Tarzan
01-26-2002, 04:58 PM
<table>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002">people of compassion,</span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002"></span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002">this is such a great story that i just had to pass it on...</span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002"></span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002">[begin quote; signing off now]</span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2">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 down syndrome. <font face="times new roman" size="3">
>
i wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers
don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meat loaf platter is
good and the pies are homemade. the 4-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 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, which 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 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 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, 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. 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. 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, 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."
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 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 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, 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. 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.
>well.................don't just sit there send this story on!
when you're lonely, i wish you love. when you're down, i wish you joy.
when things get complicated, i wish you faith.
when things look empty, i wish you hope.
"resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to
die."
* malachy mccourt, quoted by alex witchel in the new york times
</font></font>
><font color="#000000" face="arial" size="2">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</font>
><font color="#000000" face="arial" size="2">re-claimer:this writing was written by a sui juris inhabitant living within the republic under the aegis of the declaration of independence, the bill of rights ofthe californiarepublic and the organic constitution for the united states ofamerica, as lawfully amended[sic]. this writing is expressly without the jurisdiction of the district of columbia and its territorial u.s., a corporation. all rights reserved, without prejudice.</font>
>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002">people of compassion,</span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002"></span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002">this is such a great story that i just had to pass it on...</span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002"></span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2"><span class="660442023-26012002">[begin quote; signing off now]</span></font>
><font face="arial" size="2">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 down syndrome. <font face="times new roman" size="3">
>
i wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers
don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meat loaf platter is
good and the pies are homemade. the 4-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 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, which 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 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 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, 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. 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. 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, 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."
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 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 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, 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. 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.
>well.................don't just sit there send this story on!
when you're lonely, i wish you love. when you're down, i wish you joy.
when things get complicated, i wish you faith.
when things look empty, i wish you hope.
"resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to
die."
* malachy mccourt, quoted by alex witchel in the new york times
</font></font>
><font color="#000000" face="arial" size="2">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</font>
><font color="#000000" face="arial" size="2">re-claimer:this writing was written by a sui juris inhabitant living within the republic under the aegis of the declaration of independence, the bill of rights ofthe californiarepublic and the organic constitution for the united states ofamerica, as lawfully amended[sic]. this writing is expressly without the jurisdiction of the district of columbia and its territorial u.s., a corporation. all rights reserved, without prejudice.</font>
>