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The Invisible Extraordinary on Massachusetts Avenue
You’re walking down Massachusetts Avenue in Boston’s South End at 7:55 a.m. The air smells like rain on hot pavement and coffee from the Dunkin Donuts on the corner. A man in a button-down shirt passes you — same as always. Same route. Same time. You don’t even glance twice.
Just another bureaucrat, right? Filing reports. Updating databases. Nothing you’d write a story about.
But behind the plain front door of Melvin “Mel” Klayman’s modest South End apartment was something extraordinary: every wall covered with art — hundreds of prints, drawings, and paintings from floor to ceiling. Walking in was like stepping into a secret gallery. Art experts would later call it one of the most significant private art collections in New England.
This is one of those real life stories that changes how you see the ordinary people around you.
From Heat Wave Baby to True Bostonian
Born during a major summer heat wave in Malden, Massachusetts in 1949, Melvin Klayman became a true Bostonian to the core. Friends and family knew him simply as Mel. For his entire adult life, he lived in Bay Village and the South End — historic neighborhoods he chose because he truly loved their architecture, atmosphere, and energy.
From an early age, Mel understood the value of work. As a high school student, he spent summers as an intern stacking books at the Boston Public Library’s Central Library — an experience that would prove formative for someone who would later help establish the library’s first digital collections database.
The Art World’s Best-Kept Secret
Here’s what made Mel extraordinary: in the 1970s, when most young professionals were buying cars and saving for houses, Mel was walking into galleries and buying artwork by unknown artists — pieces that nobody else wanted, often for just twenty dollars. He saw something special in work that others overlooked.
This wasn’t casual collecting. Mel built an entire community around art appreciation. Gallery owners learned to call him when something special came in. Young artists learned his name, grateful for the older man who believed in their work when no one else would. His sophisticated eye, trained by decades of really looking at art, helped launch countless careers in Boston and New York.
The Walking Encyclopedia Who Made Work Feel Like Family
By day, picture Mel in a fluorescent-lit government office, surrounded by metal gray desks stretching in rows, dot-matrix printers chattering, the smell of coffee gone cold. He worked in the IT department for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, where colleagues called him “a walking encyclopedia” who could find any document in the maze of state records.
But here’s what made him remarkable: Mel was someone who’d say “It’s standard operating procedure” with absolute firmness when work demanded precision, then spend his lunch break teaching a coworker about the difference between a lithograph and an etching, or helping someone find the perfect outfit for a job interview.
His colleagues loved him for his dry sense of humor and his ability to find comedy in bureaucratic absurdity. When Mel retired, hundreds of coworkers showed up to his party — not because they had to, but because they were part of his work family and genuinely cared about him.
One coworker became a lifelong friend, describing him as “smart, steady and kind with an understated dry sense of humor” who “guided me on fashion and taught me about art. My life has been infinitely better for having Mel in it.”
Everyday Heroes at the Gym and Dunkin Donuts
Mel was a well-known member at Mike’s Gym, the Boston Sports Club, and the YMCA on Huntington Avenue. These workouts gave his life purpose and camaraderie — not just for fitness, but for the community he built there, remembering people’s birthdays, asking about job interviews, somehow finding humor in everything.
Evenings, you’d spot him walking the tree-lined streets of Bay Village and the South End, stopping to chat with shopkeepers, heading to gallery openings. And yes, regularly taking homeless people into Dunkin Donuts — not just dropping change in a cup, but sitting down, asking their names, telling them to order whatever they wanted.
The counter sticky with spilled coffee, the smell of glazed donuts, and Mel across from someone who’d been invisible for months, treating them like they mattered. And somehow, within five minutes, he’d have them laughing — often the first real laugh they’d had in weeks.
The Mitzvah Philosophy That Changed Lives
Mel grew up in a Jewish household where mitzvahs — small acts of loving-kindness — weren’t just a teaching, they were a way of life. His family had fled hardship in Russia, people who understood what it meant to need kindness from strangers. But for Mel, the greatest mitzvah was discovering someone’s potential before they discovered it themselves.
This philosophy started early. At Northeastern University, he was the first person a struggling freshman met — and she says if Mel hadn’t been there for her that year, she might not have made it. Forty years later, she still credits him with her entire career.
Throughout his life — whether he was writing letters to homesick friends, choosing unknown art, or organizing records at his government job — Mel was doing the same thing: seeing what others missed and making sure it didn’t get lost.
A Political Heart and Community Builder
Mel had an intense interest in the turbulent world of state and national politics, following the news religiously. While other people saw politics as something to argue about, Mel saw it as another way to care for community, another form of mitzvah on a larger scale.
He didn’t just help people in the moment — he created lasting change. IT systems that still run smoothly years after his retirement. Artists who now teach others. Friends who pass on his kindness. Gallery owners who learned to trust emerging talent because Mel showed them how.
The Legacy Fund and Final Wishes
Before he passed away in June 2025 at age 75, Mel established the Melvin Klayman Endowed Fund for Prints and Drawings at the Boston Public Library — specifically to help acquire works by local up-and-coming artistic talent. The same building where he’d stacked books as a young man now bears his name, funding the next generation of artists he’d never meet.
He wanted just one line on his gravestone: “Here lies Mel Klayman. He was Jewish and a child of the universe.” No titles. No accolades. Just a man who believed that if you’re part of something bigger, your job is to lift everyone else.
He believed in the individuality of all of us: he was a mensch. The kind of person who made the world a little more decent just by being in it.
The Art of Seeing People
In a world obsessed with efficiency and digital everything, Mel chose the handmade, the personal, the irreplaceable. He guided friends on fashion choices and art purchases with the same careful attention he brought to state databases. Whether you needed to fix a printer error or find the perfect outfit, Mel was your guy.
People like that are anchors in a world that’s always rushing somewhere else. They remind us that behind every spreadsheet is a person, behind every transaction is a story, behind every ordinary-looking stranger is someone with their own remarkable life.
Human Interest Stories All Around Us
Every person has a story like this. The person ahead of you in line, the one organizing files, the neighbor who waves hello. Each one carrying something beautiful, building something lasting, touching lives in ways you’d never guess.
These are the human interest stories happening all around us — everyday heroes who quietly hold everything together. American stories of community builders who practice kindness like other people practice piano: quietly, consistently, until it becomes something beautiful.
About True Stories from the Obit Files
This story is part of True Stories from the Obit Files, a documentary podcast that shares the extraordinary lives of ordinary people three times a week. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, discover the remarkable stories of teachers, mechanics, veterans, caregivers, and neighbors who lived full lives right under our noses.
Using only publicly shared obituaries and authentic storytelling, host Steve Rhode brings you stories of grit, grace, loss, love, and legacy. Always real. Always respectful. Always worth remembering.
Real people. Real lives. Never ordinary.
Transcript
[0:00] You’re walking down Massachusetts Avenue in Boston’s South End.
[0:03] It’s 7.55 in the morning. The air smells like rain on hot pavement and coffee from the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner. A man in a button-down shirt passes you. Same as always. Same route. Same time. You don’t glance twice. Just another bureaucrat, right? I’ve been filling out reports, updating databases. Nothing you’d write a story about. But behind that plain front door in his modest South End apartment, something extraordinary waited. Every wall covered in art, hundreds of prints, drawings, and paintings, floor to ceiling. It was like stepping into a secret gallery.
[0:48] Experts would later call it one of the most significant private collections in New England. Mel had assembled it quietly, carefully. One purchase at a time You know, we walk past miracles every day And we call them ordinary And we never look back, Hi, I’m Steve Rode and this is True Stories from the Obit Files Where I share real stories from real obituaries About people you might have passed on the street Without ever knowing what they carried, Melvin Clayman was 75 when he passed away in June of 2025, He was born during a sweltering summer in 1949 And he grew up in Malden, Massachusetts He excelled in school, studied German at Northeastern Earned graduate degrees in history and library science A true Bostonian to the core Mel lived his adult life in Bay Village in the South End, Neighborhoods he chose for their architecture, atmosphere, and soul For decades,
[1:53] he was just another face on those streets until you looked closer. What I didn’t expect when I kept reading, this wasn’t just about art or kindness. It was about a man who built systems for beauty, for people, for possibility, and left them running long after he was gone.
[2:17] Back in the late 1960s, Mel spent a summer stacking books at the Boston Public Library’s Central Library. A quiet job for a quiet young man, but something about it stuck. The order? The access? The idea behind every title was a life?
[2:39] Years later, Mel returned, not as a shelver, but as a builder. He helped create the Boston Public Library’s first digital collections database, transforming shelves into searchable systems. From Dewey decimals to digits, Mel made sure knowledge stayed within reach.
[3:00] Mel came from a Jewish household where mitzvahs, small acts of loving kindness, weren’t optional. They were oxygen. His ancestors had fled hardship in Russia And Mel never forgot it, But for him, the greatest mitzvahs weren’t just giving It was seeing Seeing someone’s worth before they knew it themselves, So what did his neighbors actually see? Every morning, there was Mel At Mike’s gym, the Boston Sports Club, the YMCA on Huntington His workouts gave him purpose and community, Picture this man Remembers your birthday Asks you how your job interview went Finds humor in just about everything.
[3:49] Evenings? You’d find him walking the neighborhood Stopping to chat with shopkeepers Attending gallery openings Studying each piece like it was a puzzle Waiting to be solved, And yes More than once He was sitting across from someone unhoused at Dunkin’ Donuts, not just handing them change, but asking their name, telling them to order anything they wanted. The counter might have been sticky with coffee and the air thick with glaze, and Mel was listening, I mean really listening, like no one had in weeks.
[4:30] That gift of lifting people up, it started early. One woman, now a successful professional, remembers arriving at Northeastern, homesick and overwhelmed, and meeting Mel. He wasn’t a professor, he was just there. Steady, caring. She still says decades later, if Mel hadn’t been there that year, I wouldn’t have made it. By day, Mel worked for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Organizing records and building databases For the division of capital asset management, Think glowing green screens Dot matrix printers Stacks of records And maybe some stale coffee.
[5:12] He ran on precision Standard operating procedure, he’d say But he never forgot the humans in the system At lunch, he might teach a co-worker The difference between a lithograph and an etching Or help them find the perfect outfit for an interview. He built order into data and confidence into people. His co-workers called him a walking encyclopedia. His filing systems were so solid, they’re still used today. He did such a good job laying the foundations, one said. Our way of working can keep going on without them.
[5:52] After hours, Mel stepped into a different kind of system, art. Dimly lit galleries Canvas against brick The smell of turpentine and ambition, He studied every piece with the same care he gave to a spreadsheet He didn’t just buy art He built a network Gallery owners knew his taste Young artists knew his name He believed in their work before the world did.
[6:22] Because here’s what happens when someone truly sees you. The young artist he supported in 1978, she’s now a teacher passing that belief forward. The freshman he guided in college, she mentors others now, steady, the way he was. And those strangers, those homeless people at Dunkin’ Donuts.
[6:47] Some of them probably went on to extend that same unexpected kindness because that’s how mitzvahs work. One act becomes another and another and another. When Mel retired, hundreds showed up for his farewell party, not out of obligation, but out of love. They came to honor the man who supported anyone in need, who made life better just by being in it. One co-worker said, He was smart, steady, and kind With a dry sense of humor that never missed He taught me art He taught me fashion My life is infinitely better for having Mel in it, Before he passed, Mel created the Melvin Clayman Endowed Fund For prints and drawings at the Boston Public Library The same place he once interned shelving books Now, his name hangs in the very building where he once stacked titles by hand Funding the next generation of artists he’ll never meet And on his gravestone, he only wanted one line.
[7:59] Here lies Mel Klayman He was Jewish and a child of the universe No titles, no accolades, just a man who believed that if you’re part of something bigger, your job is to lift others.
[8:14] In a world of clicks and efficiency, Mel chose handmade, the personal, and the irreplaceable. He guided friends through printer errors and fashion decisions with the same care. Whether you needed a database fixed or a shoulder to lean on, Mel was your guy. People like that, they’re just anchors in a rushing world. They remind us that behind every spreadsheet as a person behind every ordinary stranger, a remarkable life. You never know what someone’s building. Tomorrow you’ll pass someone in work clothes, someone filling out a form, someone strict about procedures. What if they’re building something beautiful? What if they’ve been quietly changing lives for decades? So the next time you’re in line behind someone who looks ordinary, ask yourself, what?
[9:06] What quiet infrastructure are they building? What lives are they shaping with a kind word? Would you notice? Would you look again? If stories like this matter to you, make sure you’re subscribed. I share a new one every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. But here we are writing a story about Mel, because Mel knew something most of us forget. Ordinary doesn’t mean unremarkable.
[9:30] He didn’t just believe in kindness. He practiced it, quietly, systematically. Like laying a foundation The kind that holds up a community for years And even now The systems he built for beauty For justice, for people They’re all still quietly humming along, Not everyone makes the front page But everyone And I mean everyone Is building something worth seeing, Real people Real lives Never ordinary Thanks for letting me tell this one And I hope you see someone differently today.