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The Richest Man in Town

By V.J. Smith

Saying Good-bye

Marty and I were sitting at his kitchen table when he asked me for a favor. "I want you to give the eulogy at my funeral."

We had never talked about death. "Well...," I said, fumbling for the right words.

Marty wasn't going to let me squirm. "Mick and I sat down with the funeral director today and dome some pre-planning. We didn't think it was fair to leave that stuff up to the kids. So we decided to take care of things early just in case something happened. Will you do it?"

I stuttered a bit, but then the right words came to me. "Sure, Marty. I'd be proud to give your eulogy. It's probably going to be pretty long, though."

He winked at me and replied, "You take all the time you need."

It was Marty who didn't have enough time.

A little over two months later Marty found himself in the hospital. For more than a year he had been losing weight, and doctors couldn't figure out why. His white blood cell count was low and he was advised to quit work. White blood cells fight infection, and doctors feared he might fall victim to a disease passed along by a customer.

If he couldn't quit working, one doctor suggested, he might consider wearing a mask  and stop shaking hands with customers. Marty wouldn't even consider it. "Now, that would kill me. I won't do it," he said.

Marty continued to shake hands--and he continued losing weight. Something was wrong.

A diagnosis finally came: an infected gall bladder. Now Marty faced the decision of surgery. "Well," he said, "I can't go on like this."

Mickey called me after her husband had left the operating room. The surgery had taken far longer than expected because the infection had spread beyond the gall bladder. "He's a mess inside," she said.

Marty was in for the fight of his life.

I decided not to visit Marty for a few days. He needed rest, and the drugs for the pain made him a little incoherent. He was dropping in and out of consciousness.

I had to summon a bit of courage to drive to the hospital, even more to find my way to the intensive care unit. A nurse told me I needed to wear a gown, mask, and plastic gloves. While putting on those protective garments I worried about what my friend would look like lying in the hospital bed. Was he in pain? How many hoses did he have connected to him? Would he even recognize me? All these thoughts had me on edge as I approached the room where they told me Marty lay.

Inside the room, I drew back a white curtain and saw a man lying on his back. He was sleeping. As I moved closer I could see a small hose leading from his nose and disappearing off the side of the bed. His mouth was wide open, sucking in as much air as his lungs could handle. I looked down at a face I didn't recognize.

I quickly retreated from this stranger's room. I went to the nurse's station and asked the young woman behind the desk if she could tell me where I could find Aaron Martinson. She pointed to the room I had just left.

At that moment I wanted to rip off the gown, throw aside the mask and gloves, and go home as fast as I could. But I knew that my friend needed me--and I needed him.

Slowly, I walked up to the side of Marty's bed. I stood there for a few minutes, staring at him and feeling sorry for him. On the other side of his bed, various pieces of hospital equipment were flashing lights and numbers. All of these things were connected to Marty, and I didn't know what they meant. 

Then Marty's eyes opened. He looked at me and lifted his left hand off the bed. It was a sign he wanted me to grab his hand, which I did. He whispered, "Hi, buddy."

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"It hurts," he said. Then he drifted off to sleep.

Soon, a young woman walked into the room. A physical therapist, she woke Marty and told him she needed to move his legs and asked for his help. He groaned at the thought. Before she began, she asked Marty, "Is this your friend?" and nodded in my direction.

Marty said, "Yes, his name is V.J. Smith."

"Is he a good friend?"

Marty answered, "Don't get me started."

----

The pain eventually went away, but Marty never got better. He lingered in the hospital for five weeks. His body slowly began to shut down. His spirit, too.

I tried to think of ways to make Marty want to live. I didn't need to remind him that the customers were waiting for him to return to Wal-Mart. More than four hundred get-well cards flooded his room. Some were from people Marty knew only by what they bought. One was signed "The Cat Food Man" and another simply The Tomato Lady."

On one of my visits I suggested we read some of the cards. After I had read just two of them aloud, Marty said, "That's enough for now." It bothered me because Marty had always enjoyed receiving notes from people.

"I suppose if I die you will have to stop talking about me," Marty said.

I replied, "Marty, as long as I'm around people are going to hear all about you."

He smiled. He wanted to be remembered.

----

On a later visit, Marty shared something with me that, to this day, I can't quite comprehend. "I know when Mickey is in the hospital coming to visit me," he told me. "I feel her presence. Five minutes before she comes in my room, I know she's here. Isn't that strange?"

I didn't quite know what to say to him, so I just smiled.

Mickey was on his mind. "Promise me something," he said. "If I die, don't forget Mickey. I'd appreciate it if you would still visit her." I promised him I would do that.

A half-hour later, Marty looked at me and said, "Mick's here." Five minutes later the door to his room opened and Mickey walked in.

I didn't want to think about how difficult Marty's illness was for Mickey. Once, when I was visiting, Mickey said she needed to go home. Still wearing the mask that protected Marty from germs, she bent down to him him good-bye. He said, "Take the damned thing off!"

Mickey said she couldn't. He held her close for a moment, then said, "You have beautiful eyes."

----

Marty seemed to be shrinking before our eyes. One day I stopped by the Martinson home and found Mickey crying. She said, "They've given up on him." I asked her what she meant. The doctors no longer required visitors to wear masks.

I knew I needed to make what might be my last visit. I stopped outside Marty's room when I heard someone talking to him. It was a doctor telling Marty his kidneys had shut down and he needed dialysis. Marty said nothing and the doctor left.

I walked in and sat down on a chair near his bed. He wasn't wearing his glasses, so I asked him if he could see okay. He whispered, "I see well enough to see my friend."

I turned away, not wanting Marty to see the tears running down my face. After a moment, I looked back at him and raised his right hand. I grabbed it and held it tight.

Marty said, "I'm sorry I'm cutting our friendship short. I wished I'd met you a long time ago."

For the next twenty minutes I held Marty's hand. He would drift in and out of consciousness, saying a few words before falling back to sleep. His eyes looked cloudy, yet he seemed focused on some distant place. His face bore no expression. He seemed very much at peace.

It was time to say our final good-bye. I stood up, bent down close to his face, and said, "I love you. Marty." He locked onto my eyes and replied, "I love you, too."

These were the last words we spoke to each other.

Early the next morning, I received a call from Marty's daughter, Lori. She said her father had taken a turn for the worse during the night. Two days later, he died.

More than four hundred get-well cards flooded his room.

A Time to Mourn

A profound sense of sadness shrouded the Martinson home. I dropped by to visit, only hours after Marty had died. Mickey and I hugged each other, and our bodies shook with grief.

Holding her, I whispered, "I'm sorry, Mick."

She said, "I know."

I followed Mickey into the kitchen and we sat down at the table where Marty had taught me so much. Members of their family moved about, not quite knowing what to do.

"We were thinking," Mickey said, "maybe Marty should wear his red Wal-Mart vest in the coffin. That's how most people remember him. What do you think?"

In that instant I couldn't think. I began to cry. Mickey handed me a tissue. In my head I could see him lying there, lifeless, yet strangely proud. My mind's eye seemed to focus on one thing: the name tag bearing "Marty" in bold letters. It would be the same badge I had seen the first time I met him. The thought of Marty's body wearing that vest was so sad, yet so very right.

The funeral was set for a Friday morning in a church in our town. The family assembled in the church basement a half-hour before the service. I was asked to join them as I was to give the eulogy I had promised Marty four months earlier.

"It's time," the funeral director told us. We marched up the steps and followed Marty's coffin, now covered with an American flag, into the worship hall. The church was so filled with people I couldn't pick out any one person.

All had filed past the coffin. He appeared as so many would remember him, wearing the red Wal-Mart vest, the name tag "Marty" pinned on the breast. Then the coffin was closed and, draped with an American flag, brought to the front of the hall.

There was a song, some readings, and another song. The next thing I knew I was standing at the pulpit talking about my friend. I took Marty's advice and took all the time I needed, filling the eulogy with his favorite stories. There was laughter and some tears.

I read from some of the cards sent to Marty when he was in the hospital. I felt it was important to share what other people thought of him.

One woman wrote: "Heard you were not feeling well. I'm praying for you and hoping you will recover soon. I enclosed a photo of myself with my husband and family, as I was not sure you would remember me by name but thought you would remember the face. I've moved to Wisconsin not but remember your warmth and consider you one of those special people I shall never forget. God made you special, Marty, with a heart twice as big as most folks and I love you for it."

To me, Marty represented everything a person of God should be.

After the pastor spoke, two members of the local American Legion Post, dressed in ceremonial attire, took the positions at each end of the coffin. They carefully lifted the American flag off the coffin and slowing folded it into a neat triangle. The group leader, now holding the folded flag, walked toward the Martinson family.

Mickey and the family stood up. The leader presented the flag to Mickey and said, "On behalf of the president of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation." I could hear people weeping.

The funeral director, another one of Marty's friends, had suggested a beautiful tribute for the conclusion of the service. A handshake had been Marty's signature to the world. So Marty's coffin was rolled to the entrance way of the worship hall. As people filed by, they place a hand on the coffin, the gesture a final handshake for a friend.

----

Anyone in our town who had not heard about Marty's death would have learned about it by reading our local newspaper. The obituary in its pages captured his spirit--and probably would have made him blush.

"Marty left an incredible mark on the many people who passed through his line at Wal-Mart," the newspaper observed. "No one was a stranger in his line, merely a friend in waiting. His life, guided by his positive attitude, was an inspiration to many people. Saddened by the loss of a husband, father, and friend, people take comfort knowing that Heaven has found a new greeter."

That weekend I found myself drawn to Wal-Mart. There was an eerie emptiness when I walked in the store. But I had heard that Marty's co-workers did something special in honor of him and I needed to see it.

Aisle 9 had been Marty's cash register. It was now decorated with balloons, flowers, pictures of Marty, candles, and a bowl of candy. The light above the cash register was on, signifying that Marty was at his post. Large sheets of poster board lay on the counter for people to write personal thoughts to Marty and his family.

From a safe distance I watched the shoppers as they stopped to pay their respects. Many stood silently, stared at the pictures, and wiped tears from their eyes. I recognized a woman who lived in another town. She was visibly moved, and I stepped forward to ask her if she was all right. "I only saw him once a month for just a few minutes," she said while crying. "He was such a sweet man."

A young woman, with brightly dyed red hair, spent five minutes looking at the pictures and reading some of the notes people had left. Then she gathered her things and went through a checkout line. She had walked twenty feet toward the exit before she stopped and put her bags on the ground. She went back to aisle 9 and wrote a note, not able to leave without saying good-bye.

Hundreds of people did this. "Thank you for making me smile," wrote Christine. A man named Bob wrote, "Marty, you were always so nice to me and my mother." Sheryl penned, "We always went out of our way to stand in Marty's line. He made our day." A woman by the name of Sharon wrote, "We need more Marty's in this world."

Yes, Sharon, we certainly do.

No one was a stranger in his line, merely a friend in waiting.

Those Precious Few Moments

Few people can actually change the world. Marty showed me that you can change your world. Along the way, you have the opportunity to be a powerful influence on the lives of other people, no matter your position in life.

It became clear to me when I visited the small town of Tracy, Minnesota, on a Sunday morning, eight months after Marty had died. I gave the sermon at a Lutheran church in that farming community. It was my third trip to Tracy in less than five months. I had talked about Marty in front of the entire teaching staff before the start of school.

Three weeks later, I received a phone call from the elementary school principal. The grade school teachers wanted to make Marty the central character in their "Character Counts" program. I smiled at the notion. Marty would have smiled, too.

Officials planned a kick-off for the program for early October. I jumped at the opportunity to speak to the children about Marty's life. Then I called Mickey to see if she would come with me. She didn't hesitate, not even for a moment.

We stood alone in the small school gymnasium that October morning. An announcement over the loudspeaker reminded everyone that the program was about to begin. Soon, more than three hundred children, many with cherubic faces, were sitting on the floor of the gym waiting for me to speak.

For the next fifteen minutes, I talked about my friend. The kids listened, which surprised me. Anyone with children knows it's difficult to keep their attention, but they listened. At the end of my talk I introduced Mickey. The children clapped.

Some children steeped forward to remove a large piece of paper that covered a bulletin board. Exposed, the board read "Marty Says" and listed the lessons he had taught me while we sat at the kitchen table of Number Fifty-seven Normandy Village.

The music teacher came forward, reminded the children to sing loud, and then led those three hundred voices in a rousing rendition of a song from the musical Scrooge, singing, "Thank you very much! Thank you very much! That's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me!"

At the conclusion of the program, the children stood in a long line in front of Mickey. Each child hugged her. A nine year-old boy said, "I'm sorry you lost your husband." Tears fell from Mickey's eyes--mine, too.

A few days after our trip to Tracy, I received an envelope containing letters from students in the fifth grade. One young girl wrote: "I want to thank you for coming to talk to us about your good friend Marty. Now I feel like Marty is my friend, too. You gave a very good speech. It touched everyone's heart forever. I knew after your speech that I wanted to be just like Marty."

Those words were on my mind as I prepared to give the sermon at the Tracy Lutheran Church a few months later. Marty, a simple man who ran a cash register, had touched her life.

As I sat in the pew, listening to the choir, I couldn't help but marvel at all that had happened since I had met Marty. The nights at the kitchen table, the countless speeches to the thousands of people. Now, I was sitting in a church, ready to tell his story again---and to share with others what I had learned from my friend.

Relationships matter most in life.

Try to do a little more.

Only you can make you happy.

Marty had died, but his goodness still lived. I'm convinced that people constantly see reminders of kindness. In Marty, people take a personal inventory of their own lives to reflect on their relationships. Marty gets in their heads.

On many occasions I've received notes from people who said that, after listening to one of my talks, they have called their mothers or fathers to thank them for all they have done. The reaction from the parents is always the same: They wonder what's wrong. The unexpected gratitude blindsides them. Then, tears of joy flow, all tapped by a simple reminder of kindness.

A local radio station broadcast the sermon that Sunday. A few days after the talk, the pastor wrote to tell me about a man who was listening while driving down a highway. He had to pull over to the side of the road because he was weeping. He had been forced to give thought to the relationships in his life.

Marty's greatest lesson was not what he told me but what he constantly showed me. In one or two minutes of time we have the opportunity to define ourselves as human beings. There isn't much room for error.

Two minutes is what Marty spent with most customers. If you think about it, two minutes is about the average amount of time we spend with most people in our lives.

In a precious few moments, what we say and what we do can be lasting.

Want proof? Not long ago a young woman approached me after I had completed a talk. I was speaking in a town one hundred fifty miles from home. The woman was crying. She told me the last time she had seen Marty was four years earlier, while she was still a college student.

With tears in her eyes, she said, "He always made me feel like I was beautiful." Then we hugged. There was no need to say anything else.

Marty was in our heads.

The End