Let
this note find you celebrating freedom and in full self-expression.
I
found this story very moving. What excellence, dedication & working with
full passion & heart can do!!
------
The
Folded Napkin - A Trucker Stop 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 ones who concerned me were 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 peppershaker
was exactly in its place, not a breadcrumb 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.
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 Bell 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.' Bell 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 ten 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. '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.....
-------
Rohan
Singal
