Tribulation is the Face of Fashion

by Hivemind

Chapter Two

There was nothing like a steaming mug of rich hot chocolate with a warm and gooey breakfast crepe to liven up the start of a new day. In a corner cafe about a block away from my store, a painfully-long line of customers that nearly reached the front door waited semi-patiently to receive their morning cup of joe. Its clientele were of the usual Manehatten variety from business ponies to journalists, with an aspiring artist or two thrown in there for good measure. These ponies must have really enjoyed coming here in the mornings. After all, I was hard pressed to find any other reason to wake up an hour before opening for business. Either that or the cafe’s boost in popularity was a complete coincidence. I thought it was understandable. It was one of the few coffee houses this side of town that didn't smell of incense sticks and it was located close to a cluster of high-rise apartment buildings that shared streets with many taxi pick-up points. The coffee they sold was decent; nothing special. I personally didn’t like it, but it crossed my mind that the proprietor maybe couldn’t have cared less about the quality of its taste, especially not with the kind of money they’re making in this joint.

As tasty as it was, I didn’t have much time to digress, let alone sit around sipping cocoa for an hour. It was delicious but terrifyingly addicting, so I finished off the last of it and threw the styrofoam cup away. I hit the streets right after that, passing ponies by on the sidewalk chatting it up on their way to work or wherever it was life called them. My gaze flickered back and forth between the display windows of high-end stores selling all kinds of things from candy to candles to overpriced saddlebags with no practical purpose other than to look as if its pockets were meant for storing jewels and that is was possibly yanked from a dragon’s horde. Nonetheless, I wanted it; badly. Talk about those stitches...It would make me look less like me and more like a pony who needs to be shown respect. Alas, my coffers were as empty as my hopes of owning one, but I didn’t let the feeling stick and moved on with my day.

A quick trip to the local fabric store was the last item on my morning list before returning home to open up. I was very familiar with the place, but the diversity of its cortege was obviously lacking. It was mainly old mares, grandmothers, and other aspiring designers on a tight budget who shopped here, mostly to browse a new selection or sit and gawk at the display of colors in the thread aisle, of which there were literally thousands. They were friendly folk, and I recognized most of the faces while saying hello as I passed them by to the front counter.

All the while, I just couldn’t get the competition out of my head. No matter where I looked there was fabric to be felt. I could envision an easy incorporation with them using dress designs I already had, but I just knew they would get shot down at the first turn of the director’s head only because of how shockingly bad it would look, at least in their eyes. They must have been stuffier than a goose-down pillow, but that had to be expected.

The fears of utter failure were playing with my head again. Dresses, dresses, and more dresses were popping up everywhere! I got dizzy pretty quickly and ended up stumbling in my last few steps to the counter, giving out a low moan when I leaned against it for support. “Oooh...please...no more.”

“Coco? Is that you again?”

The manager, and the only employee, of the store rose up from behind the countertop, but not without an unsettling crack of her spine. It caught the attention of everypony in the store, especially after a resounding series of pops and crinkles that came from her neck afterward. Their painful winces intensified with each individual crick until the amount of air they sucked in through their teeth chilled their throats like ice. I suffered the worst of it, but for somepony as alarming old as Cross Stitch these were just things you had to expect. She was carrying a wicker basket full of yarn, of which she shakily placed onto the countertop before turning and looking out to the customers.

“Oh dear. My apologies, everypony! Just a little late night spring mattress trouble is all...” Cross Stitch announced to the store with a voice drier than a crusty sponge. It took a moment for everypony to ease up, but they accepted the facts of old age and were back to browsing in no time.

Cross Stitch’s age didn’t bother me one bit. Those baggy eyes had seen better days, but earth ponies were resilient like that. The skin under her turquoise coat had its fair share of wrinkles too, but unlike what most ponies would think, I liked to think of them as wrinkles of...pride. Yeah, that sounded right. Pride as a reward for being productive all her life and pushing through her ailments as if they were just a minor setback. Just combine all of that with a cheerful, dentured smile and you got a pony who’s willing to be friends with anyone.

“More mattress troubles, Cross Stitch?” I asked with a low groan, righting myself slowly but surely and rubbing the pain away from my forehead.

“Mhmm,” Cross Stitch replied with a nod while unloading the basket. “I should have replaced that dusty old thing decades ago. It hurts like the dickens, but I’ll live.” There she goes again, I observed. Always optimistic. That’s when I groaned from my headache again, and at an unfortunate time to explain myself. Cross Stitch, however, heard me loud and clear and interpreted it, glancing over at me with a curious eyebrow raised. “You feeling well, Coco? You look a little too pale for the land of the living.”

I was relieved to hear that she didn’t take the way I was acting the completely wrong way, as if I were dreading the thought of seeing her sticking around at her age.

“No,” I replied, lifting myself upright as the delusions went away. “But I’ll be fine, really. I just came by to pick up some specialty thread for a project I’m working on. The kind that sparkles and glows in bright light. You know the one, don’t you?”

“I do, but I’m afraid you’re a little late, darling,” Cross Stitch replied with a frown. “Ponies from all over this town cleaned me out for what I had of the stuff about a day or two ago, and they weren’t my usual customers either. Mainly a bunch’a frilly ponies with scarves, those small and pudgy Prench hats, and tiny eyeglasses they wore on their muzzles that didn’t even make sense!”

I felt ashamed knowing exactly who she was talking about; they were the more “artsy” of Manehatten’s fashion goers, and they weren’t by any stretch of the word easy to best. They took their work seriously, and rarely settled for failure let alone opinions denouncing their flavorful creative spark. They reminded me of the nobleponies of Canterlot I heard so much about, only creepier, and snootier at that.

“Oh...alright,” I sighed, turning towards the generic thread section and moving slowly towards it.

“Whoa there, missy,” Cross Stitch spoke up, stepping out from behind the counter. She intercepted me and laid a shaky hoof on my shoulder. “What’s got you in a bind, Coco? Fess up.”

“I-I’d rather not trouble you with my own problems. Besides, I’m sure I may have just...ate something funny last night, or didn’t sleep too well in bed.” I tried to play things off with a crooked smile.

“I’ll say. That pull-out bed of yours must offer ‘bout as much support as a disgruntled housewife, or at least that’s how I see them.” Cross Stitch chuckled, “But really, Coco. What’s on your mind?”

I groaned lowly, lowering myself to my haunches as the explanation begrudgingly rolled off my lips. “A lot of things, like this fashion design contest held by this really prestigious modeling agency. Apparently they hold one every month to find new and interesting designers to promote. I already know my chances of winning are slim, if anything worth mentioning.”

“Come again?” questioned Cross Stitch, her eyes widening.

“Well, the ponies who I’m up against really have the upper hoof here, and compared to what I can do--”

“Nono, before that!” Cross Stitch urged on before roughly rubbing one of her ears in discomfort. “Darn hearing aids just don’t work like they’re supposed to.”

“The contest?”

“Mhmm, uh-huh!” She nodded, leaning closer in anticipation. “And?”

“It’s...with a modeling firm?”

“You mean Sabot Petite?” She grinned, her bushy tail wagging. “C’mon, spill the beans. There's gotta be more.”

“Well, yeah, but how did you know that?” I asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

“Only because everypony in this city who’s ever threaded a needle is up for it, that’s how!” exclaimed Cross Stitch with a crooked smirk of her own. Either that or those were her dentures about to pop out. She turned halfway and pointed a hoof towards a large, golden poster taped to one of the walls advertising Sabot Petite’s event. A few ponies had already gathered around to stare up at it, and in an oddly fitting arrangement I didn’t take notice of without a second glance. First was a mare barely out of her teenage years, then an adult, and finally, as weird as it seemed, an old stallion with wrinkles so deep that his pudgy lips and slits for eyes were perhaps the only mostly-recognizable parts of him. I never figured the contest would have touched the hearts of more than just the good-looking, let alone the young and old.

“That fancy-schmancy contest has been bringing in business all week!” Cross Stitch cackled. “I got enough scratch in the bank to retire three times over now, I tell you what. Oh, but pardon me for a moment.” She cleared her throat. “Frumpy!”

The old stallion by the poster now known as Frumpy was torn away from his viewing by the sound of her voice. “I thought I asked you to go to the market for milk an hour ago? These old bones aren’t gonna nourish themselves.”

“Ehh...” Frumpy mumbled lowly with a frown, smacking his lips together before turning and hobbling dejectedly behind the front counter. He grunted and groaned all while fumbling through items kept in tiny shelves behind it.

“And try not to forget the peach yogurt this time,” said Cross Stitch with a stern expression, and boy was she acting uptight about it. Frumpy responded with the same gurgling mixture of grumbles and grunts, appearing out from behind the counter with saddlebags strapped to his creaky back. His face alone made it look like he had enough with life and all of its ilk. But then, a rogue smooch from Cross Stitch fixed his face right back up into a smile.

“Be safe out there. Remember the crosswalks and whatnot, and just follow the signs back home," said Cross Stitch, calm and caring. Frumpy looked to her and sent a knowing wink her way before slowly strolling to and out the front door. I just stood there and watched the whole scene unfold from start to finish with eyes wide, but was relieved to find that the fulmination was settled with...wait, a kiss?

“You’re married?” I asked Cross Stitch in disbelief. “I never knew that, and I’ve known you for well over a year or so.”

“Oh yes, Coco.” Cross Stitch sighed dreamily, fluttering her eyes while staring off into the distance. “Eighty-three years I’ve been with my Frumpy Foulard, and not one has been wasted. He spends most his days sleeping in, which is probably why you’ve never seen him. He's a little cranky too most days all thanks to the times, but he’s still the same gentlecolt I’ve known for decades. Chivalry and all.”

“Is he entering the contest too?” I asked, hoping that I could put two and two together correctly.

“At least he thinks he’s in it, but every time he goes for the sewing machine he falls asleep standing up two feet away from it and wakes up forgetting what he was even doing in the first place," explained Cross Stitch. “But, and I have to give it to him, he knows sewing like the back of his crinkly hoof, ever since he was a youngin', making him a bit ambitious. He actually managed to enter something in that same contest a few years back. Of course, those snooty contestants shot him down long before the day was out. A bunch of stuck up brats is all they ever were! Speaking of which, have you cooked something up to enter in that contest too, hopefully something good enough to teach those primp and propers some manners?”

“I’m going for it,” I started, biting my lower lip gently as I looked away nervously. “But...c’mon. Would I or anypony courteous really want to do this just to try and best everypony who’s not themselves? It’s a sixty-forty chance of a win anyway, or maybe even just a roll of the dice to see who gets all the fame.”

“Hmm...” Cross Stitch pondered for a moment, tapping the tip of a hoof against her chin as the token cobweb-caked gears started to turn. “I’ll tell you what. What if you had somepony to sponsor you?”

“Sponsor me?”

“You know, for recognition’s sake. I know I’m far from the biggest names in the city, but trust me. I’ve got all the know-how you could ever need to give you a head start.” Cross Stitch chuckled, shooting me a wink that I blush sheepishly to out of honor before she jolted. “Oh! In fact, I know just what will kick things off for you.”

“Really?” I said, my tail wagging away in excitement. I thought that sponsorships only worked on everything but fashion at first, but I could have been wrong.

“You bet! It’s just back here,” replied Cross Stitch, turning and making her way towards a wooden door at the back of the store after swiping a hefty ring of keys from behind the front desk. The door wasn’t labeled when we arrived, but I had to guess that this lead to a storage room. Cross Stitch fumbled shakily around with the key ring until she gave a victorious ‘Aha!’, picking out and inserting a tiny silver key from the jingling bunch into the lock of the handle.

The door swung open and I was lead into an uncomfortably dusty and drafty room. I remember being an inch away from running into a mass of cobwebs just before Cross Stitch used a pull string to illuminate a single bare light bulb in the ceiling. The room was revealed to be small and bordered by wooden shelves supporting dozens of cardboard boxes filled to the brim and then some with fashion paraphernalia. Piles of old and worn beauty magazines occupied their own corner of the room alongside a rusty, rolling clothing rack where only a few hangers and dress carriers were left to hang and gather dust.

“It was hard for me to throw things away a long time ago,” said Cross Stitch, stepping further into the room and laying a hoof on a box labeled ‘Spinning Wheel Nationals’ and adorned with faded stickers of Equestria's great cities. "I just kept all of my memorabilia in here for safe keeping. Thankfully, so did Frumpy."

“I’ll say,” I said while I wandered around the room, inspecting the loose contents of a few of the boxes nearby, like a black and white photograph of a celebration from some sort of knitting competition fifty years ago, and a golden trophy in the shape of a spool. “The two of you have been in a lot of competitions.”

“Well, where else would we have gotten the brains for this kind of work?” asked Cross Stitch, relocating to the clothing rack and slowly sifting her hoof past each carrier. “But those days are long over with. We couldn’t keep up with both the changing of the times and our passion all at once.”

“Would you go back to competing if you had the chance?” I replaced the photo and trophy before trotting to her side.

“I was offered the chance plenty of times, but it wouldn’t be the same without Frumpy.” Cross Stitch brought down one of the carriers with its hanger. With a smile, she laid it out flat on the floor and turned it over zipper-side up. “Here’s the one. Oh, I know you’ll love it to bits. It’s one of Frumpy’s best works. It’s the same one he entered into the contest, and he hasn’t made anything close to topping this one since. Go on and take a look.”

“Frumpy’s design?” Suddenly I wasn’t feeling too sure about this. I figured this would be one of Cross Stitch’s winning showcases until the mention of her husband, guiltily, made my hopes sink deeper than before. I wasn't out to disappoint her though, so I tugged the zipper down the nylon bag and hoped for the best.

What I found inside instead was beyond my wildest imagination. It was a dress of nearly flawless design; teal in color, silver and gold in trimmings, but the way it was designed made it out to be universal in fitting. Was it even possible? I doubted that not even Prim Hemline, let alone Suri Polomare, could have sewn something like this so flawlessly. I was aghast at such an innovation in fabric-laying technique. It's mechanism blended in so smoothly that not even a magnifying glass could pick out a single wayward crease as Cross Stitch demonstrated to me following a hearty chuckle and a cat caller's whistle.

"Now that's the ticket for a front row seat of a pony’s own award ceremony!" exclaimed Cross Stitch.

“I-I don’t believe it...the colors come together so well, the neckline is even, and the seams are just phenomenally well-done.” I turn to Cross Stitch with a look of extreme shock in my eyes. “How in all of Equestria was this shot down? Frumpy’s work could have put those ponies who made fun of him to shame.”

“D’oh, I didn’t dwell on it. Besides, ignorance is bliss, ain’t it? I kinda left well-enough alone for his sake anyhow by not showing this to them myself. He’s too old to waste his energy prancing with the high class, and so am I.”

“Whoa,” I turned back to the dress, inspecting its velvety surface over and over again by bringing my muzzle only inches away from its surface whilst slowly pacing around it. “And you want me to take notes on it? I may need more than just a pen and paper. More like an entire scrapbook to document this work of art from every conceivable angle.”

“I don’t think so, Coco. That contest ain’t until a couple of days from now, and every minute counts in your case if you plan on winning, I tell you what,” Cross Stitch paused, sealing the bag and suddenly tossing it onto my back without so much as a stumble. “You take it!”

“W-What?!” I stammered, almost stumbling over in surprise and risking wrinkling the precious cargo I now carried. “I couldn’t possibly keep--!”

“Settle down, darling, before you give yourself a heart attack,” said Cross Stitch, following up with a kind-hearted chuckle. “What I meant was that you should borrow it for a little while, you know. Frumpy’s memory isn’t so good these days, as you could probably tell, so why not just get inspiration from his work instead?”

“...oh. That actually sounds...” I wanted to put this to thought for a little while longer than I should have. Cross Stitch and I have only been friends for about a year, and entrusting me with such a prized dress would make me more of a liability than an asset. Then again, it was less of a liability and way more of a criminal act to just leave this masterpiece on a hanger and not in the finest galleries in the world. My hooves were tied at this point. I would either make her proud or go down trying. “...like a great idea. I'll do it!” I picked up with a prideful smirk on my face.

“That’s the spirit, Coco!” Cross Stitch shouted, swinging her right forehoof in front of her out of encouragement only to then suffer from an impromptu crackle of an old shoulder bone. My muscles clenched up immediately after I heard it, and she reeled back to rub the pain away while giving me a sheepish, but reassuring smile. “There’s promise in you yet.”

Comments

[Comet Burst]

Wow, Cross Stitch is really well developed for a grandma character. It's really nice to see sweet older characters in stories like this, especially since they are so rare in even published literature.

It was also really nice to see Frumpy have such a storied past. It's a terrible thing when a genius is supressed by the snobs of his time and you pulled it off so well, Frumpy has a Johnny Cash feel to him (one of the absolute best songwriters ever to be supressed by the snobs of his time).