want to help me take it to the The Boss’s room?” Still gasping for breath I manage to stand up straight and say, “Yes. Yes of course. Whatever you need.”
While we slowly roll the rack to The Boss’s room a montage plays - images of the life I left behind to choose this one on the road - an exciting adventure for a career but one that takes almost as much as it gives - my dog’s brown eyes and teeny tiny paws I’ve only seen for six weeks out of the thirty-five that have passed play in my mind. I wonder about the friends who no longer respond to my texts of dirty martinis from different places all over the world.
It’s through time we gain perspective and at the time of the re-bedazzled bra my clock was broken, the hands no longer tick-tocking. I had no time for deep breaths or real-life-off-the-road-boyfriends or play time with Clementine. I had only hope that succeeding today would bring an easier tomorrow.
Life looks a lot different today from way back when - the brain is fuzzy, the bank account is empty, but the heart remains the same - full.