On Pins and Needlepoints

Chapter 2

On Pins and Needlepoints

By Gareth Vaughn

Ellen would love it and it was only ten bucks. That alone sold it for Ian, but it also happened to be strange for a needlepoint. He eased it out from the stack, examining the stitching, the purple and red threads—Ellen’s favorite. They were arranged in a kind of mazelike background pattern that must have taken hours of eye-tormenting work. Other prominent features were irregular, practically Seussian trees, the planet Jupiter, and four cats. It had the feel of being almost familiar.

“Another needlepoint?” asked the man behind the counter. He and Ian knew each other in the way you do when you shop somewhere often, but Ian didn’t know his name. The man pulled out a pad to write up the purchase and glanced at the curling paper taped to the counter to add in the appropriate sales tax. “I know you’re not buying it for the frame.”

“Got a buyer,” said Ian. He liked pretending he really knew his s**t about antiques. Or at least he liked joking about it.

“Good.” The man took his money, sorted through the change. “Beginning to think we should just set aside all the needlepoint coming in for you.”

“Where’s the fun in that? I like looking through all the other things here. Maybe someday I’ll buy something else.”

“Your buyer should know the only thing of value there’s the frame. Want it wrapped?”

“No, that’s all right.” Ian accepted his change and receipt copy, and grabbed the framed needlepoint off the old, greasy counter. “Thanks.”

“Have a good day.”

Ian didn’t know about that but he wasn’t going to say otherwise, so he wished the greying antiques man the same and began to wind his way through the mazework of old tables and shelves packed with assorted potentially valuable crap. He doubted even if he could afford real antiques he’d buy any. What was he going to do with an irreplaceable vase or set of plates anyway? Not use it, obviously. Still, he knew Ellen had use for the needlepoint and it was a bit of a welcome distraction to his life otherwise to go searching for a piece she’d enjoy. It was pretty big, though—almost two feet across. He wondered if she even had space left for it—

Ian staggered to the side as someone bumped into him, hard.

“Oh, sorry,” said a man about his age. Dark hair, messy. Frowning. He didn’t look sorry.

Asshole.

“It’s fine,” said Ian, resisting the urge to rub his shoulder. This guy didn’t need to know how hard he’d bumped into him. “It’s tight in here.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “You know if there are any other antique shops in this town besides this one and the one down on Elm?”

Ian shifted the needlepoint to the arm closer to the man to gesture in the general direction.

“West side of town on Langley Avenue.”

“Thanks.” The man practically sneered at Ian’s needlepoint. “Looks like they got…interesting stuff here.”

“I have a buyer,” said Ian. “Good luck with your search.”

He made his way down the creaky stairs and onto the street. His one-bedroom apartment was only a few blocks away and he walked there, trying to relax. He had a few days off and any chores lurking at home for him could wait. When he got in, he propped up the weird needlepoint in the spot that had the best light, took a picture of it, and tucked it away to lean against the wall behind the futon.

Ian glanced around. Piles of random crap lay on the table, the part of the counter he didn’t use much, half the futon. Dishes were in the sink and he was reminded again he should try to find someplace to move that had a dishwasher. The dry houseplant, though, he could water, so he did. He checked the refrigerator, didn’t like what he saw, and closed the door. Checked again. Sighed.

What the hell, he wanted out of his place anyway. It felt too tight, and the plant was probably judging him. He snagged a hoodie—the night could be cool this time of year—and left the apartment again. A couple blocks away was a bar and pizza place he went to often enough, on account of the fact they had steeply cut prices for happy hour, and that they were a welcoming enough space. They weren’t a gay bar, just occasionally hosted events. If he walked fast, he’d make it in time to buy a couple beers and some cheap food.

Ian picked the end of the bar by the emergency exit, wondering what kind of sign it was that today’s bartender knew what he wanted and got it for him right away.

“Busy week?” she asked him.

Ian set his beer down.

“About usual.” Nothing ever happened at his bank teller job, and frankly Ian was just fine with that. “I like the routine.”

“That’s good. Gotta have a job you like. I can’t stand routine…I’d be so bored.”

Ian waited until she needed to see to another customer before pulling out his phone and having another sip of beer. He absentmindedly rubbed at his arm as he texted the picture of the needlepoint to Ellen. Well, he’d have something to do this weekend—meet up with her and see what she’d give him for it. You never could tell with Ellen.

“You got another one of those ugly things?” the bartender asked when she brought back the appetizer he ordered. Nacho fries piled so high they made a meal.

Ian had a gulp of beer, lightly offended.

“Old needlepoints are a piece of history.” And they required far more patience than he’d ever have.

“Uh-huh. Someone gave me a needlepoint kit once as a kid. Couldn’t even sell it in a garage sale.” She turned as someone sat a seat away from Ian, decided to give him a minute. “Unopened. Mint condition mass produced kit. Should’ve kept it for you.”

“I don’t make them, I sell them.” Well, more or less. Ian finished off his beer and unrolled the fork from the napkin.

“Another?” The bartender grabbed his empty glass as he agreed, then turned to the man. “Know what you want?”

“Whatever he’s having looks good,” said the man, not looking up from the phone.

Ian was immediately uncomfortable, more so when he noticed this was the guy who’d ran into him in the antiques store earlier. He buried himself in his loaded fries and waited for Ellen to text back, but the man didn’t stay quiet. After he’d had a few sips of his beer and the bartender had left, he spoke up.

“You’re that guy I ran into earlier, aren’t you?”

Ian shoved his mouth as full of fries as he could get it and gave a noncommittal noise.

“Sorry about that again. I’m not from around here.”

Ian swallowed, the lump of food too large to be comfortable, and resisted informing the man he could tell. He wasn’t interested in conversation, but the guy wasn’t backing off.

“You’re full of good recommendations,” said the man, picking up his beer and indicating it before taking a drink.

“You find what you wanted then?” asked Ian. He hated having to be polite, but having some kind of conversation would be better than getting talked at for an hour. And he still feared inadvertently pissing men off. So much for an easy night out.

“Yeah. At the place on Langley, just like you said. You want to tell me what’s good to eat here, too?”

Ian had another gulp of beer. The man’s expression was different than it had been earlier. His hair was still messy, but his scowl had been replaced with a pleasant look that bordered on a shy grin. In another situation, Ian might’ve thought the guy was into him.

“The black and bleu burger’s good. Any of the appetizers. Any of the specialty pizzas.”

“Burger it is.”

To Ian’s relief, the bartender came back and Ellen texted then, giving the man a distraction and Ian something to focus on. Ellen was ecstatic. It was clear she loved the needlepoint. Hopefully that meant she’d give Ian something good for it.

“Is it for your mom?”

Ian blinked, looked up. The guy was leaning closer now, and he’d seen the picture Ian had texted Ellen. Rude bastard, looking at Ian’s phone. Ian stopped replying to Ellen and focused on his fries.

“No. I got a buyer.” He seemed to be saying this a lot today. Ellen would probably be thrilled to sound so official.

“For that piece of s**t I saw you carrying out?” The man looked amused, impressed. “You must be good.”

“You have to know your clients.” Ian had another drink. If he had to talk to this guy, he could at least have a little fun with it. Pretend he knew what the hell he was talking about. “There’s a collector for everything out there.”

“A sucker born every minute thing.”

“Oh, she’s not a sucker.” Ian bristled at the implication. He knew a lot of people thought Ellen was just plain wild, but he liked her. She was genuine, if strange. “She knows exactly what she wants.”

“And you find it for her.”

“When I can.”

The man’s burger arrived. The wait was shorter than Ian’s had been, but the kitchen was probably getting into full swing now. The conversation could be worse; the man barely talked about himself, which wasn’t usually the case when Ian ran into someone chatty at the bar. Maybe the evening wouldn’t suck after all.

“Can’t believe someone would collect crap like that.”

“You new to antiques?”

“Yeah.” The man had a huge bite of burger and washed it down with the beer. “But I can’t be much newer than you. How long does it take to spot an antique needlepoint? Or do you just go for the most hideous one you can find?”

Ian finished his nacho fries and went back to his beer. So the guy was looking for tips. s**t. Ian had to turn the conversation back to him as fast as he could. Or maybe get out of there. But he hadn’t been intending to leave this early, go back to his place that just felt…like it was missing something, some quality he’d like it to have to feel more like a home.

“I’ll let you in on something…”

“Gabe,” said the guy, mouth full of burger.

“Gabe. The only thing of professional value is the frame, and that’s not really worth much.”

“Why would your client want it then?” Gabe swallowed and eyed Ian. “You scamming her?”

Gabe’s interest in Ian waned, and Ian suddenly realized he didn’t like that. He wanted to be someone an attractive man wanted to get to know. Ian also suddenly realized he thought Gabe was attractive. He was both annoyed with himself for how fast the man had gone from asshole to attractive, and unable to stop himself from pressing for more interaction.

“I’m not lying to her about the worth of the piece. Like I said, she knows exactly what she wants.”

“And what she wants is an ugly old needlepoint with no value.”

“That’s right,” said Ian, and had a drink. “It’s not ugly to her, and it doesn’t look too old. Not sure you noticed.”

“I didn’t.” Gabe paused. “Do you have it?”

Ian pulled up the picture on his phone and pushed it over. Gabe’s eyes grew intense for a moment, then he seemed to force himself back and shrugged.

“Well?”

“I can’t tell.” Gabe reached for the fries on his plate.

Ian now worried the man was bored.

“She’s not in it to find anything traditionally valuable,” said Ian, finishing off his beer. “She’s exclusively looking for pieces in a particular color scheme to keep up appearances. Her grandchildren think she does all this needlepoint with her time and she likes to keep the perception that way.”

That was true enough. Ellen would often elaborate on what meanings she could give the symbolic elements of a needlepoint, really sound inspiring. She herself was crap at making any—Ian knew she knew someone else who would make all the kits she was given as gifts—but Ellen could spin a good yarn.

Gabe laughed at that.

“Oh, so she’s the scammer. You’re just helping her get along with her family. And here I was thinking all guys into antiques were assholes.”

That seemed an oddly specific thing to say, but at the moment Ian didn’t care. He was enjoying himself.