Truckers Story (If this doesn't light your fire .... your wood is
>wet!!!)
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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 customer s 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a
>little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
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> 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.
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> Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a
>withering look.
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> He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
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> "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to
>be okay."
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> "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him.
>What was the surgery about?"
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> "What's up?" I asked.
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> "I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends
>were sitting cleared off after 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."
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> 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".
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> "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."
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> That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first
>day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.
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> 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.
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> Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he
>pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron
>and busing cart were waiting.
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> "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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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. "Merry Christmas,".
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> Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody
>hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.
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> 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.
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> Best worker I ever hired !
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> Plant a seed and watch it grow
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> At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or
>forward it fulfilling the need!
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> If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a
>compassionate person.
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> Well.. Don't just sit there! Send this story on! Keep it
>going, this is a good one !
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>Going to Church doesn't make a person a Christian any more than
>standing in a garage makes them a car!
