A Very Nice Thanksgiving Story

[Guest guest]

>

> 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, 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 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 the

> 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 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 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 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,

> 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

> table, all from truckers

> and trucking companies that heard about your

> problems. " Happy Thanksgiving, "

>

>

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