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The Richest Man in Town

By V.J. Smith

What Matters Most

Companies invest a lot of money in trying to find ways to help their employees work smarter and faster. In my working lifetime, I have spent countless hours attending seminars designed to improve my job performance. Twice I attended a class on "how to get along with difficult people." But no one has ever sent me to a seminar on how to be a better person.

I doubt that Marty ever attended a training session on customer service. He didn't read self-improvement books, either. What he did do was try to be good to people.

During one of  his performance reviews, his supervisor, following management's procedures on conducting such reviews, asked him, "Do you have any goals?"

"Yeah," Marty said. "My goal is to stay here long enough that you have to carry me out."

Marty loved his job. "I get all pumped up going to work," he told me one night at his kitchen table. "It energizes me. People do this to me. The way I've got it figured, in life you get what you give."

Night after night, sitting at Marty's kitchen table, I learned life lessons. That was the first: Relationships matter most in life.  

"What I give are smiles, handshakes, thank-you's and, once in a while, a hug. What I get back I can't describe. It makes me want to go to work in the morning."

Marty said, "See, people think I'm just doing this just for them. I'm doing it for me, too."

In his mind, it was a circular relationship. He told me he was committed to taking the first step.

"Getting people to smile makes my day, " he said. He recalled an older woman who came through his line and never smiled. "I didn't quit trying to make her smile. On about the eighth time she finally broke. I knew I had to say something, so I said, 'You have a beautiful smile.' Now she smiles all the time. I'll be at my cash register and she's a few people back in line waving at me and saying, 'Hi, Marty!'"

He had a satisfied look on his face when he told that story. "I'm convinced even grumpy people will smile if you shake their hand."

Marty was the scourge of grumpy people. One day when I was in his line an older gentleman stood beside him talking about a pharmaceutical plan that he insisted Marty investigate. Marty was paying half-hearted attention to the man, realizing that customers were waiting in line. He didn't want to offend the guy, nor did he want the customers to wait. It was a dilemma for him.

A young couple in front of me, obviously new to Marty's line, was becoming more agitated with each minute. Finally, Marty was able to break away from the guy pushing the drug plan and greet the young couple.
"How are you dong?" he asked, but they didn't respond. I could see why--they were angry.

Marty was oblivious to all of this. While the young man wrote a check, Marty shook the young woman's hand and said some nice things to her. The expression on her face changed from anger to confusion to an all-out smile.

After the young man handed him the check, Marty shook the young man's hand and apologized for the delay. He told them, "Now you two go out and have a great day."

As the couple walked away from Marty, the man looked at the woman with disgust on his face. The woman smiled at him and said something. Soon, the man smiled back at her and simply shook his head. They laughed as they walked out the door.

They couldn't stay angry. Marty had disarmed them.

In time, it seemed that everyone in town and the surrounding area was getting to know Marty. He couldn't go to a grocery store or walk down a street without someone yelling, "Hi, Marty!" If people didn't know his name, they would simply refer to him as "that cute old guy that shakes hands."

Mickey said, "We can't go anywhere anymore without someone recognizing him."

On a flight to California, Marty and Mickey had a layover in Denver. While they sat at the gate three different people came up to speak to him. One said, "How are they doing back at Wal-Mart without you?" Marty didn't recognize any of them.

I was having dinner with Marty and Mickey at a local Chinese restaurant when a woman walked by. She stopped, looked at Marty and exclaimed, "Oh, honey, I've missed you!"

Marty looked up from his plate of food, not knowing quite what to say. "Well," he said, "I've missed you, too!"

They talked for a few minutes. She said she had moved out of town the previous year and was back visiting old friends. "Oh, golly, I'm glad I got to see you again, Marty," she said before walking away.

I asked Marty who she was. He looked puzzled and aid, "I don't have a clue."

Not remembering people's names frustrated Marty. But he greeted hundreds of people each day and accepted the fact that it was impossible for him to remember the name of everyone he met.

But people remembered Marty. They dropped off gifts for him at the store. During the summer months countless bags of fresh corn and tomatoes came from the gardens of customers. Zucchini season nearly killed him.

On a September day, I was in Marty's line and he said, "I was hoping you would come by today. I've got something to show you."

He reached into the pocket of his red vest and pulled out a white envelope containing a card. "This came attached to a jar of crabapple jelly," Marty said. "A young woman dropped it off yesterday, but I wasn't here. I got it this morning. Read it."

The woman wrote: "The last time I was in the store I asked you what your secret to being happy was, and you hugged me. That was so nice of you. I know how many times you brightened my day and I'm sure thousands of others. I made this crabapple jelly last night and wanted you to have some to let you know 'thank you' for your kindness. It is appreciated more than you will ever know."

I put the card back in the envelope and asked Marty who she was. He didn't know.

"This is what I'm talking about," Marty said. "When you are nice to people you get it all back and then some. Boy, do I feel good!"

Doing a Little More

I asked Marty, "Is the customer always right?"

He replied quickly. "You bet they're always right." Then he thought about it. "Well," he said, "they're not always right. I don't tell them that. I listen to them. I might not agree with them, but I listen. They eventually wind down. I listen."

He said the word "listen" three times in answering the question. That's a lot of listening, I thought. Then I remembered he was actually listening to the customers as they were going through his line.

One person Marty listened to was Linda. In her early fifties, she always came through his line with a big smile. One day Marty noticed the smile had disappeared.

"Something was wrong. I knew it. So I asked her if she was okay," Marty said.

Linda told Marty she needed a heart transplant and was going to the University of Minnesota right away for surgery. She was frightened. Marty said, "I hugged her and told her everything was going to be all right."

Three months later Linda walked into the store, a new heart pumping in her chest. Marty said, "I got so excited I kissed her."

Not long after Marty told me the story I picked up our hometown newspaper and on the front page was a photograph of two women. A story accompanying the picture told readers that one woman needed a heart transplant and other woman had survived that surgery. Her name was Linda Girard.

I didn't know Linda's last name until I read that story. Looking through the phone book, I found Linda's number and called her. "Linda," I said, "I'm a friend of Marty's."

Before I could say another word she replied, "You, too?"

"How often do you and Marty get together?" I asked.

"We don't get together," she said. "I see him at Wal-Mart."

"Well," I said, "the way he talks about you made me think you were good friends."

"We are good friends, but the only time I see him is at Wal-Mart," she said. "When I got home from my surgery there was a card sitting on the kitchen table. I looked at the return address and it read 'Aaron Martinson.' I didn't have a clue who Aaron Martinson was. I opened the card and it was signed 'your friend Marty at Wal-Mart.' So, to answer your question, yes we are good friends."

I asked Marty why he sent her a card. "I just think if you want to be a friend," he replied, "sometimes you need to do a little more."

That was Marty's second lesson: Try to do a little more.

Sometimes that philosophy ran contrary to company policy.

Cashiers were instructed never to put their own money into the register if a customer didn't have enough to pay a bill. Marty ignored this rule. "I've done it hundreds of times," he said.

If someone came up a few cents short in paying the bill, Marty would stick his hand in his pocket, grab a handful of change, and pay the difference. Pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters were constantly going out of his pocket and into the cash drawer.

At times, though, the overage required more than pocket change. There was a case of a local minister's wife. She found herself twenty dollars short in paying her bill. Marty paid it. The next time she was back in Marty's line, she announced to the other customers, "This is the man who gave me twenty dollars!"

I asked him, "What's the most money you have ever put in the till when someone was short?"

"Fifty-one dollars. I had to reach fro my wallet on that one."

"Why do you do that?"

He thought for a moment. "Sometimes after I tell a customer how much they owe, they'll look in their wallets or purses and discover they don't have their money with them. They're embarrassed and I don't want to embarrass them in front of the other customers by making them put stuff back. So, I take the money out of my pocket or wallet and throw it in the till. They always pay me back."

"Do they? Always?"

"One time I gave a guy ten dollars and he never paid me back," Marty said. He paused and then smiled. "I know he feels worse than I do."

People knew Marty was genuine, and they gravitated to him.

He told me about two different women who appeared in his line at various times but bought nothing. He guessed that they were lonely or had personal troubles. They stood in his line for one thing, a hug. He would hug them and say a few kind words, and they would simply disappear.

"Maybe they felt nobody appreciated them," he said. "I just wanted them to know I did."

After watching Marty hug one of the women, a man standing in his line asked, "Are you some kind of preacher?"

Marty answered, "I just want to be a friend."

He also cast no judgments on the people who went through his line. Maybe it stemmed from his childhood. Everyone was treated with respect, regardless of how they looked or what they bought.

Every August in South Dakota, there is a big motorcycle rally held in the town of Sturgis at the foot of the beautiful Black Hills. Many bikers travel through our town on the way to the rally. Some of those visitors stop at stores along the highway.

A few years ago, when the rally was about to begin, I was standing in Marty's line, right behind a biker. He was big and wore a lot of leather, his arms were filled with tattoos, and his hair was in a pony tail. I kept my distance.

Marty treated the biker like he was the mayor of our town. "You be safe," Marty told the guy. The biker walked out of the store with a huge smile on his face. Marty, serving as an unofficial ambassador for our chamber of commerce, made him feel welcome and appreciated. I wouldn't have been as kind.

I had made a value judgment about the biker. Marty did not. Sometimes doing a little more means placing greater emphasis on human decency.

I admired Marty for many reasons, but how he treated children won all the blue ribbons. At most stores, kids are looked up as a necessary nuisance. They don't have much buying power and come up short on the customer treatment scale.

"Kids just love it when I shake their hands. Future customers, you know," Marty said with a wink.

A couple of days before Father's Day, a little girl in line with her mother walked up to Marty and handed him an envelope. He opened it and found a Father's Day card. The little girl signed her name and included her picture.

Marty couldn't speak. Realizing his predicament, the mother explained. "It was my daughter's idea. She insisted we buy you a card because you are so nice to her whenever she goes through your line. She thinks you must be a terrific father to somebody."

One night I met Marty and Mickey at the Chinese restaurant. We ordered the buffet and got up from our table to fill our plates. Marty went to one side of the buffet line, Mickey and I went down the other.

Just then, a little boy, maybe five years old, walked past Marty. The boy stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Marty. Then he turned to all of the people seated in the restaurant and shouted, "Mom...Dad...it's Marty from Wal-Mart!"

Mickey ducked her head as if to hide. "See," she said, "we can't to anywhere anymore."

We finished filling our plates and sat down at our table, Mickey near the window and Marty across from me. A while later the little boy cam running toward us. Five feet from the table he leaped. He intended to land on Marty's lap, but he cam up about a foot short.

The boy bounced off the table and fell on the floor--but not before sending Marty's plate into the air. The food went flying. Stunned, I didn't know what to do.

Marty did. He got out of his chair, picked the little boy off the ground and sat him on his lap.

After having worked all day, Marty was tired and hungry. Yet there he sat, with wet egg noodle on his shirt, and he listened to everything that little boy said to him. I stopped eating and watched all of this in silence. After about five minutes, the child's mother and father appeared at our table to collect their son.

The boy jumped off Marty's lap. Marty stood and shook the hands of the mother and father. Then the family left the restaurant.

"Marty," I asked, "who was that?"

"Some people who go through my line at Wal-Mart."

Mickey told me what Marty didn't. "The little boy just lost his grandpa," she said. "He asked Marty to be his grandpa now."

Sometimes you need to do a little more.

"I just want to be a friend."

The Source of Happiness

At times Marty made it sound too easy. On a visit to his home I heard him say, "People need to decide to be happy."

I pressed him. "What do you mean by that?"

His face took on an incredulous look. "You have to ask me?"

At that moment I felt a little foolish. Complex human problems, at least to me, often prevent people from being happy. To Marty it was a matter of common sense. I wondered, what was I missing?

"C'mon, Marty," I said, "do you really think people can actually decide to be happy?"

Who makes decisions for you?" Marty asked me. "All my life I've watched people waiting for someone else to make them happy. The way I got it figured, the only one who can make you happy is you."

As I considered his point, my mind began to wander. Strangely, I though of an old "Peanuts" cartoon--the one which Lucy asked Charlie Brown, "Why do you think we were put on earth?"

Charlie Brown answered, "To make others happy."

"I don't think I'm make anyone happy," Lucy replied, "but nobody's making me very happy either." Then Lucy screamed out, "Somebody's not doing his job!"

I smiled at that moment, thinking Marty had something in common with Charles Schultz, the creator of the "Peanuts" cartoon. Both seemed to be saying that it was silly to expect other people to have such an influence over our lives.

That was Marty's third lesson: Only you can make you happy.

That night Marty told me a story that was very personal for him. I knew Marty and Mickey had four children. I didn't know there had been a fifth. She was their second child, Lynette, born with spina bifida. She died shortly after birth.

Forty years later, Marty still grieved for her.

"The funeral director was a super guy," Marty said. "He knew we didn't have any money, but he told us he would take care of our little girl. He went out and built a wood casket for her and lined it with white satin."

Marty's voice started to break. "He only charged us five dollars. He knew we wanted to pay, but he only charged us five bucks."

"It's stuff like that. You can look for the good in people and you'll find the good. You can look for the bad in people and you'll find the bad. The way I've got it figured, you'll find what you are looking for. I'd just as soon look for the good in people."

I didn't know what it was like to grow up poor. I had never known the hardship of trying to live on a meager budget while raising a family.

Marty's life was filled with minimum-wage jobs, borrowing on insurance policies, and working overtime to make a little more money. When his father died, he inherited one thing: a Zippo lighter with a pheasant imprinted on it.

Even in the autumn of his life, Marty worked. He wanted the company's health benefits as much as the wages. Sure, he enjoyed his job, but he felt he needed to work. Before I met Marty he had suffered heart attack and prostate cancer. When he talked about these problems, though, it was to tell me about the cards his fellow employees had sent to him.

In my lifetime I had seen people in similar circumstances grow angry. Bitterness took hold of their lives and choked them.

"I never had much money, and I don't think I ever will," Marty said. "People think they need to have a lot of things to make them happy. They ought to look around and see what's really important."

When Marty looked around, he saw the most beautiful girls, in the world as his wife, four children who loved him, a home he was proud of, and a job that made him feel alive. He was happy because, in his mind, he had it all.

"People need to decide to be happy."