Quiltingboard Forums - Downs Syndrome--A Great 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 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 kid 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 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.
>
>Marvin Ringers, 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 Marvin 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 Marvin 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.' Marvin 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 Marvin and his friends were sitting
>cleared off after they left, and Pete and Tony 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'.
>
>'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 givin g 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 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 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 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.