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Stevie
I try not to be 1)biased, but I had my doubts about
hiring Stevie. His 2)placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable 3)busboy. But I had never had a mentally 4)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 5)thick-tongued speech of 6)Down Syndrome.
I shouldn’t have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff 7)wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my trucker regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop 8)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.
Our only problem was convincing him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would 9)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 10)scurry to the empty table and carefully carry the dishes and glasses onto cart and 11)meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced 12)flourish of his rag. 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 13)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 14)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 15)Rochester getting a new 16)valve or something put in his heart, 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 17)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 18)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 the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory 19)shimmy beside his table. 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. Why did he need the surgery”?
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his 20)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.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper 21)napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face. “What’s up”“I asked. 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” “Tony and Pete asked me what that was all about,”she said, “So I told them 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”22)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 Day, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement counselor 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 23)jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his return to work. Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn’t stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his 24)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 25)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 26)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 27)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.
我尽量避免歧视他人，但我还是对雇
用史蒂夫心存疑虑。他的就业指导员再三向我保证，史蒂夫会是位信得过的好餐馆工。但我之前从没雇过有精神障碍的人，不知道自己是否能接受这样一位雇员，也不知道顾客们会如何看待史蒂夫—他个子矮胖，由于患有唐氏综合症而五官扁平，说话含糊不清。
我的担心是多余的。仅仅过了一个星期，史蒂夫就折服了我的其他员工。不到一个月的时间，我的那些开卡车的常客也将他正式封为主干道临时饭馆里的“福星”。从此以后，我真的一点都不在乎其余顾客会怎么看待他了。他就像一个21岁的普通青年，身着蓝色牛仔裤和耐克鞋，经常开怀大笑，总是渴望让他人满意，同时工作又总是很积极。
惟一的难处是说服他等客人吃完了再清理桌子。他会徘徊在客人背后，站累了就换换脚。他不停地扫视着餐厅，发现有客人离去，他就立刻奔向那张桌子，小心翼翼地把杯碟放到手推车上，用旧布熟练地擦起桌子。他为自己完美地完成工作而备感自豪。他总是竭尽全力让每一位客人满意，对此你不得不叹服。
后来，我们听说史蒂夫和他妈妈一起住。他妈妈是个寡妇，在反复经历了几次癌症手术后残废了。他们住在离我们饭馆两英里（约3.2千米）远的公房里，靠社会保障金生活。不时来探访他的社工坦言，他们家没有得到足够的照顾，经济拮据得很，也许正是凭借我给他的那份工资，他才有余钱和妈妈一起住，不至于被送到救济院去。因此在去年八月的一个早晨，史蒂夫工作三年来第一次请假，就使饭馆笼罩在了阴郁的气氛中。
他在罗切斯特的梅奥医院接受手术，心脏要植入一种新型的瓣膜之类的东西。手术成功的几率很大，几个月后他就可以重新回到饭馆来上班。
当天上午晚些时候喜讯传来，史蒂夫手术成功，情况良好，身体正在恢复。激动和喜悦在员工心中荡漾开来。服务员主管弗兰妮不禁发出一声尖叫，还即兴在过道上跳起了一小段舞。开货车的常客贝利·里格瞪眼看着桌旁这位跳着凯旋希米舞、有着四个孙儿的五十岁老奶奶，他咧嘴一笑，问道：“弗兰妮，这究竟是怎么回事啊？”“我们刚得到消息，史蒂夫动完手术了，很快就没事了。”“我还在想，他去了哪儿呢。我要给他讲个新的笑话。他为什么要动手术啊？”
弗兰妮立刻把情况一五一十地告诉了贝利·里格和同在一个卡座里的另外两名司机，然后叹了口气。“嗯，知道他很快就会没事，我就开心了，”她说，“但我不知道他和他妈妈怎样才能付清那些昂贵的帐单。据我所知，他们维持现在的生活都非常困难了。” 贝利·里格若有所思地点点头，弗兰妮匆匆走开，继续伺候别桌的客人了。
忙完一个上午之后，弗兰妮走进我的办公室。她手里拿着几张餐巾纸，脸上的表情有点耐人寻味。“发生什么事了？”我问。她把餐巾纸递给我，当我打开的时候，三张20美元的纸钞飘落在办公桌上。纸面上印了几个大大的粗体字“史蒂夫收”。“托尼和皮特问我怎么回事，”她说，“我就把史蒂夫和他妈妈的事告诉了他们，听完之后，他们你看我，我看你，最后就给了我这个。”说完她递给我另一张餐巾纸，上面潦草地写着“史蒂夫收”，里面包着两张50美元纸币。弗兰妮望着我，眼里噙着泪花，摇摇头，只说：“这些卡车司机啊。”
那是三个月前的事了。今天是感恩节，按计划是史蒂夫重新回到饭馆的第一天。他的就业指导员说，他一直掐着日子算，迫不及待地要上班，终于医生告诉他说可以回去工作了。尽管重新上班的第一天就是假日，但也没关系。上周，他给我们打了十次电话，提醒我们他马上就回来了，生怕我们忘了他，生怕自己丢了这份工作。我让他妈妈带他回饭馆上班，我在停车场和他们会合，邀请他们一起来饭馆，庆祝史蒂夫归来。史蒂夫瘦了，脸色更苍白了，但当他大步流星地穿过大门直奔后厨时，他还是忍不住一路笑嘻嘻的。他的围裙还挂在后厨那里，手推车也在等他归来。“悠着点，史蒂夫，别急，”我说。我挽着他和他妈妈的手臂。“工作可以待会儿再做。为了庆祝你的归来，你和你妈妈的早餐，我请了！”
我把他们领到大厅尽头一个角落处的大卡座。当我们阔步穿过饭厅的时候，我能感到并听到所有员工都跟在了我们背后。我稍微转过头顺着胳膊望过去，一桌桌咧嘴而笑的卡车司机也站起身来，和员工一样跟在了我们后面。我们在一张大桌子前停了下来。桌子上堆满了咖啡杯、茶托和餐具，压在下面的是几十张折好的餐巾纸。“史蒂夫，你首先要做的事，就是收拾这堆东西。”我努力用威严的语调说。史蒂夫看看我，又看了妈妈一眼，然后抽出其中一张餐巾纸，上面印着“史蒂夫收”几个字。他拿起餐巾纸的时候，两张10美元纸币飘落到桌面上。
史蒂夫盯着那些钱，还有所有堆在餐具下面的餐巾纸，每张纸上都打印或手写着他的名字。我转过身对他妈妈说：“那张桌子上有一万多美元的现金和支票，全都是卡车司机以及运输公司听说你们的困难后给你们的。感恩节快乐。”那一刻掌声雷动，大家都在欢呼尖叫，当然，还有一些闪耀的泪光。
可你知道最好笑的是什么吗？当所有人都忙着相互握手和拥抱时，笑容满面的史蒂夫又在为清理桌上的杯碟而忙开了。
他是我雇用过的最好的员工。
Stevie
I try not to be 1)biased, but I had my doubts about
hiring Stevie. His 2)placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable 3)busboy. But I had never had a mentally 4)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 5)thick-tongued speech of 6)Down Syndrome.
I shouldn’t have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff 7)wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my trucker regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop 8)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.
Our only problem was convincing him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would 9)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 10)scurry to the empty table and carefully carry the dishes and glasses onto cart and 11)meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced 12)flourish of his rag. 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 13)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 14)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 15)Rochester getting a new 16)valve or something put in his heart, 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 17)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 18)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 the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory 19)shimmy beside his table. 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. Why did he need the surgery”?
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his 20)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.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper 21)napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face. “What’s up”“I asked. 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” “Tony and Pete asked me what that was all about,”she said, “So I told them 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”22)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 Day, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement counselor 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 23)jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his return to work. Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn’t stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his 24)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 25)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 26)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 27)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.
我尽量避免歧视他人，但我还是对雇
用史蒂夫心存疑虑。他的就业指导员再三向我保证，史蒂夫会是位信得过的好餐馆工。但我之前从没雇过有精神障碍的人，不知道自己是否能接受这样一位雇员，也不知道顾客们会如何看待史蒂夫—他个子矮胖，由于患有唐氏综合症而五官扁平，说话含糊不清。
我的担心是多余的。仅仅过了一个星期，史蒂夫就折服了我的其他员工。不到一个月的时间，我的那些开卡车的常客也将他正式封为主干道临时饭馆里的“福星”。从此以后，我真的一点都不在乎其余顾客会怎么看待他了。他就像一个21岁的普通青年，身着蓝色牛仔裤和耐克鞋，经常开怀大笑，总是渴望让他人满意，同时工作又总是很积极。
惟一的难处是说服他等客人吃完了再清理桌子。他会徘徊在客人背后，站累了就换换脚。他不停地扫视着餐厅，发现有客人离去，他就立刻奔向那张桌子，小心翼翼地把杯碟放到手推车上，用旧布熟练地擦起桌子。他为自己完美地完成工作而备感自豪。他总是竭尽全力让每一位客人满意，对此你不得不叹服。
后来，我们听说史蒂夫和他妈妈一起住。他妈妈是个寡妇，在反复经历了几次癌症手术后残废了。他们住在离我们饭馆两英里（约3.2千米）远的公房里，靠社会保障金生活。不时来探访他的社工坦言，他们家没有得到足够的照顾，经济拮据得很，也许正是凭借我给他的那份工资，他才有余钱和妈妈一起住，不至于被送到救济院去。因此在去年八月的一个早晨，史蒂夫工作三年来第一次请假，就使饭馆笼罩在了阴郁的气氛中。
他在罗切斯特的梅奥医院接受手术，心脏要植入一种新型的瓣膜之类的东西。手术成功的几率很大，几个月后他就可以重新回到饭馆来上班。
当天上午晚些时候喜讯传来，史蒂夫手术成功，情况良好，身体正在恢复。激动和喜悦在员工心中荡漾开来。服务员主管弗兰妮不禁发出一声尖叫，还即兴在过道上跳起了一小段舞。开货车的常客贝利·里格瞪眼看着桌旁这位跳着凯旋希米舞、有着四个孙儿的五十岁老奶奶，他咧嘴一笑，问道：“弗兰妮，这究竟是怎么回事啊？”“我们刚得到消息，史蒂夫动完手术了，很快就没事了。”“我还在想，他去了哪儿呢。我要给他讲个新的笑话。他为什么要动手术啊？”
弗兰妮立刻把情况一五一十地告诉了贝利·里格和同在一个卡座里的另外两名司机，然后叹了口气。“嗯，知道他很快就会没事，我就开心了，”她说，“但我不知道他和他妈妈怎样才能付清那些昂贵的帐单。据我所知，他们维持现在的生活都非常困难了。” 贝利·里格若有所思地点点头，弗兰妮匆匆走开，继续伺候别桌的客人了。
忙完一个上午之后，弗兰妮走进我的办公室。她手里拿着几张餐巾纸，脸上的表情有点耐人寻味。“发生什么事了？”我问。她把餐巾纸递给我，当我打开的时候，三张20美元的纸钞飘落在办公桌上。纸面上印了几个大大的粗体字“史蒂夫收”。“托尼和皮特问我怎么回事，”她说，“我就把史蒂夫和他妈妈的事告诉了他们，听完之后，他们你看我，我看你，最后就给了我这个。”说完她递给我另一张餐巾纸，上面潦草地写着“史蒂夫收”，里面包着两张50美元纸币。弗兰妮望着我，眼里噙着泪花，摇摇头，只说：“这些卡车司机啊。”
那是三个月前的事了。今天是感恩节，按计划是史蒂夫重新回到饭馆的第一天。他的就业指导员说，他一直掐着日子算，迫不及待地要上班，终于医生告诉他说可以回去工作了。尽管重新上班的第一天就是假日，但也没关系。上周，他给我们打了十次电话，提醒我们他马上就回来了，生怕我们忘了他，生怕自己丢了这份工作。我让他妈妈带他回饭馆上班，我在停车场和他们会合，邀请他们一起来饭馆，庆祝史蒂夫归来。史蒂夫瘦了，脸色更苍白了，但当他大步流星地穿过大门直奔后厨时，他还是忍不住一路笑嘻嘻的。他的围裙还挂在后厨那里，手推车也在等他归来。“悠着点，史蒂夫，别急，”我说。我挽着他和他妈妈的手臂。“工作可以待会儿再做。为了庆祝你的归来，你和你妈妈的早餐，我请了！”
我把他们领到大厅尽头一个角落处的大卡座。当我们阔步穿过饭厅的时候，我能感到并听到所有员工都跟在了我们背后。我稍微转过头顺着胳膊望过去，一桌桌咧嘴而笑的卡车司机也站起身来，和员工一样跟在了我们后面。我们在一张大桌子前停了下来。桌子上堆满了咖啡杯、茶托和餐具，压在下面的是几十张折好的餐巾纸。“史蒂夫，你首先要做的事，就是收拾这堆东西。”我努力用威严的语调说。史蒂夫看看我，又看了妈妈一眼，然后抽出其中一张餐巾纸，上面印着“史蒂夫收”几个字。他拿起餐巾纸的时候，两张10美元纸币飘落到桌面上。
史蒂夫盯着那些钱，还有所有堆在餐具下面的餐巾纸，每张纸上都打印或手写着他的名字。我转过身对他妈妈说：“那张桌子上有一万多美元的现金和支票，全都是卡车司机以及运输公司听说你们的困难后给你们的。感恩节快乐。”那一刻掌声雷动，大家都在欢呼尖叫，当然，还有一些闪耀的泪光。
可你知道最好笑的是什么吗？当所有人都忙着相互握手和拥抱时，笑容满面的史蒂夫又在为清理桌上的杯碟而忙开了。
他是我雇用过的最好的员工。