Gwen McNeil, a 24-year-old recent business graduate, finds herself trapped in a soul-crushing retail job instead of the career she imagined. While working a monotonous shift at Evergreen, a surreal and provocative incident disrupts her routine—three nude women confidently walk through the store as a quiet protest against body shame. Gwen’s passive reaction to the confrontation, captured on a viral video, draws massive online backlash and makes her a symbol of silent complicity.
As her job falls apart and her self-worth unravels, Gwen grapples with public scorn, professional isolation, and personal insecurity, particularly tied to a scar she's long been ashamed of. Unexpectedly, she finds a glimmer of hope in a job listing at NaturEra Consulting—a company that promotes authenticity through a clothing-free work environment. Desperate and curious, she applies, even as the prospect terrifies her.
Journey to Authenticity and Growth
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Chapter 1: Dress Code Violation
Journey to Authenticity and Growth
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 the 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 I, 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.
Three weeks later, I stood in the Evergreen parking lot, clutching a cardboard box of my former work life. Inside were the remnants of my retail career: a half-used bottle of hand sanitizer (irony noted), a stress cow, missing its squeaker after one too many panic squeezes, and my chipped "World’s Okayest Employee" mug—now a relic of a time when I still pretended to care, and, tucked beneath it all, the water-stained remains of Lex’s business card, salvaged from the break room trash like some sad, soggy act of rebellion.
Driscoll’s voice still rang in my ears: "You humiliated the brand," he’d spat that morning, eyes gleaming with the kind of joy only a petty tyrant could muster. "You should’ve redirected those women before they reached accessories. That delay made me look weak." I’d bitten my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
Weak? That man was a cartoon of insecurity—a balding, clipboard-wielding Napoleon who thought enforcing a dress code made him a moral authority. "You are weak," I muttered under my breath. Maybe he hadn’t heard me, or maybe he had—and firing me was his way of proving he wasn’t.
The job was gone. My reputation was in shambles. Even my savings account was hemorrhaging money like a stuck pig, so I did what all the newly unemployed do when their Wi-Fi gets cut off: I went to the public library.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and despair. I sat at a sticky plastic table, scrolling through job listings on Indeed like a digital descent into hell:
Telemarketer – Must Thrive in High-Stress Environments! (Translation: You will be screamed at hourly.)
Front Desk Associate – Must Smile Through Verbal Abuse! (Ah, the classic "customer service is war" mentality.)
Adult Novelty Shop Cashier – "Friendly" Demeanor Required! (At least here, the customers expected awkward silence.)
I slumped deeper into my chair, the hard plastic digging into my back. This was rock bottom, or so I thought. Then there it was—glowing on the library’s flickering monitor like some kind of cosmic joke:
Office Coordinator – NaturEra Consulting
seeking an organized self-starter to champion workplace authenticity!
Salary: $52k + benefits.
I blinked. Fifty-two thousand dollars. The number hit me like a punch to the ribs. That was more than Mom made in two years scrubbing toothpaste stains from hotel bathroom sinks off I-10. That kind of money didn’t just pay rent—it rewrote futures. It meant doctor’s visits without panic. It meant maybe, finally, breathing room.
My pulse thudded in my throat as I scanned the rest of the listing. Then I saw it. Naturist Ethos: Clothing-Free Environment. Embrace Vulnerability!
A laugh burst out of me—sharp and humorless—earning a glare from the librarian. Of course. After weeks of being crucified online as the "fabric fascist," the universe was offering salvation in the one form I couldn’t stomach.
My eyes dropped to the scar on my thigh—a jagged white line curving like a question mark. A twelve-year-old’s bike crash turned into lifelong shame. I hadn’t worn shorts since high school. Not at the beach. Not during Tucson’s brutal heat waves. Not even alone in my apartment with the AC broken.
Yet my finger hovered over the mouse. "For when you’re done playing dress-up." Lex’s voice in my memory. The way she’d looked at me—not with pity, but with something worse: recognition. I clicked Apply Now before I could think better of it.
The first question appeared, blinking like a dare: How do you define authenticity? I stared. The cursor mocked me. I typed: Not pretending to be someone you’re not.
I paused. Too glib. Too easy. Backspaced and tried again: Living without shame.
My fingers froze. The words felt like a lie. I’d built my life around shame—wrapped myself in it like armor. I deleted it and tried one last attempt, fingers shaking: Being brave enough to admit who you are—even to yourself.
I hit submit before I could chicken out, my stomach churning. The truth? I didn’t believe a word I’d written. Not really, but as I gathered my things, a traitorous thought whispered, ‘Maybe I want to.’
The ceiling fan in my Tucson apartment groaned as it spun, pushing around the thick July heat rather than relieving it. Maintenance had promised—again—that they’d fix the AC this week. They hadn’t, so, like every other night, I sat at my kitchen table in nothing but my underwear, my skin sticky with sweat, my laptop burning my thighs.
Outside my window, the neon glow of a dive bar sign flickered. The Dusty Cactus, where the bartenders worked in tank tops and cutoffs, unfazed by the desert’s relentless sun. I’d walked past it a hundred times, always averting my eyes like a prude. Now, the irony of ironies, I was applying for a job that required the same level of… exposure. Just in an office with spreadsheets and health insurance.
I wasn’t ready for tank tops, but I was desperate enough to click Submit on NaturEra’s application.
The Job Hunt
I applied for everything that required a pulse and a GED.
Data Entry Clerk (Must tolerate fluorescent lighting!)
Overnight Stocker (“Quiet, independent workers preferred.” Translation: We don’t want to talk to you.)
Call Center Rep (“Resilience is a must!” Translation: You will be verbally abused hourly.)
Miraculously, I landed a handful of phone interviews and two in-person ones—astonishing, considering my résumé now came with an invisible footnote:
GWEN MCNEIL
Business Degree. Former Evergreen Employee. Internet Villain.
Every conversation followed the same script:
Polite Small Talk ("Tell us about yourself!" Translation: Perform normalcy.)
Rehearsed Answers ("I thrive in collaborative environments!" Translation: I will lie for money.)
The Pause; then, inevitably—"So… we saw the, uh… incident at your last job. Care to elaborate?" My fingers would tighten around the phone. My stomach would drop like a stone. Incident. Such a clean word for the catastrophe that had swallowed me whole.
Some interviewers pretended to care: "We admire your professionalism in a difficult situation." (Translation: You didn’t scream or cry on camera. Good dog.)
Others didn’t bother hiding their skepticism: "How do we know you won’t freeze up under pressure again?" (Translation: You’re damaged goods.)
I tried spinning it—"It was a complex moment of conflicting policies"—but their silence always spoke louder. They weren’t hiring Gwen McNeil, a business graduate. They were hiring Gwen McNeil, the girl who stood there. The girl who didn’t fight. The girl who didn’t flee. The girl who just… existed, uselessly, in the crossfire. By the fourth rejection, I wanted to stop answering my phone.
The Aftermath
Jeffrey left ramen on my doorstep like some kind of sad, carb-based apology. Mom sent a text: "Keep your chin up, baby." However, the truth was, my chin was buried in my hands, because the world had decided who I was, and I was starting to believe them.
The last interview had been a disaster. Another retail admin job, another manager squinting at my résumé like it was written in disappearing ink. Another polite "We’ll be in touch" that meant "Don’t call us, we’ll ghost you." I was stepping off the bus, my blazer sticking to my back in the Tucson heat, when my phone rang. It showed 3:17 PM on a Tuesday—an ungodly hour for good news.
An unknown number flashed on the screen. My thumb hovered over the decline button. These days, unknown calls meant one of three things:
A recruiter about to ghost me: "We’ve decided to pursue other candidates!"
A scammer offering extended car warranties: "Your vehicle’s factory coverage is expiring!"—I don’t even own a car.
A journalist fishing for "my side of the story"—then twisting it into clickbait. "Ex-Evergreen Employee Breaks Silence: Was She Complicit?"
The worst of all: another scheduling call for an interview that would go nowhere.
Then I saw the area code: Marana. My stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.
I answered on the fourth ring, just before voicemail. "Gwen McNeil." My voice came out raspy from disuse—I hadn’t spoken aloud in two days.
"Ms. McNeil!" The woman on the line sounded like she’d just finished laughing. Warm. Unbothered. "This is Mara from NaturEra Consulting. We loved your application."
I nearly dropped the phone. Loved. Not reviewed. Not considered. Loved. "Oh," I managed. "That’s... unexpected."
Mara chuckled. The sound is easy and unfazed. "We specialize in the unexpected." A pause. Papers shuffled. "Your answer to our authenticity question? ‘Being brave enough to admit who you are’? That stuck with us." I swallowed hard, the scar on my thigh itched under my slacks.
Mara continued, her tone softening, "I suspect you wrote that before you fully read our job description." A pause hung between us, heavy and expectant.
Mara’s voice lowered, gentle but firm, "Gwen. You realize this is a clothes-free workplace, yes?" The air left my lungs in a rush.
In my haze of desperation and stubborn optimism, I had glossed over that detail. Applied anyway. Pretended it was just another corporate buzzword—vulnerability, authenticity, whatever.
This was different. NaturEra Consulting meant bare skin. Bare everything.
"I... yes," I lied.
Mara hummed, as if she could see right through me. "Tell me, what was going through your mind when those women walked into Evergreen?"
The question hit like a bucket of ice water. They looked free. I wanted to disappear. I hated them. I envied them. "I didn’t know what to think," I whispered.
"Good." Mara sounded pleased. "Honesty. That’s step one."
Another pause stretched out, weighted and expectant. Mara’s tone shifted, becoming more decisive. "We’d like to bring you in for the first interview at our Marana office. No obligations—just see if our ethos aligns with... whatever you’re searching for. You can wear what you are comfortable with."
My fingers trembled around the phone. Fifty-two thousand dollars. Benefits. A way out, but at what cost?
"What if I... can’t?" The admission burned. "What if I show up and just... freeze again?"
Mara’s smile was audible, warm, and understanding., "Then you’ll be in good company. Most of us froze at first."
I took a deep breath, my chest tight. "When would I—"
"Thursday," Mara said as if it had already been decided. "We’ll email the details. Oh, and Gwen?"
"Yes?"
"Pack light." The line went dead.
I sat there, phone clutched to my chest, eyes fixed on the torn Sunset Ridge card on my nightstand. “For when you’re done playing dress-up.”
Curling into a ball on my bed, I tried not to hyperventilate, because, in forty-eight hours, I would have to face the terrifying truth: The only thing scarier than being seen... was being seen through.
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 the 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 I, 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.
Three weeks later, I stood in the Evergreen parking lot, clutching a cardboard box of my former work life. Inside were the remnants of my retail career: a half-used bottle of hand sanitizer (irony noted), a stress cow, missing its squeaker after one too many panic squeezes, and my chipped "World’s Okayest Employee" mug—now a relic of a time when I still pretended to care, and, tucked beneath it all, the water-stained remains of Lex’s business card, salvaged from the break room trash like some sad, soggy act of rebellion.
Driscoll’s voice still rang in my ears: "You humiliated the brand," he’d spat that morning, eyes gleaming with the kind of joy only a petty tyrant could muster. "You should’ve redirected those women before they reached accessories. That delay made me look weak." I’d bitten my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
Weak? That man was a cartoon of insecurity—a balding, clipboard-wielding Napoleon who thought enforcing a dress code made him a moral authority. "You are weak," I muttered under my breath. Maybe he hadn’t heard me, or maybe he had—and firing me was his way of proving he wasn’t.
The job was gone. My reputation was in shambles. Even my savings account was hemorrhaging money like a stuck pig, so I did what all the newly unemployed do when their Wi-Fi gets cut off: I went to the public library.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and despair. I sat at a sticky plastic table, scrolling through job listings on Indeed like a digital descent into hell:
Telemarketer – Must Thrive in High-Stress Environments! (Translation: You will be screamed at hourly.)
Front Desk Associate – Must Smile Through Verbal Abuse! (Ah, the classic "customer service is war" mentality.)
Adult Novelty Shop Cashier – "Friendly" Demeanor Required! (At least here, the customers expected awkward silence.)
I slumped deeper into my chair, the hard plastic digging into my back. This was rock bottom, or so I thought. Then there it was—glowing on the library’s flickering monitor like some kind of cosmic joke:
Office Coordinator – NaturEra Consulting
seeking an organized self-starter to champion workplace authenticity!
Salary: $52k + benefits.
I blinked. Fifty-two thousand dollars. The number hit me like a punch to the ribs. That was more than Mom made in two years scrubbing toothpaste stains from hotel bathroom sinks off I-10. That kind of money didn’t just pay rent—it rewrote futures. It meant doctor’s visits without panic. It meant maybe, finally, breathing room.
My pulse thudded in my throat as I scanned the rest of the listing. Then I saw it. Naturist Ethos: Clothing-Free Environment. Embrace Vulnerability!
A laugh burst out of me—sharp and humorless—earning a glare from the librarian. Of course. After weeks of being crucified online as the "fabric fascist," the universe was offering salvation in the one form I couldn’t stomach.
My eyes dropped to the scar on my thigh—a jagged white line curving like a question mark. A twelve-year-old’s bike crash turned into lifelong shame. I hadn’t worn shorts since high school. Not at the beach. Not during Tucson’s brutal heat waves. Not even alone in my apartment with the AC broken.
Yet my finger hovered over the mouse. "For when you’re done playing dress-up." Lex’s voice in my memory. The way she’d looked at me—not with pity, but with something worse: recognition. I clicked Apply Now before I could think better of it.
The first question appeared, blinking like a dare: How do you define authenticity? I stared. The cursor mocked me. I typed: Not pretending to be someone you’re not.
I paused. Too glib. Too easy. Backspaced and tried again: Living without shame.
My fingers froze. The words felt like a lie. I’d built my life around shame—wrapped myself in it like armor. I deleted it and tried one last attempt, fingers shaking: Being brave enough to admit who you are—even to yourself.
I hit submit before I could chicken out, my stomach churning. The truth? I didn’t believe a word I’d written. Not really, but as I gathered my things, a traitorous thought whispered, ‘Maybe I want to.’
The ceiling fan in my Tucson apartment groaned as it spun, pushing around the thick July heat rather than relieving it. Maintenance had promised—again—that they’d fix the AC this week. They hadn’t, so, like every other night, I sat at my kitchen table in nothing but my underwear, my skin sticky with sweat, my laptop burning my thighs.
Outside my window, the neon glow of a dive bar sign flickered. The Dusty Cactus, where the bartenders worked in tank tops and cutoffs, unfazed by the desert’s relentless sun. I’d walked past it a hundred times, always averting my eyes like a prude. Now, the irony of ironies, I was applying for a job that required the same level of… exposure. Just in an office with spreadsheets and health insurance.
I wasn’t ready for tank tops, but I was desperate enough to click Submit on NaturEra’s application.
The Job Hunt
I applied for everything that required a pulse and a GED.
Data Entry Clerk (Must tolerate fluorescent lighting!)
Overnight Stocker (“Quiet, independent workers preferred.” Translation: We don’t want to talk to you.)
Call Center Rep (“Resilience is a must!” Translation: You will be verbally abused hourly.)
Miraculously, I landed a handful of phone interviews and two in-person ones—astonishing, considering my résumé now came with an invisible footnote:
GWEN MCNEIL
Business Degree. Former Evergreen Employee. Internet Villain.
Every conversation followed the same script:
Polite Small Talk ("Tell us about yourself!" Translation: Perform normalcy.)
Rehearsed Answers ("I thrive in collaborative environments!" Translation: I will lie for money.)
The Pause; then, inevitably—"So… we saw the, uh… incident at your last job. Care to elaborate?" My fingers would tighten around the phone. My stomach would drop like a stone. Incident. Such a clean word for the catastrophe that had swallowed me whole.
Some interviewers pretended to care: "We admire your professionalism in a difficult situation." (Translation: You didn’t scream or cry on camera. Good dog.)
Others didn’t bother hiding their skepticism: "How do we know you won’t freeze up under pressure again?" (Translation: You’re damaged goods.)
I tried spinning it—"It was a complex moment of conflicting policies"—but their silence always spoke louder. They weren’t hiring Gwen McNeil, a business graduate. They were hiring Gwen McNeil, the girl who stood there. The girl who didn’t fight. The girl who didn’t flee. The girl who just… existed, uselessly, in the crossfire. By the fourth rejection, I wanted to stop answering my phone.
The Aftermath
Jeffrey left ramen on my doorstep like some kind of sad, carb-based apology. Mom sent a text: "Keep your chin up, baby." However, the truth was, my chin was buried in my hands, because the world had decided who I was, and I was starting to believe them.
The last interview had been a disaster. Another retail admin job, another manager squinting at my résumé like it was written in disappearing ink. Another polite "We’ll be in touch" that meant "Don’t call us, we’ll ghost you." I was stepping off the bus, my blazer sticking to my back in the Tucson heat, when my phone rang. It showed 3:17 PM on a Tuesday—an ungodly hour for good news.
An unknown number flashed on the screen. My thumb hovered over the decline button. These days, unknown calls meant one of three things:
A recruiter about to ghost me: "We’ve decided to pursue other candidates!"
A scammer offering extended car warranties: "Your vehicle’s factory coverage is expiring!"—I don’t even own a car.
A journalist fishing for "my side of the story"—then twisting it into clickbait. "Ex-Evergreen Employee Breaks Silence: Was She Complicit?"
The worst of all: another scheduling call for an interview that would go nowhere.
Then I saw the area code: Marana. My stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.
I answered on the fourth ring, just before voicemail. "Gwen McNeil." My voice came out raspy from disuse—I hadn’t spoken aloud in two days.
"Ms. McNeil!" The woman on the line sounded like she’d just finished laughing. Warm. Unbothered. "This is Mara from NaturEra Consulting. We loved your application."
I nearly dropped the phone. Loved. Not reviewed. Not considered. Loved. "Oh," I managed. "That’s... unexpected."
Mara chuckled. The sound is easy and unfazed. "We specialize in the unexpected." A pause. Papers shuffled. "Your answer to our authenticity question? ‘Being brave enough to admit who you are’? That stuck with us." I swallowed hard, the scar on my thigh itched under my slacks.
Mara continued, her tone softening, "I suspect you wrote that before you fully read our job description." A pause hung between us, heavy and expectant.
Mara’s voice lowered, gentle but firm, "Gwen. You realize this is a clothes-free workplace, yes?" The air left my lungs in a rush.
In my haze of desperation and stubborn optimism, I had glossed over that detail. Applied anyway. Pretended it was just another corporate buzzword—vulnerability, authenticity, whatever.
This was different. NaturEra Consulting meant bare skin. Bare everything.
"I... yes," I lied.
Mara hummed, as if she could see right through me. "Tell me, what was going through your mind when those women walked into Evergreen?"
The question hit like a bucket of ice water. They looked free. I wanted to disappear. I hated them. I envied them. "I didn’t know what to think," I whispered.
"Good." Mara sounded pleased. "Honesty. That’s step one."
Another pause stretched out, weighted and expectant. Mara’s tone shifted, becoming more decisive. "We’d like to bring you in for the first interview at our Marana office. No obligations—just see if our ethos aligns with... whatever you’re searching for. You can wear what you are comfortable with."
My fingers trembled around the phone. Fifty-two thousand dollars. Benefits. A way out, but at what cost?
"What if I... can’t?" The admission burned. "What if I show up and just... freeze again?"
Mara’s smile was audible, warm, and understanding., "Then you’ll be in good company. Most of us froze at first."
I took a deep breath, my chest tight. "When would I—"
"Thursday," Mara said as if it had already been decided. "We’ll email the details. Oh, and Gwen?"
"Yes?"
"Pack light." The line went dead.
I sat there, phone clutched to my chest, eyes fixed on the torn Sunset Ridge card on my nightstand. “For when you’re done playing dress-up.”
Curling into a ball on my bed, I tried not to hyperventilate, because, in forty-eight hours, I would have to face the terrifying truth: The only thing scarier than being seen... was being seen through.
Re: Journey to Authenticity and Growth
First class beginning. Crushed by the world, Gwen McNeil is a meek little mouse, and mice get blamed for everything. I'm looking forward to this mouse roaring.
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