Something for Stevie.........Better grab a kleenex

[Guest guest]

Something for Stevie

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

Down 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 " truckstop

germ " ; the pairs of white shirted business men on expense accounts who think

every truckstop 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 truckstop 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

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 truckstop. Their

Social worker, which 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 Down

syndrome often had 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, 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 the 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 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 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. " 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 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, 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

through the doors 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.

WELL.................DON'T JUST SIT THERE SEND THIS STORY ON!

May God's ^i^ ^i^ ^i^ ever watch over you.