We were in the middle of a bell-ringer of a bull sale with one guy in my section bidding on every bull that came in the ring. None of us ringside had ever seen him before so we figured he must be a big bull buyer from out of state but he really didn’t look the part. He was wearing a blue shirt with a name patch over his heart with “Frenchy” embroidered on it so he looked more like an auto mechanic than he did a rancher. Later a friend told me he saw Frenchy getting out of a bread delivery truck which meant Mr. Frenchy Bread had a lot of dough… but it turned out to be the wrong kind of dough.
Something just didn’t feel right about the guy. I didn’t like the fact that he stood in the very back of the barn. Serious bidders usually camp closer to the ring where their bids can be easier to spot and they can look at the animal. (But real pros NEVER sit in the front row where it’s easier to get doused with fecal matter by bovines with manure soaked mops for tails.)
Mr. Frenchy sure seemed to be enjoying all the attention directed his way and the comely daughter of the breeder kept him well supplied with donuts and soft drinks. It worked because at this point Frenchy was the contending bidder on several bulls that sold for over $8,000 when the average was closer to $3,000.
At that point I got nervous so I sent a brief note to the auctioneer that suggested, “Sell the guy a bull.” The auctioneer must have had his doubts too and shortly thereafter a bull entered the ring that was a the perfect candidate. He looked like he was put together by a committee with one right foot pointed north and the other due west. His numbers were mediocre at best and the bull had such a sour attitude that mother’s drew their small children to their bosoms and grown men cowered in fear.
The second Frenchy raised his hand to open the bidding the auctioneer quick-hammered his gavel and said “SOLD!”
When he was announced as the winning bidder Frenchy turned whiter than North Dakota in a blizzard and he snuck out the back of the barn as I expected he might. I finally ran him down to get his bidder number as he was trying to leak into the landscape. I finally caught up with him at the door of his bread truck and said, “I need your bidder number.”
Then he uttered the most feared words in the auction business… “Oh, I was just trying to help.”
It seems Frenchy was the much dreaded auction junkie who had seen a poster for the sale on a telephone pole and followed the signs to the sale. Frenchy got hot flashes by living vicariously by seeing how many times he could bid without getting caught. It was a game and I’d encountered his kind before.
Meanwhile I dragged my tail back into the barn where everyone was waiting on me before we could proceed. Instead of being smart and yelling out, “The guy was just swatting at flies,” or, “He was just scratching his nose,” I pulled a dumb stunt and told the truth: “The guy said he was just trying to help.”
A brouhaha ensued when all the buyers realized that they’d just paid an inflated amount for their bulls because a bread truck driver ran the price up. Naturally the bull buyers wondered if there’d been some sort of foul play but the breeder insisted that Frenchy was not a member of his immediate family.
If you see Frenchy at a sale please be advised that he’s a wanted man, both by the authorities and a bunch of ranchers who’ve formed their own posse and would like nothing better than to string Frenchy up at a necktie party.
Since I was blamed by the conspiracy theorists for my role in the incident I took the first opportunity to leak out of the landscape too so I don’t know if the breeder made a price adjustment or not but I did notice the following year we had a light crowd and there was a sign at the ranch entrance that read, “NO HELP WANTED.”
