NCC-Something for Stevie

[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 the 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 the 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, my head waitress, let out a war

>hoop and did a little dance 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

>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, 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.

> -Author Unknown

>

> Plant a seed and watch it grow.

>

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