On Pins and Needlepoints

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.