Bidder Rivalry

by E. F. Mulder

  “All done,” he said just eight minutes later. “And I even did all the corners, because it’s almost time for angels and Santa Claus.”

  The walk-up above a dive bar called Elvis’s Vegas Sing-Along had three rooms, a living room and kitchen that Gideon counted as one, a bedroom, and a bathroom so small he always dried off in the living room after a shower. Gideon had poked fun at his living situation with the last guy he’d brought up after dinner and a movie, a liquor delivery guy named Patrick. “I sleep in all four rooms.”

  “You take turns?” Patrick had asked.

  “No. My head’s in the bedroom, my feet are in the kitchen, one hand is in the bathroom, and the other’s in the living room.” It was a dumb joke. Maybe that’s why Gideon’s first date with Patrick had also been their last. On the other hand, maybe it had more to do with Gideon’s fetish.

  “Onto the shoe shelf.”

  Dusting wasn’t quite as quick. In fact, it took forever, because Gideon was still as meticulous as he had been when putting icicles on the Christmas tree back when he was a kid. He also liked to relive the history of each piece in his collection as he wiped it down. “Maybe I should take a break first. What do you think?”

  Gideon knew the answer to that was no. He couldn’t help himself, though. He had to check his laptop.

  “I know. I know,” he said as he opened the screen. “I swore I wouldn’t look for another half an hour, Prissy. I’m not going to bid, though. I just want to make sure it hasn’t gone up too high.”

  He signed into his BuyBay account.

  “Still $147 even…with forty minutes to go. By the time I finish the shelf, bidding will be just about ready to close.”

  Reading the description on the screen one more time, Gideon felt a lump in his throat.

  “Blah. Not today.” He stood. “I know. We’ll put up the Christmas decorations now, and dust the shoe shelf later. I think it’s close enough to the twenty-fifth that they’ll still be special, don’t you?”

  Priscilla didn’t offer an opinion. She likely didn’t have one.

  “We’ll put the little tree right here beside you.” Gideon patted the counter next to the sink where Priscilla’s bowl sat. “And we’ll put some lights around every door…and some garland over there.” Now Gideon was excited. “Curtis and Beth will love it.”

  He went to the closet. With so few Christmas decorations, they all fit in one boot box. “Mmm.” The scent of leather wafted through the air when Gideon moved it. The boots that had once been inside it were on one of the shelves on the other side of the room. Two walls were entirely taken up by the handmade pine unit Gideon had built, sanded, and varnished himself. It rose all the way to the ceiling, with five levels—ten shelves in all—each one illuminated with amber rope lighting from Kmart to show off the items Gideon had set out.

  “Beautiful!” Loops of gold tinsel followed the line across the top of both sections, leaving long, flowy, fluffy tails to cascade down either side. “It’s not the original from back when I was seven, but it looks just like it.” Gideon sighed. “Too bad we don’t have room for a big tree with the shelf here, huh?” The contents of it would likely distract any visitors from looking at one anyway. Not that Gideon had much company over. He was kind of shy, at least in his everyday persona.

  Gideon plugged in all the lights, stood back to admire his work, and then looked at the clock.

  “Pretty. Can’t admire it too long, though. I think it’s time, Priscilla.”

  Sitting at the kitchen table—a TV tray and a folding chair—Gideon booted up his laptop. “Still $147.” His finger poised over the Enter key, he fixated on the countdown clock in the upper right corner of the BuyBay.com page. “Seven seconds remaining, plenty of time. I want those shoes.”

  They were ugly as hell, plain black leather lace-ups a size and a half too big, but Gideon had to have them.

  “Better too big than too small. Five, four, three, two…” he counted off, and when the clock got to one—BAM!—he put in the final offer, $147.01.

  Unlike other auction sites, BuyBay had no rules about minimal incremental increases. A bidder named 90sFandemonium had put up the $147 even. Gideon pictured him as a walrus of a man in a ratty T-shirt he wouldn’t change out of for days, even after dripping French fry ketchup on it, his keyboard, and his half-exposed gut as he cursed at the Internet gods because his bid had been one upped. One cent upped.

  “Ha, loser! Game over.” Gideon sucked in the paunch at his waist. At least the undershirt he had on as an outer shirt was clean. “I don’t even like ketchup, do I, Prissy?”

  As usual, Priscilla had nothing to say. That was probably a good thing.

  Gideon checked his email for his order confirmation. “Come on.” He cruised BuyBay.com often, though he didn’t order much. Disposable income wasn’t exactly plentiful. This time, however, he couldn’t resist. “Daddy needs an old pair of shoes.” He turned to Priscilla.

  Nothing.

  So, Gideon stood. He paced around the four hundred square feet of space, pausing at the front door, then rushing back to the computer. A few clicks brought up his email list again. Still nothing.

  “Shoot.”

  He switched over to the BuyBay site to check the status on the item.

  “No fucking way! I got that bid in on time.”

  According to the page, the winning bid was $147.00, posted at 7:24 P.M, six minutes before the auction closed.

  “That bastard!” 90sFandemonium was in for a beatdown. “He cheated, Prissy. I don’t know how, but he did.”

  Gideon clicked on BuyBay’s Contact Us button and started a note.

  Listen, you fucked up, lowlife cretins.

  Then he recalled the phrase about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  Dear sir or madam:

  Re: Item 348-91B

  I believe this item should have been awarded to me. My bid of $147.01 was submitted with one second left on the bidding clock.

  Gideon wished he’d gotten a screenshot.

  One second is one second, after all, and my raise is perfectly legitimate according to your regulations, which, yes, I actually read before checking the little box. I understand mistakes are sometimes made, and I’m definitely willing to forgive this one as long as I am awarded the shoes. If I do not hear from you within 24 hours, I will contact my attorney and we can let the courts resolve this very unfortunate issue.

  Sincerely,

  Gideon Star

  “They won’t know I couldn’t really afford the shoes, let alone a lawyer,” Gideon said to Priscilla. The real reason he’d bid $147.01 was that his credit card only had $148 available credit. Another 99¢ and he would have been out. Gideon had no idea how he was going to buy Christmas gifts for his mom and dad this year, but he’d figure something out. “They want me to have those shoes, too. I know they do. I already got Curtis’s and Beth’s…and Mom always said handmade gifts are better anyway.”

  The guitar, sitting in its spot on the two-seater sofa caught Gideon’s eye. “There’s always the song.” He got a pang of guilt—and some other twinge. Gideon had been promising his family a song for years, his mom and dad, his brother and sister. “It’s almost finished. I swear,” he’d told them just the other day. “The new job…the new apartment…You know how it goes.”

  Another year, another excuse.

  “I don’t want to spoil your surprise, Priscilla, but guess who’ll be getting fresh, clean water in her bowl and an extra bit of fish food from Santa. Maybe even a little green plastic tree I bought around Halloween…if I can find it.”

  Once Gideon proved he wasn’t a robot by identifying buildings that could be stores, he submitted his BuyBay note. After the Your message has been received notification came up, he stood to survey his collection. Gideon knew just where he was going to put Frank Funn’s shoes. Frank Funn, as portrayed by Brock Anderson, was Gideon’s favorite TV dad. Barely seven at the time, Gideon had first watched The Funn Family Chri
stmas episode way back in 1991, just a few days after Beth’s school concert. The story was entitled “Walk a Mile in Dad’s Christmas Shoes” and was all about how Skippy Funn went out to play in the snow in a brand-new pair of dress shoes his father had been given for Christmas. That TV era was chock full of schmaltzy sitcoms. Since this one was on Saturday mornings, on a network for pre-adolescents, it was the schmaltziest of all of them. Skippy got in big trouble, but then, in typical Act 3 fashion, he and Mr. Funn had a long, sweet talk to work everything out. Afterwards, the whole family hugged, and then burst into a rousing rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” in front of a twelve-foot, decorated tree. It was quite sweet and very wholesome.

  “Fathers and sons…” Gideon said, thinking back over the dozens of times he’d watched it since, on VHS, DVD, and YouTube. “Nothing can tear them apart.”

  After checking his inbox one more time, “I didn’t really think they’d write back that fast,” he plopped down on his sofa with a sigh. It was almost time to head off to work. “Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me.” Gideon cleared his throat. “I know.” He’d had a thought while ascending the vocal scales. “I’ll wrap the shoes up when they come and sign the card from you, Priscilla. You’d get them for me, wouldn’t you?” Gideon got up and went to her. “You would if Capital One let fish apply for credit cards…because you know why I want them so badly.”

  As always, Priscilla was noncommittal.

  Grabbing his garment bag through the window to the fire escape, Gideon headed toward the door to step into his canvas slip-ons. “See you when I get home, sweetie.” He blew Priscilla a kiss. “When I do, those shoes had better be officially mine.”

  Chapter 2: Rudy

  “Don we now our gay apparel…” It was the day after Christmas, 2007. Surrounded by a mountain of clothes, shoes, and underwear, Rudy was straddling his sixteen year old cousin on the unmade bed they’d shared on Christmas night, neither of them wearing much. “Fa-la-la, fa-la-la, la-la-la!”

  “Me gay? You wish,” Dondre said.

  “Are you two working or goofing off?” Rudy’s father bellowed from downstairs.

  “You think he knows?” Rudy whispered nervously.

  “Goofing off,” Dondre yelled toward the floor.

  Rudy tugged at his boxers in front as he anxiously awaited his father’s reply.

  “Hey, at least I’m honest.” Dondre smirked up at him.

  “Get back to work, and then come down for breakfast.”

  Suddenly, Dondre flipped Rudy, taking the top position. “Ten more minutes!”

  “Five!” Rudy’s father shouted.

  “Eight!”

  “You’re going to get us in trouble,” Rudy whispered.

  “How many times I got to remind you, Rooty Tooty? I’m adopted. Everyone’s afraid to yell at me, out of fear they’ll make me feel like an outsider.”

  Being yelled at by Russ Winner and his brothers was what most of the family had in common.

  “See?”

  Rudy was still. “Shh.” He even held his breath.

  “You shush.” Dondre didn’t. He was blowing peppermint all down in Rudy’s face, making the wisps of wheat colored hair in front of his eyes dance. “Listen. No more hollering. I told you. Now sing to me some more while I suck your…candy cane.” He reached for it back on the nightstand.

  “You’re always right, Mr. Know-it-all.” Rudy took the opportunity to regain control. Using a scissor leg move he’d learned from his wrestling coach, he was breathing down on Dondre now. Dondre’s hair didn’t move. It was too short. “You sing.” He was a beautiful boy, Rudy thought—a man—almost. They were both almost men. “Or we can sing together, like we used to.” He grabbed the candy cane—rightfully his from his stocking the day before—and took a lick.

  Rudy got a solo every year at the holiday concert, from first grade all the way through eighth. That year, 2003, he and Dondre were supposed to sing “Silent Night” as a duet, but Dondre cut out at the last minute.

  “I can’t believe he did that!” Rudy had complained on the way home in the car.

  “I think it’s time for you to stop singing like that, too,” his dad had said. “It’s okay when boys are little. The older they get, the more people will start to wonder.”

  “Wonder what?” Rudy had asked.

  “Russ…”

  Whenever Rudy’s mother said his dad’s name like that, the conversation usually ended.

  “Come on, Don. One verse.” Rudy had eventually gotten over Dondre bailing on him. Now, years later, as he closed his legs around Dondre’s hips and pushed his shoulders into the rumpled sheets, he just wanted to kiss him. They’d kissed before—just once. They’d done more than that several times. As much as Rudy enjoyed putting his mouth on other parts of Dondre, there were times all he wanted was his lips.

  “Get away from me, homo.”

  Rudy flinched. “Jerk.” He climbed off his cousin and the bed and looked over the pile of donations they’d gathered for Good Will, two beds’ worth and part of the floor, some from Rudy’s drawers and closets, and some Dondre had brought over in bags.

  “I didn’t mean it.” Dondre sat back on his heels, his neon orange boxer briefs pulling tight across the front. “Don’t be mad. It’s just…”

  “I know.”

  They were quiet a while, as Rudy folded some clothes and Dondre sat like a sexy statue. “You’re getting rid of a lot of stuff this year,” Dondre finally said.

  “I wanted a good selection…just in case it’s my last Mismatch Day.”

  The day after Christmas was known as Mismatch Day in the Winner family. For every item received under the tree, each family member had to part with one. The tradition extended beyond the immediate household. Aunts, uncles, and cousins took part as well. Before the clothes were all packed up, each Winner had to put together a hideous outfit with clashing colors and patterns. Whoever came up with the worst look won a prize, usually a ten dollar gift card. It wasn’t really about the reward, but rather the victory. With a last name like Winner, the competitive edge ran deep, even amongst the people who only married into the name. Rudy’s mother’s mother had started the game. Her sisters and their families were pretty cutthroat, too, on the golf course, the pool, or the dining room table playing marathon sessions of Monopoly.

  “I can’t believe our little boy is going all the way to Arizona for college,” Dondre said.

  “Maybe not…” Rudy was bent over, rooting through the pile of hand-me-downs on the floor. “…if that whole Y2K thing finally happens, like Dad keeps predicting.”

  Dondre chuckled. “It’s been six years, bro. I think he can relax about that.”

  “Tell him. He still swears it’s going to happen eventually.”

  “Six days until the end of the world…” Dondre got down off the bed and pressed himself to Rudy’s ass. “Maybe we should…”

  Rudy turned and stood up straight. “I am going to miss you.”

  “Don’t cwy.” Dondre faked a few sobs. What started as a caress on Rudy’s cheek ended up as a hard smack, then he grabbed Rudy’s hand and used it as a weapon. “Why are you hitting yourself, Fruity Rudy? Why are you hitting yourself?”

  “Knock it off.” Rudy pulled away.

  “Did I hurt you?” It was obvious Dondre didn’t really care.

  “No. I was getting a boner.”

  The confession made Dondre bark like a seal. “You’re such a woman.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.” An orange sweater draped over the rod between some hangers caught Rudy’s eye. It would look pretty bad with burgundy sweatpants. “Perfect.”

  “You’re not going to explain to me the difference between the male and female anatomy, cousin?”

  Wherever Rudy went, Dondre followed. They were literally now in the closet, where Rudy nodded toward Dondre’s erection. “Don’t think I have to.”

  Dondre didn’t try to hide it. “I really can’t believe you’re ditchin
g me six months early, man! Why you can’t wait ‘til June?”

  “You’ll get over it.” Rudy flung the orange sweater onto the bed. If there was a way to put on everything that lay there, an eye offending rainbow of mismatched mishmash, he would win for sure.

  “Hey. Wait, bro.” Dondre clutched a striped polo shirt he’d pulled off a hanger to his bare chest. “What do you mean your last Mismatch Day? You’re coming home next Christmas, aren’t you? And for Easter…and your birthday?”

  “That shirt’s brand new.”

  “Dude…”

  “What?”

  “You’re coming back.” Dondre brought his lips close. “Tell me you’re coming back.”

  “Give me a reason to.”

  Rudy’s door opened then with a smack against the wall.

  “Can’t you knock?” Dondre covered his dick with both hands and the balled-up shirt.

  “Easy, Don.” Rudy came out of the closet. “Morning, Dash.”

  Rudy’s baby brother Dash was only six. He was still in his pajamas—Snoopy bottoms with Sponge Bob on top—and not even on purpose to celebrate the occasion. He’d likely wet the bed again. “You’re not coming home next Christmas?” Dash asked.

  “Probably.” Rudy put on the sweatpants. He looked at a red T-shirt with a yellow stripe across the middle. It might clash more than the orange sweater, he figured. “Hurry up before Dad yells again.”

  “He’ll get over it.” Dondre put on sweatpants, too. He put them on quickly.

  “Sometimes he doesn’t.” Going with the orange sweater, Rudy pulled it over his messy blond hair. “What do you need, bud?” He scruffed Dash’s, just as messy, but dark. Grooming was rather lax on Mismatch day. Bedhead added to the style.