Something for stevie
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. Stevie was short, a little dumpy, with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Down ' s syndrome.
I wasn' t worried about most of my trucker customers. Truckers don ' t generally care who buses tables as long as the food is good and the pies are homemade. The ones who concerned me were 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; ” and the pairs of white-shirted businessmen 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 little finger. Within a month my trucker regulars had adopted him as their official truck-stop mascot. After that I really didn ' t care what the rest of the customers thought.
He was 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 convincing 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 hurry to the empty table and carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto the cart and meticulously wipe the table with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brows 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 Down ' s 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, my head waitress, let out a war whoop 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
9 He grinned. “ OK, Frannie, what was that all about? ” he asked.
10 “ We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay. ” she responded.
“ I was wondering where he was, ” said Belle. “ I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about? ”
12 Frannie quickly told him and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie 's surgery, then sighed. “Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be okay, ” 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.
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. “That table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting, ” 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 also asked me what that dance 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.”
15 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. We 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 two 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 covered with a mess of coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. “ First thing you have to do, Stevie, is to clean up this mess, ” I said, trying to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had “ Something
for Stevie ” written on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at dozens of napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it.
I turned to his mother. “ There' s over $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 shouting, and there were a few tears, too. 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
—the best worker I ever hired.
乎谁收碗碟。真正让我担心的是那些高谈阔论的大学走读生，那些因惧怕” 路边餐馆的细菌” 而用餐巾悄悄擦拭银餐具的雅皮士势利眼儿们，还有那些穿白色衬衫、使用公款消费、认为餐馆里每个女服务员都渴望调情的商务人员。我知道，史蒂维在这里工作，他们会感到别扭，所以开头几个星期我密切地关注着他。
3我的担心是多余的。第一周过后，史蒂维就抓住了我每位员工的心。不足一个月，我的老顾客? 那些卡车司机们? 就正式认定史蒂维为卡车司机休息站的吉祥人物。自此以后，我不再介意其他顾客的看法了。
13上午的客流高峰一过，弗兰妮走进我的办公室。她手上拿着几张纸餐巾，表情诡异。” 怎么了？”我问。”在贝尔?林格和他朋友坐过的那张餐桌上，”她说，”这张折叠的餐巾纸就塞在一个咖啡杯下”。她把那张餐巾递给我。我抖开它，三张20 元的钞票跌落在我的桌面上。纸巾外面工整地写着：”送给史蒂维的一点心意”，字母很大很粗。
How Deep Is Your Love?
Love to some is like a cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel
And some say love is holding on
And some say let it go
And some say love is everything
Some say they don't know
At some stage or the other in our lives we experience an emotion which defies definition. It's a feeling that can only be felt and not described. An overwhelming joy that comes together with its share of sadness. Love.
Given the busy nature of our lives, it's to be appreciated that we even find the time to indulge in matters of the heart. But at the same time I wonder if we even understand its true depth. I remember having countless crushes while in school. My math teacher, our neighbour's son, my best friend's brother and lots of others whom I fancied for the colour of their eyes, the shape of their moustaches or just the way they walked. Harmless puppy loves that are as brief as soap bubbles. I can laugh about all those silly and adventurous thoughts and acts now but at that time nothing could be more serious an affair for me. Then came the stage of real relationships.