I was a manager at this tiny burger joint and was told that we would have a new crew member. Through careful conversation, I discovered that this employee was mentally challenged, and would be accompanied by a “coach” who would serve as trainer and chaperon while the young woman learned her duties. My first reaction was, “Oh, no. I don’t have time to 
baby-sit. I’m busy. How are we going to manage an employee like that in such close quarters?” I could never have imagined the impact that Emma would have on us all.
Emma was introduced to the crew, and began her first day of training with her coach, while the rest of us rolled our eyes or exchanged euphemistic expressions which stood for, “She doesn’t belong here.” We noticed immediately those things which made her different from the rest of us: she had the mind of a six year old, it seemed, and a few strange habits which were disconcerting to some of us. Emma stuttered in such a way that you could almost see the words come up her throat and catch on something just before they came out, snagged by some obscure hook that caused her to stand in spasmodic silence as she struggled to get the words out. Often, we became impatient with her. We were busy people, doncha know. Emma was forever hovering a hand toward our heads, announcing, “I’m gonna kiss your forehead. . .toooooooo. . .” (This last word was always elongated, and she ended almost every sentence with it). That hovering hand of hers would try to push the hair back so that she could plant a wet kiss. We usually leaned away, saying, “Emma, don’t do that.” It wasn’t until much later, that we learned why she wanted to do this all the time to people she seemed fond of.
Her Mother had abandoned her at a very young age in a children’s home, and the only memory—the last—she had of her Mother was a gentle hand brushing her bangs away from her forehead, and the kiss her Mother planted there before she walked out of her life forever. This action was symbolic for Emma. It was her way of telling you she loved you. As time went on, then, we realized that Emma had a rather pleasing personality, even though she was unaware of the invisible lines of our personal spaces.
She grew more comfortable with the rest of the crew. At one point, our playful banter during the day resulted in my calling her ‘Emma-Sue-Joe-Bob’, and she seemed to derive so much joy from it, that the nickname stuck. She would flounce in the back door for her shift, and I would say in feigned shock, “Well! There’s Emma-Sue-Joe-Bob!” and she would laugh and wave me away with, “Oh, Jae Baeli, you’re so silly!”
Her skill at the fry station progressed as well, but we had to stress certain rules to her which would have gone without saying to anyone else: Don’t put your face near the vat, don’t let a customer see you eating fries, and don’t kiss foreheads during rush hour. When it was time for Emma to do the dishes in the afternoon, everyone learned to steer clear of the sink. Emma was so cavalier with the sprayer that dangled from a spring-supported hose, that she was unaware of the unexpected showers she gave to many of us. But we overlooked it. She was doing her job, and putting everything she had into it, and this was our idea of the perfect employee. Sure, she talked to the ketchup bottles; she loved to pile 27 onions on her burger; she often sassed crew and management with stuff like, “Mind your business,” but she was an original, and I think all of us were enriched by her presence.
Once, when Crew Leader Robert was filtering the fryer, he leaned over the boiling grease pan and lost his plastic name tag in the oil. When I fished it out with metal tongs, it was gnarled and distorted. The next day I posted the stricken name tag on the wall with a eulogy that announced “the unfortunate demise of one Robert Kennedy who fell into the fry vat” and that there would be “a candlelight memorial ceremony out back by the dumpster at midnight for those who wished to attend.”
When Emma came in to work that day, she asked where Robert was (it was his day off), and I told her he fell into the vat and burned up. She gasped and said, “Oh, that’s horrible!”—and then proceeded to walk in that familiar awkward gait to her post at the fryer. She seemed to forget all about it until Robert came to work the next day, and she immediately rushed to him crying, “Oh, Robert Kennedy, they told me you burned up!” He had no choice but to acquiesce to a kiss on the forehead.
Emma always talked too loud, had frequent bouts with depression, and occasional episodes of downright orneriness, but it wasn’t long before she was part of our little burger family, warts and all. Everyone teased her as if they were playing with a child, and she enjoyed the feeling of inclusion, the security of belonging. Those who didn’t or wouldn’t get along with Emma were usually escorted to the door. We learned a very valuable lesson working with Emma: differences are not always inherently bad. She reminded us of our blessings, and became a new blessing at the same time.
