I got invited earlier this week to what is apparently a big deal among seasoned (read that as medicare-eligible) media veterans in the San Fernando Valley. A regular gathering of minds and experience that convenes at a local deli, which unto itself should give you an idea how non-Tik Tok this group is. A casual observer might snarkily observe this and call this “(Com)’Plaints, Canes and Automobiles”. A few months ago, one of those snarkers might have been me.
But when one does sit down with these experienced and still very much fertile thinkers, two key takeaways emerge. One, deli meats are far more overpriced and fatty than they used to be, and my stomach still hasn’t fully recovered from the experience. And two, first impressions are often deceiving, since one never known where genius and impact might turn up.
For a writer named V.J. Smith, that experience happened at in an equally unlikely place. Here’s how consultant Paul Balmert described it in a Christmas post from 2023:
The line at the checkout counter at the Walmart in Brookings, South Dakota was hardly the place…Smith pictured as the source of inspiration for a book. Smith’s idea about writing a book was to document the story of some leader who’d made the world a better place, explaining the road they took to make a difference.
But one day, waiting in the checkout line at Walmart, Smith started paying close attention to what was going on, up ahead. Behind the register, somebody’s grandfather was ringing up sales, carrying on conversations with customers, and finishing every transaction in exactly the same, curious way.
The guy would come around the counter, holding the change in his left hand, sticking out his right hand to shake hands with the customer. Smith observed the impact: it was huge.
Instead of writing a book, Smith wrote a letter. Addressed it to the CEO of Walmart. He got the name of the checker – Marty, as the store wouldn’t give out a last name – and wrote, “Sam Walton would be proud of Marty. Why? Because after he rings up the sale, and just before handing us the change, he sticks out his right hand to shake ours. He looks us right in the eye and thanks us. And, he sincerely means it, and we know it.”
Smith explained Marty’s influence on the store’s customers: “I like many others will stand eight deep in his cashier line. There will be a few people in the other cashier lines, but that doesn’t matter. The wait doesn’t bother us.”
Apparently, a lot of people in Brookings had become big fans of Marty. Upon reading Smith’s letter, so did the top management at Walmart. To recognize his talent and contribution in an outfit employing more than three hundred thousand, they presented Marty with their coveted Hero Award.
It’s a sweet story, made all the more sweeter when one reads Smith’s breezy account of his encounters with “Marty”–a.k.a. Aaron Martinson. Especially when one learns Martinson’s back story. He served his country admirably. He spent four decades working in newspaper shops and being a dedicated husband and father. And when retirement beckoned, he wasn’t content to simply play golf or just have occasional deli lunches. In South Dakota, neither option is particularly attractive.
Smith indeed wrote that book on Martinson and called it THE RICHEST MAN IN TOWN, based on that phrase that was used to describe George Bailey, the reformed optimist that Jimmy Stewart made famous in the Christmas classic IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE. You can buy it online; it’s a lot less expensive than deli meat and much healthier and filling. But I didn’t have to because of my own chance encounter.
I happened to sit next to a gentleman at our deli Algonquin Round Table who has similar thoughts on remaining productive and relevant even in one’s later years named Randy Bellous. His LinkedIn is rather spartan–he’s run his own production company for 35 years, specializing in Multi-Camera Live events, as his blurb says. And he just happens to have the rights to turn THE RICHEST MAN IN TOWN into a movie.
Randy’s both evangelical and proactive. We shook hands on his offer to enlighten me–much like Marty Martinson did to his customers in Brookings. He immediately had a copy out in the mail to me, promising me it would be worth the effort to devote the time to read it. His estimate was an hour; I devoured the 88 half-sized pages in far less time–about as long as some of those with healthier stomachs than mine finished their sandwiches.
And I must tell you–I now share his passion and desire to make this into something worthy of being seen. He’s apparently negotiating with some topline directors and talent in the hopes of attracting on-screen talent capable of exciting a distributor or a streamer into greenlighting it. When one considers what kinds of passion projects actually get produced–the kinds that fill the voids between blockbuster nine-figure executions of studio IP and live-action gambits that reimagine familiar animated titles in the theatres and those that provide the likes of Netflix and Prime Video with ways to entice subscribers to stick around for another month and cough up another twenty-ish bucks. I’ll add that I think my former colleagues at Apple TV+ would be well advised to at least ponder this as well–it certainly fits Tim Cook’s standards for quality content.
One can easily brainstorm the kind of talent that could play a seventy-something small town every man with the kind of emotion and nuance that the real-life Marty Martinson evoked. Off the top of my head I can point to Tom Hanks, George Clooney or Kevin Bacon. I’m sure there are other somewhat lesser names that would fit the bill. I bet our lunch group could rattle off a long list, and I’d suspect there’s far less than six degrees of separation between them. We all seem to want to keep working and relevant even in later years. Even if some of us are relegated to working in a big box store. Just like Marty Martinson.
I’d love to help Randy realize this dream. Maybe you might also be so inclined once you devour THE RICHEST MAN IN TOWN. I’m pretty sure he might even be willing to treat us all to a deli lunch in appreciation. But I assure you of this. Next time, I’m ordering the matzo ball soup.
Until next time…