A Trucker's Story-Enjoy!

[Guest guest]

A Truckers Story

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 stopgerm " 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 for the first week. 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 his 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 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 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 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. " Merry Christmas " .

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.