IJMC - I Guess The Fat Lady Sang

I almost titled this one Administrivia, although it has been a long time 
since I've sent out an Administrivia. Tonight, it somehow seems 
appropriate. I've been thinking again, dangerous habit, I know, and I've 
made a decision. I'm quitting the International Junk Mail Clearinghouse. 
We've had a few good years, and as I said a few weeks ago, I thank 
everyone for reading and enjoying at least some of what I've sent out. 
However, I'm at a point where I just don't have time for this anymore. 
The website is in need of help, my Netcom account is going away so the 
scripts I use every night won't work anymore soon, and between my job and 
my classes I'm told I don't even have time for a girlfriend right now. I 
apologize, to each and every one of you, but this is something I've got 
to do. There isn't anyone else to pick up the torch so to speak, no 
alternate moderator to pick up the reins and carry on. It's been great, 
and even fun, but I need to concentrate on other things in my life. I 
don't know quite what to say here, although it feels like a bad time for 
me to be at a loss of words. Sorry, I guess.

I'll leave you with one last story, true or not, it's touching and I hope 
you'll read it, even if you're one of those who reads the IJMC for my 
little blurbs. Enjoy, and, goodnight.                               -dave

P.S. Thanks Tom for hosting the IJMC, and Michael, for starting this all.




A Wonderful Story

I tried not to be biased in hiring a handicapped person, but 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 some dreaded "truckstop germ;
"the pairs of white shirted business men on expense accounts who think
every truckstop 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 truckstop 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 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 scurry to the empty table and carefully
bus the 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 truckstop. 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
the 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 a 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, my 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, then 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 fell onto my desk when I opened it.  On the outside,
inbig, 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, 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 possession. 

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. 

  Author Unknown



[dave's note...April Fools! I'm not quitting the International Junk Mail 
 Clearinghouse...good story though, eh?                            -dave]