Chicken Little Too MuchBy playwrite27
It was a Saturday night in the small rural town. At the auction barn, the lot was full of pick up trucks, livestock haulers, and cars of all sorts. Inside the musty florescent-lit interior, the country folk gathered on the tiers of wooden benches, which flanked either side of a tiny sawdust filled arena.
Voices babbled away, and in the background, one could hear the bleats of goats, nickers of horses and cackling of hens. The auctioneer's helper, George, a tall lanky fellow, one of those strong but usually pretty silent types--except when he was tracking bids for the auctioneer, was busy clearing away the last of the long folding tables from the arena. The first half of the night had been devoted to selling everything from tools, to saddles, to new toys, novelty singing fish, an antique mirror, used books, fresh flowers, an old dresser and some used appliences, tractor tires, bales of hay and even day old bread and frozen hamburgers...and one funny-shaped wooden object: no one knew quite what it was.
Now it was time for the animals to be brought out, and the auctioneer motioned to George to start showing the good folks assembled there, the chickens.
The noise of the crowd gossiping during the break, combined with the dull roaring of the flame of a kerosene heater in one corner--it may have been springtime, but that barn could get mighty chilly at night, without a little help--made for quite a racket, so the auctioneer had to bang his gavel rather loudly (WHAM-WHAM "Now pay attention folks, we're gonna' start the bidding in a minute, so I need you'all to quiet down so I can hear!")
Again he banged twice on the old wooden podium that was set up in the middle of the stands. People still gossiped with their neighbours, but at a quieter hum. It was across from the main seating area, giving the auctioneer a good view of most of the bidders...many of whom he knew by their bidding number--if not face and/or name.
George brought two cages out onto the one folding table he'd left in the middle of the sawdust, and plunked them down. Reaching in he pulled out the weirdest looking chicken--well, weird if you're a city slicker I suppose. The chicken was black and had long shaggy feathers--but, it was the top of his (it was in fact a rooster) head that was...strange. Instead of smooth feathers, a profusion of white feathers sprouted from the bird's head, in a Phyllis Diller effect...making the chicken look more like some punk rocker in a chicken suit. There was a similar one in a second cage, as well.
The auctioneer, a beefy florid-faced man, dressed in cowboy attire, with dark slicked back hair and a profusion of gold chains around his neck, took a sip of water, eyed the birds with some barely veiled skepticism, then banged his wooden gavel twice more.
"What's the lot number on them birds, George?" He shouted into his microphone. Every consigner to the auction had a lot number assigned to his merchandise or livestock, so the auction house could more easily keep track of what belonged to whom when pay out time came. George snuck a peek at a little yellow numbered livestock tag attached to the cage--they were similar to one's put on the ears of cattle to identify them--and he called out the number.
The auctioneer cleared his throat. "Alright. Next we have lot number one-forty-one. Fine pair of show quality roosters. A couple'a real nice birds here--who'll start the bidding?" His eyes narrowed as no hands appeared, no little white cards with numbers on them waving in the air. 'Okay,' he thought, 'this isn't going to be pretty--and neither are them birds.'
Sighing, he continuted, "Do I have ten-ten-ten," the auctioneer sang out in his special rapid-fire patter, "who'll gimme' ten-ten-ten? Ten dollars where? Who'll gimme' ten-ten-ten? Ten dollars Where?"
The auctioneer looked out at the crowd, they looked back at him--the one's that weren't still chatting, that is--with blank faces. He sighed again. "Where do you want to start 'em folks? Is there any interest in these nice pair of birds? How 'bout seven and a half? Who'll start the bidding at seven-and-a-half? Seven-fifty, seven-fifty...couple of real nice Star Wars roosters--great conversation piece for your farm yard! 'An were talkin' show quality, folks! Make a great 4-H club project for your kids!" Taking a breath, the auctioneer glanced at George...now holding out one of the roosters by it's wings--well away from him to avoid the sharp talons. The rooster did not look amused. George merely raised an eyebrow at the auctioneer and shrugged.
Taking another deep breath, the auctioneer decided it was time to change tack, and blurted out, "Five dollars! Who'll gimme' five dollars for the pair? It's for the pair now, you're buyin' 'em both for one money! Five dollars? Five-five-five, who'll gimme' five-five-five? Five-five-five..." Still no little white numbered cards flapping in the air, no raised hands, no nods, nothing. "Tell you what folks, I don't normally do this, but you bid five dollars, 'an I'll even throw in the cage! How 'bout that? Five-five-five, who'll gimme' five-five-five? Who'll gimme five dollars? Five dollars anyone?" He asked hopefully.
There seemed to be a shifting in the tiers of wooden seats, and more people were looking at the birds, but still no takers. Or, it could have been that their bottoms were getting sore. The auctioneer frowned. "Isn't there any interest in these here two polack birds?" Apparently, not. So, the man with the cowboy shirt and gold chains decided to try something new. "Alright," he said, trying to refrain from grinding his teeth, "we'll sell them each, then. We're gonna' sell them separate now," he repeated, so he wouldn't be accused of selling roosters under false pretences, "you're not buying the pair!" The man admonished again, hoping that some idiot wouldn't think otherwise and then cause a ruckus after the bidding because he'd been too busy gabbing with his neighbor to hear what was being said.
The auction began again. "Who'll gimme' two dollars each? Who'll gimme' two dollars for one'a them birds? Two dollars? One dollar? The auctioneer said the "one", like he couldn't believe it, as someone in the crowd yelled it out. Of course, he did. He knew his crowd--bunch of cheapskates that they were. It was a game they played...start high, go low...wait until the lowest possible bid and..."Well," the auctioneer said wryly, with mild sarcasim, "I never would'a thought of that sir, thank you."
This was where his real work began. "One dollar!" the man with at the podium cried out. "Now, who'll gimme' one and a half? one-and-a-half, one-and-a-half, who'll gimme' one-and-a-half?" Suddenly George hollered "Yesss!" at the top of his lungs, his arm pointing like a bird dog's snout towards a fluttering white card to the far upper right of the crowd. "One-and-a-half, thank you." The auctioneer continued, "Now who'll make it two? two-two-two, two-two-two, who'll gimme' two-two-two? Who'll gimme' two dollars for one of them there roosters?" "Yes!" George hollered again as another card--this time on the left side, waved.
The auctioneer barely paused for breath. "Two and a half, now three, now three-three-three," another call from George and the bidding soon was fast and furious. "Now three, thank you, now three-and-a-half, three-and-half. Three and a half, thank you, now four-four-four, four dollars from the doorway, now four-and-a-half, four-and-a-half, now five, five-five-five, now five-and-a half. Five-and-a-half-five-and-a-half. Five and a half where? Do I have five-and-a-half?
The man with the slicked back hair and chains quickly surveyed the crowd. He looked at George, who gave a slight negative shake of his head. The auctioneer tried one last time. "Do I have five and a half? Is anyone interested in one of these birds for five-and-a-half? Five and a half?" He uttered this last bid with an almost unmanly falsetto of false hope in his voice. "That's it? All in and all done?" With a mighty heave as if he were slinging a sledge hammer, he slammed the gavel hard upon the flat wood top in front of him. "SOLD!!! for five-and-a-half!
The man with the gavel looked over to the bidder, an old farmer in matching green work shirt and trousers, with a John Deere baseball cap on his head. "You want 'em both, sir" The auctioneer asked suggestively. The farmer nodded, and George looked up at his boss, who said--a trifle unnecessairly, "He's taking them both George." They both looked at the old farmer, and the auctioneer asked, "What's your number, sir?" The man in the John Deere cap once again held up his little white card with some numbers boldly written in black marker on one side. The man at the podium nodded and said, "Eighty-three, for five-and-a-half" to his female assistant--in this case, his wife, whom silently wrote down the bidders number and that he was taking two roosters and what the winning bid was, and handed it to a runner--in this case her daughter, to take to the auction's cashier desk to be filed away under his bidding number.
Shaking his head, George walked past the podium, taking the two cages into the back room where animals and merchandise that had already been bid on, was kept. As he walked by, the auctioneer heard George muttering to himself. Putting his hand over the mike, the gold-bedecked cowboy asked, "What's that you say, George?" George leaned over and muttered something at the auctioneer. "What's that? You think them birds are pretty?" George shook his head and mumbled something else. "Ohhh--" George's boss said, "you think they're pretty ugly. Well, I don't know about them there roosters, George," the man chuckled, "but I think that there farmer just laid himself an egg."
POLISH CHICKEN
PHYLLIS DILLER
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