I shed a tear or two on this forward....
--The Folded Napkin ..A Truckers Story
If this doesn't light your fire..your wood is wet!
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, reliablebusboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn'tsure 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 andthick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most ofmy trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who busestables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies arehomemade.The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; themouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretlypolish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching somedreaded "truck stop germ" the pairs of white-shirted business men onexpense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirtedwith. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so Iclosely watched him for the first few weeks.I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had mystaff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month mytruck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customersthought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eagerto 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 crumbor coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Ouronly problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after thecustomers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting hisweight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until atable was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefullybus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously wipe the table upwith a practiced flourish of his rag.If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would puckerwith 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 hemet.Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow whowas disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on theirSocial Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often,admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what Ipaid him was probably the difference between them being able to livetogether and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why therestaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the firstmorning in three years that Stevie missed work.He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve orsomething put in his heart. His social worker said that people withDowns Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn'tunexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through thesurgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morningwhen 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 littledance in the aisle when she heard the good news.Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared atthe sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmybeside his table.Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer awithering 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 beokay.""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 driverssitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: "Yeah, I'mglad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and hisMom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barelygetting by as it is." Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Franniehurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had timeto round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replacehim, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decidedwhat to do.After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had acouple 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 weresitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper weresitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This wasfolded and tucked under a coffee cup."She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto mydesk 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 Itold him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked atTony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." Shehanded me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawledon its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannielooked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply:"truckers."That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first dayStevie is supposed to be back to work.His placement worker said he's been counting the days until thedoctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was aholiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he wascoming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was injeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then metthem in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as hepushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apronand busing cart were waiting."Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and hismother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate youcoming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led themtoward a large corner booth at the rear of the room.I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind aswe marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I sawbooth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. Westopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffeecups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozensof folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is cleanup this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out oneof the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. Ashe picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking frombeneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. Iturned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks onthat table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard aboutyour problems. "Happy Thanksgiving,".Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybodyhollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shakinghands 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 orforward it fulfilling the need!If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are acompassionate person.
If this doesn't light your fire..your wood is wet!
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, reliablebusboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn'tsure 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 andthick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most ofmy trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who busestables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies arehomemade.The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; themouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretlypolish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching somedreaded "truck stop germ" the pairs of white-shirted business men onexpense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirtedwith. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so Iclosely watched him for the first few weeks.I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had mystaff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month mytruck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customersthought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eagerto 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 crumbor coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Ouronly problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after thecustomers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting hisweight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until atable was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefullybus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously wipe the table upwith a practiced flourish of his rag.If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would puckerwith 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 hemet.Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow whowas disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on theirSocial Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often,admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what Ipaid him was probably the difference between them being able to livetogether and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why therestaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the firstmorning in three years that Stevie missed work.He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve orsomething put in his heart. His social worker said that people withDowns Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn'tunexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through thesurgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morningwhen 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 littledance in the aisle when she heard the good news.Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared atthe sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmybeside his table.Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer awithering 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 beokay.""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 driverssitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: "Yeah, I'mglad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and hisMom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barelygetting by as it is." Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Franniehurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had timeto round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replacehim, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decidedwhat to do.After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had acouple 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 weresitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper weresitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This wasfolded and tucked under a coffee cup."She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto mydesk 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 Itold him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked atTony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." Shehanded me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawledon its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannielooked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply:"truckers."That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first dayStevie is supposed to be back to work.His placement worker said he's been counting the days until thedoctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was aholiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he wascoming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was injeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then metthem in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as hepushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apronand busing cart were waiting."Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and hismother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate youcoming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led themtoward a large corner booth at the rear of the room.I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind aswe marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I sawbooth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. Westopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffeecups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozensof folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is cleanup this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out oneof the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. Ashe picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking frombeneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. Iturned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks onthat table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard aboutyour problems. "Happy Thanksgiving,".Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybodyhollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shakinghands 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 orforward it fulfilling the need!If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are acompassionate person.
posted by Sam @ 3:02 PM
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