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The Richest Man in Town

By V.J. Smith

It's a Wonderful Story

After a week's vacation, I came home and played the messages on my answering machine. One was from Marty. "You'll never believe what they're doing with me," he said. "They're flying me to Dallas, Texas, this Friday. I guess I'm going to be getting some big award. I'll let you know about it when I get back." Click.

I was in Marty's line early that next Monday. When he looked up from his cash register and saw me, he walked around the counter and grabbed me by the elbow. "I don't want to sound like a braggart, but you have got to come over tonight. You won't believe it. I don't believe it. Can you come over?"

I had never seen Marty that excited. Shortly after I arrived at his home that evening, he ushered me into the kitchen. "Look at this," he said showing me a certificate. "It's Wal-Mart's Hero Award. They give out six of these a year."

Over the next hour Marty told me all about the award and his trip to Dallas. He received the honor in front of thirteen thousand managers and supervisors of the largest company in the world. "They told me only one in a hundred thousand associates get the award," he said. "Pretty good, huh?"

The speaker that day was General Colin Powell. Marty said, "I was maybe ten feet from him when he spoke. He's a powerful speaker. I don't have a clue what he was talking about, but he looked at me the whole time."

The certificate wasn't the only new source of pride in Marty's home. While he was in Texas, his children went through family albums and picked out photographs taken of Marty during important times of his life. They had the pictures matted and placed in a large frame that now was hanging in the dining room.

Marty took me over to the new wall hanging. I immediately got a lump in my throat. There, mixed with all those pictures of Marty, was a copy of the letter I had sent to David Glass, president and CEO of Wal-Mart, all those months ago.

I looked at Marty. He knew I was focused on the letter. "You know," he said, "I've read your letter seventy-five times, and I've cried seventy-five times."

I couldn't sleep that night. Over and over I replayed that moment. Contentment had filled Marty's face. He seemed like he was the richest man in town.

"That's it!" I shouted. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my notebook. It had finally dawned on me that Marty was a modern-day George Bailey, the character Jimmy Stewart played in the Christmas movie, It's a Wonderful Life.

George Bailey never got to travel the world, never became a builder of great cities, and never made a lot of money. It wasn't until he saw the world without him, courtesy of Angel Second Class Clarence Oddbody, that he realized the impact of his life on others.

At the end of the movie, Harry Bailey, George's younger brother, raised a glass in the air and said, "Here's a toast to my big brother, George, the richest man in town."

In my mind, Marty was the richest man in our town. So many people were being touched by his kindness, if only for a moment. He reminded all of us to be better people.

I wanted the whole world to know about him--or at least as many people as my voice could reach. For the next few months I worked on a speech titled, "The Richest Man in Town." I knew how he was affecting my life, and I felt other people needed to hear his story.

Several weeks later, I tried out the talk in front of two hundred people. The impact was immediate and powerful. I could see it in the faces of those sitting in the audience. When I was done, there was a standing ovation. I knew they weren't standing for me--they were standing for Marty.

Dozens of people came up to me afterwards, visibly moved by what they had heard, and thanked me. For some of them, Marty brought up memories of an important person in their lives and they wanted to tell me about that person.

"Thank you for reminding me how to be a better person," one man said.

"No," I replied, "you need to thank Marty."

Road Trip

I had two speeches to deliver one Saturday, in South Dakota cities separated by two hundred miles. The first stop would be Dell Rapids to speak to a Lions convention. Then on to Pierre, the state capital, for a chamber of commerce event.

It would be a long day, but both Marty and Mickey wanted to go with me. As we drove out of our town, Mickey leaned forward from the back seat and asked, "Honey, did you bring a handkerchief?"

"I brought three," Marty said. "One for Dell Rapids, one for Pierre, and one for regular use."

Marty always cried during my talks. Form start to finish, tears would roll down his cheeks. I think he was overwhelmed with the idea that someone was standing in front of hundreds of people talking about his life. He couldn't believe it, even after listening to me talk dozens of times.

The first time he came to listen, I caught a glimpse of his face and almost broke down myself. After that we struck a deal. He could sit off to the side but not in front of me while I spoke. We were both better off that way.

Marty and Mickey had lived in Dell Rapids shortly after they were married. He was excited at the thought of seeing old friends. Not long after arriving at the high school gymnasium, the site of the convention, he spotted a woman named Norma. She and her husband had owned the newspaper when Marty worked there.

Norma sat with Marty and Mickey as I gave a forty-five minute talk to a crowd of one hundred seventy-five people. I concluded my remarks by introducing Marty. The entire audience stood and gave him a prolonged ovation.

Marty waved and smiled. Deep down he was proud to come back to Dell Rapids and be received in a such a fashion. He would never say it, but I knew.

A photographer lined us up for a picture to appear in the town newspaper. But Marty wouldn't smile, not even when the photographer asked. He looked at me and said, "I have a stupid smile. One side of my mouth droops." After some prodding, Marty made a half-hearted attempt at smiling.

One the road to our next appearance, Marty remarked in passing, "I've never been to Pierre in my life." I couldn't believe it. He had lived in South Dakota for more than seventy years and had never been to the state capital. "Too busy working," he told me.

As we came into town, Marty asked, "Can we stop at the World War II Memorial? I'd really like to see it." I decided to go there before checking into the hotel.

The South Dakota World War II Memorial rests on a manmade peninsula, jutting out into a small body of water aptly name Capitol Lake. Geese and ducks winter there as warm artesian water prevents it from freezing. The lake lies less than three hundred feet from the State Capitol. At just the right angle, you can see the reflection of that grand building on the water's surface. It's a beautiful place and a perfect spot to honor veterans.

Marty walked around the memorial in silence. He surveyed the six life-size bronze statues, each one representing a different branch of the military. Pausing in front of the statue of a soldier, Marty asked, "Can you take my picture here?"

I didn't have to ask why. Nor did I ask him to smile for the picture. His solemn face reminded me of the night he told me he had watched so many of his friends die.

After a few more minutes, Marty said, "That's enough." We walked back to my car without saying a word to each other. He still didn't want to talk about the war. It was just something he kept deep inside him.

We checked into the hotel and got ready for the dinner. The woman in charge of the event told me they expected four hundred guests for the banquet. Speaking to that many people usually didn't bother me. On that night I was nervous. I'd never spoken to an audience filled with farmers and ranchers. Would they like the message? Would they think it was too corny?

On our way to the banquet hall we passed by the coat racks. Dozens of black cowboy hats, all resting upside down, filled the top rows. That sight brought my anxiety to a fever pitch. I was so nervous I couldn't eat. Instead, I walked around until I was finally introduced and then walked onto the stage.

The crowd was attentive and engaging. With each passing minute I felt more comfortable. You could have heard a pin drop in that room while I spoke. They were getting it---and getting Marty.

My talk was nearly over when I said, "Marty had never been to Pierre in his life---until today." There was an audible gasp from the audience. "Marty," I asked, "would you stand up?"

Before he could get to his feet, all four hundred people in the room were on theirs. People couldn't see Marty so I motioned him to come up onto the stage. He walked up the steps, we hugged, and I left him on the stage alone. For a full two minutes the audience stood and clapped. Marty lowered his head and cried.

It was the greatest moment of my speaking life.

Immediately after the master of ceremonies ended the night's activities, a long line of people formed to see Marty. Some wanted to shake his hand, others wanted a hug. To people wanted autographs.

The next morning we drove out of Pierre and headed for home. Marty said, "I couldn't get to sleep last night, I was so excited." I couldn't sleep, either.

Celebrity Status

"All this started because you wrote that letter," Marty would say.

"No," I would reply, "all this started because of your kindness." It was an argument that neither of us could win.

I was giving my speech "The Richest Man in Town" forty to fifty times a year. In small towns, big business meetings, high school graduations, and at the base of Mount Rushmore, the message was always the same. The reaction from the crowds was always the same, too. Those who heard it wondered, is Marty for real?

Many people had to find out for themselves. People would come to the Wal-Mart in our town after they had heard me speak about him. Some would be driving on Interstate 29, which passes just outside our town, and decide to make a detour just to see if he was really there, wearing his red vest, ringing up purchases, shaking hands and giving hugs.

Two men drove one hundred fifty miles out of their way to meet him. A group of women who had heard me speak at a convention in a distant city decided to make a special trip to see him. At this Marty said, "I must be getting pretty popular."

Mickey was sitting next to Marty at the kitchen table when he told me about the women visiting him. She brushed his hand and said, "Don't you start getting a big head!"

Marty laughed, "I know, I know. Just when you start to think you're somebody, something happens to put you in your place."

That had happened to Marty a few days earlier at a grocery store. A guy walked up to him and said, "Boy, I haven't seen you since they closed down K-Mart."

True, Marty had gained some measure of fame from my talks in distant places. Around our hometown and for the people in the area, he didn't need the publicity. Every person who when through his line remembered him.

South Dakota's largest paper, the Argus Leader in Sioux Falls, published a story about Marty in the Thanksgiving edition. College students, as part of their classroom assignments on customer service, would drop by and videotape Marty as he performed his magic at his checkout counter.

Ministers talked about him in their Sunday sermons. Customers would come by the store on Monday and say, "I heard about you at church yesterday, Marty. The preacher said we need to be more like you." Marty would blush, not quite knowing what to say. It was ll very heady stuff.

One fall I received a call from a very excited Marty. "Guess what I've been asked to do?" A group of people from the local chamber of commerce had stopped at the store and asked him to serve as the grand marshal for the Festival of Lights Parade, which ushers in the Christmas season. It's an honor usually reserved for local dignitaries and political types. "Why do you think they chose me?" Marty asked. He still didn't get it.

The temperature was ten degrees on the night of the parade. Steam rose from anything even remotely warm---an idling car, the tops of buildings, the mouths and nostrils of passers-by. A strong wind from the north whipped away those little clouds and made the darkness feel even colder.

I joined a group of people huddled in front of our post office. Ten minutes before the parade was to begin, the sidewalks were empty. I felt sorry for Marty. It was big moment in his life and the weather wasn't cooperating.

All that changed when a police car's siren signaled the start of the parade. People got out of their cozy cars and left the comfort of shops and stores. Curbsides were soon filled with children and other people bundled up in their warm coats. "Look, Mom!" on little girl shouted. "Here they come!"

A color guard led the parade. Everyone on both sides of the street placed their glove-covered right hands over their hearts as the American flag passed by. Then came the moment I was waiting for--the vehicle carrying the grand marshal came gliding down the street.

Marty and Mickey were in the back seat of a pickup truck with an extended cab. Both were wearing Santa Clause hats. Sitting on the left side with his window rolled down, Marty waved furiously at the crowd.

I broke from the crowd and walked toward the pickup truck. The woman who was driving the truck smiled when she saw me and brought the vehicle to a stop. I stuck my hand inside the window to shake Marty's hand. I said, "I'm proud of you."

Marty had an enormous smile on his face. "Isn't this something!" he exclaimed.

I walked back to my place in the crowd. For the next few minutes I watched as the pickup truck moved slowly down the street. Marty's hand protruded from the half-opened window, never ceasing to wave the entire time I watched. People in the crowd waved back. Some yelled, "Yea, Marty!"

A young woman from the chamber of commerce told me they had received many calls from people thanking them for choosing Marty. He sent the office a card thanking its members for making him grand marshal. "We all remember him for that," the woman said. Marty had been such a hit with everyone that the chamber planned to ask him to be grand marshal again.

Fate had a different idea.