The Folded Napkin
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. 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
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."
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.
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!".
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.
