I try not to be biased, but I had my doubtsabout hiring Stevie. His placement counselor
assured me that he would be a good, reliable
bus boy (a waiter's helper in a restaurant). 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. 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. 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 move
the 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 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.
Money was tight, and what I paid him was
probably the difference between them being
able to live together and Stevie being sent to
an orphanage. 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 a hospital getting a new valve or
something put in his heart. We enquired and
learnt that people with Downs Syndrome often
have heart problems at an early age so this
wasn't unexpected. 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, 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-yearold
grandmother of four, dancing 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,” said Belle. “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 and how he and his mother were
barely getting by as it is and would now have
to pay for the bills as well. Belle Ringer
nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried
off to wait on the rest of her tables. Later,
Frannie walked into my office with a couple of
paper napkins in her hand and a funny look
on her face.
"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and
his friends were sitting cleared off after theyleft, 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 and Tony 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, 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. 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 aminute. 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 and the truckers too joining
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.”
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.
