The Folded Napkin...A True Story

Folded Napkin

Every once in a while a story comes through that
is really worth reading this is one. Merry Christmas
everyone the folded napkin
(If this doesn't light your fire ... your wood is wet!!!)
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 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.