The Folded Napkin ... A Truckers Story (as told to me by an anonymous source)
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. All the salt and pepper shakers were
exactly in 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 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. Bell 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 Bell 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 Bell 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 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.
Blessings!
