Antique. Rustic. Black. Iron.
I had visions of my pretty vintage jewelry draped over the black hooks.
Sort of like an old rake I saw online. (Pinterest, of course.)
And I’ve been slightly nauseated ever since.
Me: This is beautiful.
As I held it in my hands..
Nice Vendor Guy didn’t really say anything…
Nice Vendor Guy: $3
Me: Will you take $2 for it?
Nice Vendor Guy: That’s at least 100 years old. And I know it, because of the estate where I got it. If that was at an antiques store, it would be selling for $70. It is not a reproduction.
(Because of its construction, I knew that it was an antique before he said it was…)
I handed over the $3 and started to walk away, still holding it in my hands.
Nice Vendor Guy: Do you know what that is?
Me: No. I was going to use it to hang jewelry.
Nice Vendor Guy: You should really file down the tops of the hooks, because they’re sharp. You could rip up your hand taking things on and off that.
That thing hasn’t been in my house 24 hours, but it makes me sick. I look at it and see violence, blood and death. Really, I need to put it in the garage.
I’ll list it on eBay ASAP. Because I can’t stomach it. All I see now is chicken carcasses being slammed into the rusty, black metal.
How can I hang pearls and pretty baubles from what was an instrument of torture?
So much for what seemed like a good idea for a few minutes…