The Folded Napkin - A Truckers 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 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,
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. 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."
"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 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.
"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 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.