Journey to Authenticity and Growth
Copyright© 2025 by BareLin
Chapter 1: Dress Code Violation
At twenty-four, I was certain I understood adulthood.
My business degree hung lopsided on my apartment wall—still crooked from the night I’d winged a shoe at it after rejection email number three. My résumé was a work of optimistic fiction: buzzwords standing in for experience, bullet points pretending to be competence. I had the drive—the kind that should have landed me a corner office or at least a LinkedIn worth noticing.
But no one tells you that drive doesn’t cover rent. No one warns you that adulthood’s grand entrance might reek of lukewarm breakroom pizza, the relentless flicker of fluorescent lights, and the unmistakable scent of a department store’s existential dread—some unholy mix of regret, expired perfume, and the ghosts of burnt candles.
I’m Gwen McNeil and instead of launching a startup—or even fetching oat milk lattes for someone who did—I’m marooned in the limbo between minimum wage and total burnout. By day, I’m a disembodied voice soothing irate customers through Evergreen’s service hotline, drowning in paperwork that somehow multiplies overnight. By night, I pin on a name tag and shuffle through aisles of half-priced dreams, restocking shelves in a place that bills itself as “retail heaven” but feels more like fluorescent purgatory.
What do I want to say to customers when they wander too close?
“Welcome to Evergreen: part clearance aisle, part flat-screen graveyard. Imagine Kohl’s—but if someone muttered ‘late-stage capitalism’ into a clogged wishing well.”
Turns out, adulthood isn’t a boardroom. It’s an endless shift in a store that never closes.
The raw truth? This is where it all starts—not with glory or growth, but with a screaming manager, three nonchalant naked women, and the sinking realization that I might be on the wrong side of history.
The Incident, as it would later be called, happened on a Friday, or maybe a Saturday. Honestly, who could keep track? When your life is measured in fluorescent-lit shifts and thirty-minute lunch breaks spent hunched over your phone—scrolling through job listings that demand three to five years of experience for wages that barely cover ramen—days blur together like smudged mascara.
I was crouched behind the cosmetics counter, alphabetizing lipsticks into chromatic submission, when the chaos erupted.
“OUT! OUT! THIS IS A PLACE OF BUSINESS! DECENCY, PEOPLE!”
The shriek belonged to Mr. Driscoll, our perpetually flustered, balding manager, who ruled Evergreen with the iron fist of a man who knew his authority was as fragile as the store’s “50% OFF” stickers. One bad Yelp review, one corporate inspection gone wrong, and his entire kingdom could crumble.
I stood up, a tube of “Crimson Confidence” still in hand, and turned toward the commotion.
At first, all I saw were customers—dozens of them—their heads swiveling in unison like startled pigeons. Then, like a surrealist painting comes to life, three women emerge from behind the sunglasses display.
Naked.
Not “artfully draped in silk sheets” naked. Not “airbrushed lingerie ad” naked. This was real, unfiltered, “this is what human bodies look like” naked. Sun-kissed shoulders, soft stomachs, stretch marks like silver trails, freckles scattered like constellations.
The oldest of them—a woman with steel-gray hair twisted into a loose bun—carried a basket of scented candles on her hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her companions (daughters? friends? accomplices?) flanked her, barefoot and unbothered, examining silk scarves with the same reverence one might reserve for fine art.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Nope. Still naked.
Was it legal? Technically, yes.
Was it welcome at Evergreen? Not according to the bold, all-caps sign above every register:
“CLOTHING REQUIRED FOR DIGNIFIED SHOPPING. MANAGEMENT RESERVES THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE.”
That little (MANAGEMENT) in parentheses? That was Mr. Driscoll’s doing. He treated it like gospel.
He charged at them now, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield, his face purpling with outrage. “This is a FAMILY ESTABLISHMENT! Put something on!”
The gray-haired woman didn’t even flinch. “We’re well within our rights, dear,” she said, voice calm as a lake at dawn. “Our bodies are not obscene—your discomfort is.”
The younger one—early 40s, with a spiraling rose tattoo curling around her ribs—held up a sheer floral scarf. “We’re shopping for accessories. Though, frankly, this place could use a lesson in self-expression.”
Mr. Driscoll sputtered, his face now a shade of mauve I’d only seen in expired lipstick. “This is not a nudist resort! Gwen! Call security!”
I froze, fingers fumbling for the store phone. Around us, customers gawked. A teenager in pajama pants had already pulled out her phone, live-streaming the whole thing. My coworker Marco leaned in, whispering, “Bet they’re from that free-body camp up near Marana,” like he’d just spotted Bigfoot browsing the clearance rack and maybe he had, because this wasn’t just a wardrobe malfunction—it was defiance—a quiet, naked rebellion against shame.
Before I could dial, the eldest woman strode toward me. Up close, she smelled like lavender and something earthy—like rain on warm pavement. She dropped her basket onto the counter with a grace that felt both regal and maternal.
“We’re not here to cause trouble, sweetheart,” she said. “Just to remind people what freedom looks like.” Then she pressed a card into my palm—thick, cream-colored, with elegant embossed lettering: Free the Body, Free the Mind – Sunset Ridge Collective.
For when you’re done playing dress-up.
I didn’t get a chance to respond. Mr. Driscoll snatched the card from my hand like it was a lit fuse and ripped it in two, scattering the pieces onto the floor like they might infect someone. “Filth,” he hissed.
The women turned as one—Alexandria (Lex) Hicks, I’d later learn her name was—and walked toward the exit, heads high, bare feet silent against the linoleum. The automatic doors chimed cheerfully as they disappeared into the Tucson night.
As for me? I stood there, “Crimson Confidence” in one hand, the torn edges of the card in the other, my heart pounding with something that felt dangerously close to ... Envy, because maybe I wasn’t angry—maybe I was jealous.
Jealous of the way they moved—unapologetic, unafraid. Jealous of the way they’d turned a fluorescent-lit purgatory into their kind of stage. Jealous that they’d walked out of there with nothing but their skin and their pride, while I was still trapped behind a counter, counting down the minutes until my next break.
That night, I Googled Sunset Ridge Collective. What happened next? I wasn’t sure, but the memory of those women, moving through the store with unflinching confidence, lingered like the scent of lavender and rain-soaked earth.
The days after The Incident blurred into a relentless storm of headlines, hashtags, and hot takes. Marco’s shaky phone footage went nuclear overnight—millions of views, reaction videos, and think pieces dissecting every frame with the fervor of a true crime podcast.
“When Boomers Clash with Body Positivity”
“Who Gets to Decide What’s ‘Dignified’?”
“Retail Worker’s Silence Speaks Volumes”
The pixelated video showed it all—Mr. Driscoll, red-faced and sputtering. The three women, serene and unyielding, and me—frozen behind the counter, phone in hand, face a blank mask of indecision.
Somehow, in the court of public opinion, I became the villain.
“Retail Robot Enables Bigotry”
“Employee Refuses to Support Naturist Protest”
“Evergreen Coward Bows to Store Policy over Body Freedom”
The internet dissected my every micro-expression. My hunched shoulders were “complicit.” My silence was “betrayal.” One viral tweet called me a “fascist of fabric,” as if my minimum-wage job came with a moral obligation to strip naked and join the revolution.
The worst part? They weren’t entirely wrong. I stood there. I hadn’t spoken up. Not for the women. Not against Driscoll. I just ... existed. A human-shaped mannequin in a polyester vest, watching history unfold like it was someone else’s problem.
Three days later, Evergreen Corporate released a statement:
“We stand by our store leadership’s enforcement of policies designed to preserve a family-friendly shopping environment. We support Manager Driscoll and our employees’ rights to a dignified workplace.”
Translation? They threw me under the bus and handed Driscoll the keys.
The backlash didn’t just come from strangers. My coworkers—people I’d shared breakroom pizza with—started side-eyeing me as I’d personally called HR on them. Marco, who’d filmed the whole thing, suddenly acted like he’d been a silent ally all along.
“You could’ve at least said something,” he muttered in the stockroom.
I wanted to scream. I hadn’t even done anything, but that was the problem. I tried to lay low. Deactivated my socials. Avoided the news, but the universe wasn’t done punishing me, because while I was drowning in anonymous hate, Driscoll was thriving.
Local news dubbed him a “Retail Hero.” Right-wing pundits praised his “stand against moral decay.” He did interviews—smiling like he hadn’t just ripped up a stranger’s card in front of me.
What about me? I was the girl who stood there. The girl who did nothing.
Every second that passed after The Incident made me regret not breaking up with Jeffrey Taylor, my on-again-off-again boyfriend since my sophomore year of college. He was the human equivalent of a participation trophy—mediocre, forgettable, but somehow still taking up space in my life. Now, as my name was dragged through the digital mud, he was useless.
“Babe,” he’d say, “just ignore it,” while scrolling through his phone as I hyperventilated over the web. “People are dumb.” I wanted to scream. I didn’t need platitudes—I needed a damn lawyer.
Instead, I reached out to Evergreen’s corporate HR, hoping for damage control, but the responses—when they came at all—were colder than the break room’s broken fridge.
“We take all incidents seriously.”
“Your concerns have been noted.”
“Policy enforcement is at management’s discretion.”
Translation: You’re on your own.
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