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The View from the Running Board

In this episode, Why the 'Stupid' Choice Was the Only One That Mattered.

It was the summer of 1982. I was on my knees in the humid Illinois heat, waxing the fender of a restored 1932 Plymouth Coupe.

To the passerby on the Macomb Square, I looked like a failure. Here was a guy who had studied physics, computer programming, and calculus, now sweating through his shirt as a "gopher" for Bob Melton.

And Bob? Bob was an event.

Picture a man who dressed like one of Red Skelton’s characters—not the monologue version, but the sketch comedy version. We’re talking a sport coat, clashing slacks, a tie wide enough to land a plane on, and white shoes. His wife was the fashion queen of Macomb; Bob was, shall we say, not the fashion king.

He was the wealthiest man in town, a lawyer, and a "lovable character" with a well-known thirst. At Christmas, while other shops played "Silent Night," Bob blasted Louis Armstrong’s raspy jazz trumpet through the toy store speakers.

If you asked me then if I was winning at life, I would have hesitated. But looking back from my retirement in California, that was the moment my real education began.

The Physics of Integrity

My path started normally enough. Spoon River College, then Western Illinois University in ’76. I was ready to conquer the world of physics.

I loved the lab. I loved the theory. I hated the paperwork.

In my senior year, a backlog of lab reports piled up. The class panicked and spiraled into a "copying ring." Everyone agreed to fake the data to pass. They asked me to join.

I refused. I had built the apparatus; I knew the science. I wasn't going to fake the paper. I turned in honest, incomplete work.

They passed. I failed.

That "F" cost me my scholarship. I spent the summer fighting for a "B+" in Differential Equations that felt like a Nobel Prize, but the damage was done. My academic track was derailed.

The "Stupid" Choice

By 1981, I had rebounded with a factory management offer in Chicago. Secure. Respectable. Boring.

I turned it down to sell toys for the guy in the white shoes.

People said, "You could make more on unemployment than working for Meltons!" They saw a step down. I saw a clean slate. I refused to be a cog in a machine. I’d rather sell bicycles and Cabbage Patch Kids—which were about to turn the retail world into a war zone—where I could be myself.

Lunch Counter vs. Supper Club

That brings me back to waxing that Plymouth. I wasn't doing it because I was subservient. I was doing it because beneath the loud tie and the "closet drunk" rumors, Bob was deeply lonely.

I became his surrogate son.

Our days had a rhythm. At noon, we’d grab a loose-meat sandwich at the Maid-Rite, sitting on stools. Bob liked it there; he could hide in plain sight.

But for late lunches, we’d hit the Macomb Dining Company around the corner from his jewelry store, The Diamond Den. We’d slide into a booth after the rush. The lights were low. Over steaks or catfish, the mood shifted.

I watched him hold court. I saw how business was really conducted—not in a textbook, but in a nod to a waitress and a handshake at the table. We’d stroll the Square, inspecting window displays. He was a retail genius disguised as a character actor.

In return, he gave me the keys to the kingdom. He took me to Chicago to buy inventory, introduced me to the gem trade, and paid for my first GIA seminar.

He taught me that humility isn't weakness. It’s a power move.

The Next Mountain

Listening to the speeches at Rev. Jesse Jackson’s memorial this week—former presidents Obama, Biden, and Reverend Sharpton—I was struck by a line: "We didn't come this far to turn around now."

That resonates with this kid from Cuba, Illinois. I’ve reinvented myself from the physics lab to the toy store, from diamonds to solar. Now, I’m facing my next mountain.

I’m writing my book.

I’m compiling over 400 of these stories into a memoir. It’s daunting. Some days I feel like that student staring at a pile of unfinished lab reports.

But I remember Bob's lesson: The path isn't always straight, and the "smart" move isn't always the right one.

To anyone reading this who feels stuck on the running board, waxing someone else's car: Keep going.

Your integrity is your currency. Your empathy is your strength. And if you’re willing to do the work others won't, you’ll find that God—and your own potential—isn't finished with you yet.

I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious and ask better questions. See you next time.

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