>Subject: Truckers' Story
>
>
>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 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 "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 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 ever so often,
> > admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and
> > what I paid him was probably the difference between their
> > 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, 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 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 hi
> > 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.
> >
> >