Subject: A Story of Compassion
> A Truckers Story
> If this doesn't light your fire..your wood is wet!
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little
>dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
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> 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.
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> Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a
>withering look.
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> He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
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> "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be
>okay."
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> "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What
>was the surgery about?"
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> "What's up?" I asked.
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> "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."
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> 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".
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> "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."
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> That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day
>Stevie is supposed to be back to work.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> "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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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,".
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> Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering
>and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.
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> 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.
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> Best worker I ever hired.
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> Plant a seed and watch it grow.
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> At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or forward
>it fulfilling the need!
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> If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate
>person.
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> Well.. Don't just sit there! Send this story on! Keep it going,
>this is a good one!
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> AMEN!!!!!!!