Chef Donell Stallworth first noticed Charlie Hicks nearly a decade ago, a quiet presence at the Shrimp Basket in Pensacola, Florida. The recently retired accountant, a veteran of the Air Force, became a daily fixture, always ordering a cup of gumbo and settling in to watch baseball on the restaurant’s television.
Stallworth began sharing moments with Hicks during slow kitchen hours, conversations initially centered around their opposing baseball loyalties – Stallworth a Dodgers fan, Hicks devoted to the Yankees. As the baseball season ended, their talks naturally expanded, blossoming into a genuine connection. They simply grew to care for one another.
Then, one early September day, Hicks didn’t appear for his usual lunch. Denise Galloway, a manager at the restaurant, possessed Hicks’s number for emergencies and quickly learned he was unwell. She offered to deliver gumbo, but Hicks insisted on a contactless drop-off, fearing he’d expose her to illness.
Days passed, and Hicks remained absent. Galloway’s subsequent call went straight to voicemail, a chilling silence that prompted her to alert Stallworth. A growing unease settled over the kitchen crew.
Without hesitation, Stallworth drove to Hicks’s apartment on September 11th, knocking with increasing urgency. Receiving no response, he was about to leave when a faint cry for help pierced the quiet. He found Hicks on the floor, severely dehydrated and having suffered two broken ribs.
Hicks was disoriented, unable to recall the day or time. Stallworth, while relaying information to Galloway, worked to offer him water, a small comfort while awaiting the arrival of paramedics. “I don’t know what would have happened if Donell hadn’t showed up,” Hicks later confessed.
The following two months were spent in hospital and rehabilitation, a difficult journey eased by regular visits and deliveries of gumbo from his newfound friends at the Shrimp Basket. During this time, a looming concern arose: Hicks’s apartment lease was nearing its end, and a significant rent increase threatened his stability.
Casey Corbin, the restaurant’s general manager, viewed Hicks as the restaurant’s “adopted grandpa.” Discovering an available apartment next door to the Shrimp Basket, she swiftly negotiated a favorable lease, securing the space for Hicks and even arranging for the landlord to bring the paperwork to him in rehab.
Corbin and her team didn’t stop there. They spearheaded the renovations, meticulously cleaning and preparing the apartment for Hicks’s return. A niece assisted with packing up his belongings, a task Corbin described as unexpectedly emotional. “I felt a little weird about it at first…going through all this guy’s stuff. And then I was like, this is my grandpa.”
Hicks, a lifelong bachelor without children, had always considered himself a “loner.” Yet, the staff at the Shrimp Basket had irrevocably woven him into their family. Their care extended to anticipating his needs, Corbin securing a walker from a thrift store and having it signed by everyone at the restaurant.
Thanksgiving arrived, and Corbin orchestrated a feast for the staff and their families, with Hicks as the honored guest. The warmth and camaraderie were palpable. “It was so awesome,” Corbin recalled. “We’re gonna start doing this every year.”
Now living within easy walking distance of his favorite restaurant, Hicks often receives gumbo deliveries from his friends, a playful “tab” that remains delightfully unpaid. He’s still recovering, but surrounded by a community that cherishes him.
The story, initially reported by a local news station, resonated deeply. It’s a testament to the power of simple kindness and the profound impact of human connection. It’s a reminder that even a fall can lead to a remarkable rise, supported by the hands of those who care.
Corbin hopes this story will inspire others to look out for one another. “People matter,” she said, her words echoing a sentiment that now defines the atmosphere at the Shrimp Basket. “Every person that walks through that door I treat like a Mr. Hicks.”
