THE RICHEST MAN IN AMERICA, DOWN HOME

Art Harris

He put on a dinner jacket to serve as a waiter at the birthday party of The Richest Man in America. He imagined what surely awaited: a mansion, a "Rolls-Royce for every day of the week," dogs with diamond collars, servants everywhere.

Then he was off to the house, wheeling past the sleepy town square in Bentonville, a remote Arkansas town of 9,920, where Sam Walton started with a little dime store that grew into a $6 billion discount chain called Wal-Mart. He drove down a country road, turned at a mailbox marked "Sam and Helen Walton," and jumped out at a house in the woods.

It was nice, but no palace. The furniture appeared a little worn. An old pickup track sat in the garage and a muddy bird dog ran about the yard. He never spotted any servants.

"It was a real disappointment," sighs waiter Jamie Beaulieu.

Only in America can a billionaire carry on like plain folks and get away with it. And the 67-year-old discount king Sam Moore Walton still travels these windy back roads in his 1979 Ford pickup, red and white, bird dogs by his side, and, come shooting season1, waits in line like everyone else to buy shells at the local Wal-Mart.

"He doesn't want any special treatment," says night manager Johnny Baker, who struggles to call the boss by his first name as a recent corporate memo commands. Few here think of his billions; they call him "Mr. Sam" and accept his folksy ways. "He's the same man who opened his dime store on the square and worked 18 hours a day for his dream," says Mayor Richard Hoback.

By all accounts, he's friendly, cheerful, a fine neighbor who does his best to blend in, never flashy, never throwing his weight around.

No matter how big a time he had on Saturday night, you can find him in church on Sunday. Surely in a reserved seat, right? "We don't have reserved seats," says Gordon Garlington III, pastor of the local church.

So where does The Richest Man in America sit? Wherever he finds a seat. "Look, he's just not that way. He doesn't have a set place. At a church supper the other night, he and his wife were in back washing dishes."

For 19 years, he's used the same barber. John Mayhall finds him waiting when he opens up at 7 a.m. He chats about the national news, or reads in his chair, perhaps the Benton County Daily Democrat, another Walton property that keeps him off the front page. It buried the Forbes list at the bottom of page 2.

"He's just not a front-page person," a newspaper employee explains.

But one recent morning, The Richest Man in America did something that would have made headlines anywhere in the world: He forgot his money. "I said, 'Forget it, take care of it next time,'" says barber Mayhall. "But he said, 'No, I'll get it,' and he went home for his wallet."

Wasn't that, well, a little strange? "No sir," says Mayhall, "the only thing strange about Sam Walton is that he isn't strange."

But just how long Walton can hold firm to his folksy habits with celebrity hunters keeping following him wherever he goes is anyone's guess. Ever since Forbes magazine pronounced him America's richest man, with $2.8 billion in Wal-Mart stock, he's been a rich man on the run, steering clear of reporters, dreamers, and schemers.

"He may be the richest by Forbes rankings," says corporate affairs director Jim Von Gremp, "but he doesn't know whether he is or not—and he doesn't care. He doesn't spend much. He owns stock, but he's always left it in the company so it could grow. But the real story in his mind is the success achieved by the 100,000 people who make up the Wal-Mart team."

He's usually back home for Friday sales meetings, or the executive pep rally Saturday morning at 7 a.m., when Walton, as he does at new store openings, is liable to jump up on a chair and lead everyone in the Wal-Mart cheer: "Give me a W! Give me an A! Give me an L! Louder!"

And louder they yell. No one admits to feeling the least bit silly. It's all part of the Wal-Mart way of life as laid down by Sam: loyalty, hard work, long hours; get ideas into the system from the bottom up, Japanese-style; treat your people right; cut prices and margins to the bone1 and sleep well at night. Employees with one year on hoard1 qualify for stock options, and are urged to buy all they can.

After the pep rally, there's bird hunting, or tennis on his backyard court. But his stores are always on his mind. One tennis guest managed to put him off his game by asking why a can of balls cost more in one Wal-Mart than another. It turned out to be untrue, but the move worked. Walton lost four straight games.

Walton set up a college scholarship fund for employees' children, a disaster relief fund to rebuild employee homes damaged by fires, floods, tornadoes, and the like. He believed in cultivating ideas and rewarding success.

"He'd say, 'That fellow worked hard, let's give him a little extra,'" recalls retired president Ferold F. Arend, who was stunned at such generosity after the stingy employer he left to join Wal-Mart. "I had to change my way of thinking when I came aboard."

"The reason for our success," says Walton, in a company handout, "is our people and the way they're treated and the way they feel about their company. They believe things are different here, but they deserve the credit.''

Adds company lawyer Jim Hendren: "I've never seen anyone yet who worked for him or was around him for any length of time who wasn't better off. And I don't mean just financially, although a lot of people are. It's just something about him—coming into contact with Sam Walton just makes you a better person."