Sold! On Auctions -- Auctioneer Murphy Has Been Catching Bids On The Block For 25 Years

A yellow Caterpillar backhoe rumbles up to the outdoor auction podium like a gigantic bumblebee. The crowd parts just enough to let the driver maneuver the machine, then pushes in closer to get a better look. Mostly men, this is a serious-looking bunch, squinting at tires and buckets and exhaust stacks and muttering knowingly.

The crowd listens attentively as auctioneer Jim Murphy describes the item, adjusting the headset that holds his microphone.

"Awfully nice unit there," is all Murphy has to say before the bidding rushes up to $19,500. Lot No. 226 is "Sold!" to a woman standing in the back.

"Gee, you just don't see a lot of women buying Cat backhoes," Murphy says in a respectful whisper to a bystander.

Maybe if he hadn't looked out over a similar sight several times a month for the past 25 years, Murphy might have paused in his rhythmic chant to admire his own name: On the sale catalogs clutched in the bidders' hands. On each sales ticket. On every shiny new license-plate holder on every used car lined up in rows nearby. And on the blue oxford shirts and bright red jackets worn by the 75 workers swarming around the 7.5-acre site owned by James G. Murphy Inc. in Kenmore.

But, then again, maybe not. For a guy whose company sells close to $25 million in goods at about 100 auctions a year, Murphy remains remarkably modest.

He is also the new president of the National Auctioneers Association, representing nearly 6,000 of the individuals and companies who help auction more than $161.7 billion a year in goods ranging from Spode teacups to Sikorsky Skycrane helicopters.

Estimates are that the commercial auction business generates close to $40 million in retail sales annually in the Seattle area alone. If you add nonprofit fund-raisers, the number jumps by as much as $20 million. The auctioneers' cut varies; 10 percent is typical.

Murphy has done his part to add to those local totals over the years. If a well-known business was closing up shop, chances are he was there. From the lawn mowers used to groom the grounds at Longacres racetrack to the chandeliers of the Music Hall Theatre to the pineapple-shaped mugs of Trader Vic's lounge, Murphy sold the goods.

High-profile sales are an auctioneer's dream, but they also mean a lot more leg work.

"Those sales are different, in part because there's more sentiment involved," says Murphy. "They attract people who don't usually go to auctions . . . who want some piece of the place's history."

So he holds longer pre-auction preview periods to allow more bidders a chance to check out the goods, and spends a lot more time answering questions and helping novice auction-goers feel at home.

Since turning the majority share of the company over to his son, Tim, four years ago, Murphy, 65, has eased out of the day-to-day operations. Now he's more of an auctioneer emeritus, spending more time on fund-raisers such as the PONCHO auction, while continuing to open the bidding at his company's major sales. He is still the one that most regular buyers seek out.

This particular Saturday, the white-haired Murphy is presiding over a used heavy-equipment consignment sale that eager buyers wait for all year. Imagine the Nordstrom Half-Yearly Sale with road graders and bulldozers.

Half an hour before the sale, Murphy was in full-dress schmooze: a dozen longtime buyers come up to the podium. One brags of a daughter's wedding, a few mention recent bankruptcies, and one gruffly provides an update on his struggle against cancer. Murphy greets every man by name, and occasionally they reminisce about some past purchase.

"We've got another one of those dump trucks today, you could have a matched set," Murphy calls out to one bidder.

Once the sale starts, several "ringmen" are scattered throughout the crowd, watching for the winks, waves, nods and shrugs that are some buyers' shorthand for "Sure, I'll go up another $100." Most of these men are also auctioneers. Several will take a turn up on the block after Murphy.

His sons Jay, 43, and Tim, 41, work the rows closest to the round, glass-brick podium. Tim half-mouths the bids along with his father, entreating bidders to go higher with a friendly, questioning look. Every time he raises an eyebrow and grins, the bidder agrees to another $250 and Tim calls out a loud "Yup!" to his father, who smoothly ups the bid.

After an hour of heavy-equipment sales, the action moves 180 degrees - to the side of the podium inside the large exhibition hall - where dozens of used cars are driven past buyers perched on rows of bleachers.

A burly man in a flannel shirt bids for and gets a gray Ford Tempo, a used fleet vehicle being sold by a utility company. When he registered and got his big white bidder's card with a black number on it, the buyer agreed that he would have the means to pay for the goods. Now he signs a form confirming that he bid $2,000 for his new car. Before he leaves, he'll queue up in the cashier's office, with its beeping computer monitors on almost every surface.

This den of solvency is overseen by Murphy's daughter, Julie Rice, 38, a calm certified public accountant who has mastered the friendly, firm tone needed to explain a few dozen times a day that, yes, you do need to register that vehicle before you leave - and pay the sales tax.

As usual, many of the 1,000 people who registered that Saturday at Murphy's never used their bidder numbers. Maybe they just didn't see the tractor they wanted or maybe the two dozen weed-eaters went for more than they could spend. Or, maybe, like barbecue concessionaire O.C. Helton of Darrington, they just love to nose around the sea of boxed spare parts and other treasures that are auctioned at the end of a long sale.

"I like to come to Murphy's to see all the people I know," the North Carolina native said, folding up his buyer's catalog and cramming it into a bib pocket in his overalls. "And if I see something I want to buy, well that's OK, too."

The names end up in a computerized database ready for the next 5,000-piece mailing announcing a hospital-equipment auction in West Seattle or a sale of the inventory of an Olympia bicycle shop. Most auction houses rely heavily on their jealously guarded mailing lists, and carefully sort them by buyer interests and past purchases.

Ranked 17th in gross sales among the country's industrial-auction companies, James G. Murphy Inc. puts on auctions that are larger and more high-tech than those held by most other local companies. But Murphy's colleagues on the block carry out essentially the same steps to sell their antiques, cars, works of art, real estate and boxes of ceramic animals and old potholders.

The days when a handshake was all it took to get an auctioneer to sell a cellar full of stuff from Grandpa's estate are over. Now Murphy and his colleagues must draw up elaborate contracts with sellers; appraise goods; market auctions through direct mail, newspaper, radio and TV ads; collect purchasers' money and sales tax - all while making sure everyone's legal rights are protected.

"Most people think the ability to be an auctioneer is about standing up there and talking fast," says Murphy. "But about 90 percent of the real work of an auction is preliminary. Maybe 10 percent of it is the auctioneer's role on sale day."

A regular staff of 22 carry out these behind-the-scenes operations at James G. Murphy Inc., with dozens of extra helpers on auction days, a fact which still seems to surprise the company's founder.

"I hoped I'd make a good living," Murphy says, recalling his start in the late 1960s, after leaving his job as a heavy-equipment salesman. "When the man setting up my pension plan asked me how many employees I hoped to have, I guessed six."

Murphy climbed up on the block for the first time in 1965, to cover for the tardy auctioneer at his church fund-raiser. Later, when he decided to combine bid-calling with his heavy-equipment expertise, the family, including his wife, Norma, was involved from the start.

"We used to put the sale catalogs together around the dining-room table," he recalls. Now, 25 years later, Murphy's advertising coordinator, Terry Moore, works with an annual ad budget of $750,000.

As his ad budgets have grown, so have the specialized demands of the profession.

"The business has really changed," says Murphy. "The legal requirements alone are remarkable."

One simplified example: Say Acme Widget Co. is going out of business and holding an auction. If Murphy failed to properly notify Acme's creditors, auction day could dawn with a crowd of eager, would-be bidders on hand, only to find out that a major bank was shutting the whole deal down. So much for the $10,000 spent to advertise the auction, not to mention the auctioneer's reputation.

As the auction industry continues to grow - which it is doing in all regions of the country - there is a trend toward more regulation. With a national auction law likely, but still a ways off, Murphy says the national association and its state counterparts have a clear mission.

"We have a responsibility to keep our members informed of the best ways to carry out the best business practices," says the NAA president. "As more people are finding out that they can sell effectively with auctions, there's a real need for professional training."

Specifically, continuing education in accounting, legal issues, marketing and appraisal are crucial to continuing to raise the standards of the auction profession, Murphy says.

Of course, there will still be the need for that special ability to connect with a crowd, and make everyone feel like part of the action.

Back at Murphy's big Saturday auction: Two men are furiously vying for a shiny four-door 1990 Lincoln, loaded and blowing cold. (Translation: Full of options, including air conditioning.) Finally, one man hesitates, and the other gets it for $8,000.

"Well, " Murphy consoles the loser, "you owned it for a minute there."