Alice

Alice looked over the contents of the brown paper grocery bag and smiled, if a little nervously. Everything in it was perfect, but it would be going up for auction. Along with a date, with her.

The Valentine’s Day Auction was to begin at 11 a.m. sharp at the Birchdale City Hall auditorium. This was a decades-old tradition in Birchdale, but this was the first year Alice had ever participated. This year, the proceeds would go directly to fund a new mental health institute for local residents who were suffering with post-traumatic stress. There was a lot of that in Birchdale, especially after the events of last fall, when the demonic “mass hallucination” happened.

The contents of each brown paper bag at auction was a mystery and also represented a mystery date. But over the years, the mystery part of it had become kind of a joke. Most of the participants had started decorating their bags with clues to give hints to their sweethearts as to who they belonged to, ensuring that everyone would bid on a bag belonging to the desired person.

This year, Alice’s paper bag contained an authentic colonial period lunch, and all of it was grown locally or at the Sisters’ Living History Museum itself: rye bread and preserves, fresh butter, pease porridge, boiled dumplings, dried meat, scrapple and apple pie. She had decorated the bag with drawings of coffee cups and attached a small bouquet of bright orange calendula for prosperity. If her “date” hated everything in the bag or hated every moment with her, he or she could at least eat the flowers for good luck.

The winning bidders would receive the anonymous brown bag and an immediate date with the person who assembled the lunch.

Most of the Sisters were auctioning off their lunches and themselves, but there was one who refused. “All of y’all are crazy if you think I’m putting myself on an auction block. Do you see how messed up that is?” This was, of course, Birdie. Her best friend was frequently the voice of reason.

“Birdie, it’s not actual slavery, it’s just a fun little fundraiser for the charity,” Alice had said at their brief confrontation that morning.

“It’s fucked up. But go on with your thing, you always will,” Birdie said.

Alice had reminded her, “It’s a charity for the people who have suffered because we exist. It’s the least we can do to give back.”

“I’m not stopping you. I’ll write you a check. But I won’t be involved.” And with that, Birdie had marched off down the street to work.

Alice hated to see discord in the group, but this event had been in the works for months and took place every year, raising money for one local cause or another.

As the event began, the auctioneer started with the bag belonging to Fern, another of the witches. Fern had decorated the bag by tying a long, hand-knit Dr. Who-style scarf around the middle. That one sold for $45. Fern ended up leaving for a date with the highest bidder, Davis Reynolds, owner of the local sandwich shop. From the wings of the stage, Alice laughed out loud for reasons only she and Fern understood. Fern shot Alice a deathly stare as she crossed the stage to greet old Davis.

Alice could not contain her giggles. A few weeks back, Alice and Fern had gone to the sandwich shop for lunch, and the way that Davis had fawned and fussed over Fern was lost on nobody in the shop except for Fern. It was such an obvious crush. And who could blame Davis? Fern was a stunner, and talented, and freakishly smart. But not smart enough to stop being oblivious when ordering a sandwich from the man every day.

Even better, Alice knew for a fact that Fern’s bag contained two foot-long sub sandwiches. Davis would either be very pleased or very over it.

“Have fun!” she stage-whispered to her friend as she and her date passed by her and exited the stage.

Next came a peculiar little brown bag that wasn’t exactly a bag, but had once been a bag. It looked as if the brown paper had been torn up and reassembled as a large papier-mâché egg. That would be the meek young lady who sang at the coffee shop last night. Alice was starting to wonder if this woman was a genius or the village idiot. The poor girl’s very unappetizing “bag” was sold for a pity-bid of $15 from the fire chief. He was the only bidder, and yes, raised his own bid twice.

When it was time for Alice’s brown bag, it was anonymously brought to the podium by the mayor. Alice watched the crowd as the bidding began at $5. She soon wished she had not scrawled pictures of coffee cups on the outside of her bag, because to her extreme horror, there was Drew from the brew pub, bidding on her brown bag.

Shit.

After someone upped the bidding to $10, Drew shouted “$20!”

That was quite a jump for a modest fundraiser.

Lord goddess, please don’t let this twerp ruin my day; he already ruined last night.

Jack Partridge, the barber, bid $22. Bless his heart, the old grandpa saw the look of horror on her face and was evidently trying to help her out

But it was no use. Apparently $22 was his upper limit, since his wife was elbowing him in the ribs to knock it off. Why he was there in the first place was anybody’s guess.

After the $22 bid, Drew shouted “$50!”

Everyone looked around. This was higher than the first brown bag item, and it wasn’t going to be sold anytime soon. Pretty soon, another gentleman randomly offered $55. But then the insufferable Drew upped it to $75, then $90 after yet another man jumped in with an offer. Around the room they went, until the bidding war was up to $150, and everyone was glued to the scene. All of the other random guys had fallen away except for the guy from the bike shop/print shop/party supply store. That guy was far too busy to be going on a date, Alice thought. But he upped each of Drew’s bids by one or two dollars each time. Drew always counter-offered in $10 increments. This didn’t seem like fair play, but the crowd was into it. They volleyed back and forth until the total was $265.

The auctioneer pointed at bike shop, etc. guy, and said, “Can you go any higher?”

He sadly shook his head, no. Goddess bless him. He was always very attentive at their downtown merchant meetings, unlike Drew, who always seemed a little hungover. Although Alice did not find bike shop guy attractive at all, he seemed like he would have been a pleasant enough date.

Drew, the opposite of pleasant (except, of course, with the way he used his lips), appeared to be the one to win her brown bag lunch. “$265 going once, twice…SOLD to the gentleman up front in the Clapton shirt.”

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.