This is an E-mail I wanted to share.
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about
hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would
be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally
handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure
how my customers would react to Stevie.
He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial
features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't
worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't
generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter
is good and the pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned
me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs
who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for ! fear
of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ" the pairs of
white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every
truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those
people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched
him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week,
Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and
within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their
official truck stop mascot.
After that, I really didn't care what the rest of
the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue
jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce
in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was
exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was
visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem
was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the
customers were finished. He would hover in the background,
shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the
dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the
empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart
and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of
his rag.
If he thought a customer was watching, his brow
would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing
his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to
please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother,
a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer.
They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing
two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped
to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between
the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably
the difference between them being able to live together and
Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was
a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in
three years that Stevie missed work.
He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new
valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that
people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early
age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he
would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work
in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later
that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in
recovery, and doing fine.
Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and
did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers,
stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four ! doing a victory shimmy beside his table.
Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle
Ringer a withering look.
He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?"
he asked.
"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and
going to be okay."
"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to
tell him. What was the surgery about?"
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two
drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed:
"Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't
know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From
what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is." Belle Ringer
nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest
of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to
replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls
were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to
do.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my
office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a
funny look on her face.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his
friends were sitting cleared off af! ter they left, and Pony Pete
and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it
off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."
She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills
fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold
letters, was printed "Something For Stevie".
"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she
said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and
Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up
giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had
"Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills
were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet,
shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers."
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving,
the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.
His placement worker said he's been counting the
days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at
all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week,
making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten
him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his
mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and
invited them both to celebrate his day back.
Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop
grinning as he pushed throu! gh the d oors and headed for the back
room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I
took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a
minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your
mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth at the
rear of the room.
I could feel and hear the rest of the staff
following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing
over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers
empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big
table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and
dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded
paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up
this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.
Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then
pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie"
printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell
onto the table.
Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins
peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or
scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than
$10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and
trucking companies that heard about your problems. "Happy
Thanksgiving,".
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with
everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as
well.
But you know what's funny? While everybody else was
busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big,
big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes
from the table.
Best worker I ever hired.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
At this point, you can bury this inspirational
message or forward it fulfilling the need!
If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a
compassionate person.
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about
hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would
be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally
handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure
how my customers would react to Stevie.
He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial
features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't
worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't
generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter
is good and the pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned
me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs
who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for ! fear
of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ" the pairs of
white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every
truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those
people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched
him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week,
Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and
within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their
official truck stop mascot.
After that, I really didn't care what the rest of
the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue
jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce
in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was
exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was
visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem
was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the
customers were finished. He would hover in the background,
shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the
dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the
empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart
and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of
his rag.
If he thought a customer was watching, his brow
would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing
his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to
please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother,
a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer.
They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing
two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped
to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between
the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably
the difference between them being able to live together and
Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was
a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in
three years that Stevie missed work.
He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new
valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that
people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early
age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he
would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work
in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later
that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in
recovery, and doing fine.
Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and
did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers,
stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four ! doing a victory shimmy beside his table.
Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle
Ringer a withering look.
He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?"
he asked.
"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and
going to be okay."
"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to
tell him. What was the surgery about?"
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two
drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed:
"Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't
know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From
what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is." Belle Ringer
nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest
of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to
replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls
were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to
do.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my
office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a
funny look on her face.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his
friends were sitting cleared off af! ter they left, and Pony Pete
and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it
off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."
She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills
fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold
letters, was printed "Something For Stevie".
"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she
said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and
Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up
giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had
"Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills
were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet,
shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers."
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving,
the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.
His placement worker said he's been counting the
days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at
all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week,
making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten
him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his
mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and
invited them both to celebrate his day back.
Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop
grinning as he pushed throu! gh the d oors and headed for the back
room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I
took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a
minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your
mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth at the
rear of the room.
I could feel and hear the rest of the staff
following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing
over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers
empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big
table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and
dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded
paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up
this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.
Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then
pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie"
printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell
onto the table.
Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins
peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or
scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than
$10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and
trucking companies that heard about your problems. "Happy
Thanksgiving,".
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with
everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as
well.
But you know what's funny? While everybody else was
busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big,
big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes
from the table.
Best worker I ever hired.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
At this point, you can bury this inspirational
message or forward it fulfilling the need!
If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a
compassionate person.
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