Technically, Seward was Robert's big brother, but in reality Seward was at least 4 inches shorter, much slighter, and a lot less independent than Robert. Today, we would likely identify an intellectual disability if we were to diagnose Seward, but back then everyone just recognized that he was "special"; a guy who would live with his mother as long as he could.
Seward was as silly as Robert was serious, and he always had a huge, crooked-tooth smile on his face. He was also one of the friendliest folks you could ever meet, greeting everyone with a "How you doin today?" His nickname at the shop was Ma-shur, a wacky, southern corruption of the the French word, "Monsieur". I do not know how he came by this moniker, but the owner called him that, and so did a lot of the other staff.
Personally, I called him Seward, and he was the most cooperative coworker he could be, happily scrubbing any pot or bowl or hotel pan right away, the minute you needed it. It was also his job to mop the floors, and one evening at the end of shift I was carrying a load of knives and cutting boards and tubs over to the pot sink, when I slid precariously across the freshly cleaned floor. Regaining my balance, my eyes met his, and we both laughed.
"Whoa!" I said, "I almost fell!"
"You did, didn't you?" he answered. "You shore did!"
It was a line I heard him say a hundred times in a hundred different situations.
Another time he overheard a conversation I was having with another cook as we passed the dishwasher and he thought I was saying something to him. "What you mean?" he asked.
"I'm not talking to you, Seward," I told him.
He looked hurt. "Why? What I do?"
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