~A
Special Child and The Truck-Stop~
Trying not to be biased, I was
hiring a handicapped person. His placement counselor assured me that he
would be a good, reliable busboy. I had never had a mentally handicapped
employee, and I wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers
would react to Steven. He was short, a little dumpy, and had 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 that 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.
It was these people that I was concerned might be uncomfortable around
Steven. So, I watched him closely for the first few weeks. I shouldn't
have worried though. After the first week, Steven had my entire 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 attend to
his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a
bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Steven got done with table.
Our only problem was convincing him to wait 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 the
dishes and glasses onto a cart and meticulously wipe the table 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 away from the truck-stop.
Their social worker, who stopped in to check on him every so often,
admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight and what we
paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live
together and Steven being sent to a group home. That is why the
restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first
morning in three years that Steven had 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 to 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. Fannie, my 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. Fannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a
withering look. He grinned, "OK, Fannie, what was that all about?" he
asked. "We just got word that Steven 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?" Fannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other
two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevin's surgery, then sighed.
"Yeah I am glad he is going to be okay, 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 Fannie hurried off to wait on the
rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to
replace Steven and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were
bussing their own tables until we decided what to do. After the morning
rush, Fannie 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 until 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 on my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold
letters, was printed "Something for Steven".
"Pony Pete asked me what that was about," she said, "so I told him about
Steven and his mom and everything, and Pete and they ended up giving me
this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something for
Steven" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its
folds. Fannie looked at me with wet shiny eyes, shook her head and said
simply, "truckers" -- 'ya got to love 'em.
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Steven
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 that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the last week,
making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or
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 in to celebrate
his being back at work. Steven was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop
grinning as he pushed through the door and headed for the back room
where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Steven -- not so fast," I said, as I took him and his
mother by the arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate your
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 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 get up 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 napkins.
First thing you have to do, Steven, is clean up this mess," I said;
trying to sound stern. Steven looked at me, and then his mother, then
pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Steven" printed on
the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.
Steven 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 really 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, Steven, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all
the cups and dishes from the table. Best worker I ever hired!
~author unknown~
sent to me by
Barbara from ~SWH~
Barbara thank you for sharing
this heart touching story with me
July 2007
Web owner
HEATHER
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