For a Cup of Water
By John Gilbert
c. 1987
It was in the summer of my twenty second year that I decided to try my hand at piano lessons. I had always enjoyed trying to play the piano and could knock out a rousing rendition of Dixie Land. My friends encouraged me to take lessons so I had enrolled at Rucker Music in Columbus, Georgia. I had just finished my 6th lesson and my instructor was busily praising my rapid progress. In just six weeks I had surpassed a student who had been taking lessons for months. My head swelled and I was well pleased with myself. We continued to chat as we walked from the practice room to the front of the store. As we finished our conversation the front door opened and our attention was drawn to an old Black man coming in from outside. Slowly he made his way over to where we were standing and stopped.
"May I help you?" questioned my instructor.
He removed his hat and slightly bowed his head. " Scuse me Mam, but I was wonderin' if you had any woik round here you needed doin'."
The old man was used to hard work. You could tell it in his weathered face and calloused hands. They bore testimony to a life full of hard work.
"No, I don't think so," she replied.
"Well, I kin do mos anything. I kin do plumbin' an' paint, an' yard woik."
"No. Not today," she said politely.
"Yesum. Thankee anyhow," said the old gentleman returning his hat to his head.
He turned his thin, gaunt body around and sauntered toward the door and in a moment was gone.
"Poor old fellow," she commented, "It must be awful to be out begging for work."
I agreed and told her that I would see her next week and I too made my way out the door. It was like an oven outside. The mid-July sun had almost melted the parking lot and the asphalt felt soft under my feet as I walked to my truck. I climbed in and noticed the old man entering the building across the street. I closed my door, put my key into the ignition, and started the engine. The steering wheel was a large, round branding iron to my hands. It made steering the truck painful. As I pulled onto the road I noticed the old man exiting the building. "Struck out again," I thought. Just then my attention was drawn to the Krystal Hamburger Restaurant across the street on Wynton Road. My stomach gave a rumble and I realized that it was almost two o'clock and I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I maneuvered my truck onto the Krystal's parking lot and then made my way to the back door. When I opened the restaurant's door I was hit with a blast of refrigerated air and the fragrance of frying burgers. It felt and smelled fabulous.
"May I take your order?" came a friendly voice from behind the counter.
"Four Krystals, a fry, and a chocolate shake," I answered. I paid for my meal, took my numbered slip, and found a seat.
"Thirty nine," called the waitress.
"Not me," I thought.
"Forty," she called a few minutes later.
"Boy! These people take forever, " I thought as my stomach rumbled. Funny thing about stomachs, they have no patience, only anticipation.
"Forty one," came the next call.
"I'm next," I thought greedily.
I watched as she put burgers and fries on a tray. I wondered where my shake was.
"Forty three!"
Forty three? That couldn't be right. I was next and my stomach felt cheated.
Forty three had only ordered a drink. I smiled faintly as I watched the customer receive his drink and walk past me.
"That should have been my order!" cried my jealous stomach.
"Forty two," came my call.
"At last," I sighed almost wanting to run to the counter.
I felt like an animal crouching over his prey as I shoved a fry into my mouth followed by a bite of burger.
"Boy, this is great!" I thought as I realized that there was no need to gulp my food. I slowed down and enjoyed my feast. The burger was hot and its steam filled my nostrils with its aroma. "I may have to order a few more of these."
The shake felt good to my hot throat and the food felt good to my hungry stomach.
I was just finishing my third burger when I caught site of the front door opening. It was the old man that I had seen earlier. I hadn't thought of him since I saw him coming out of that second building. He had to be hot. He looked like he was melting inside his faded clothes. Beads of perspiration soaked his brow as well as his baggy shirt. He removed his hat, which seemed to be his custom, and approached the counter.
"May I help you?" asked the waitress from behind the counter, only this time she was not as friendly as she had been with me.
Scuse me Mam, but kin I have a cup of water?" he asked.
There was a moment of hesitation.
"Do you want ice in it?" she said with an air of disgust in her voice.
"Yessum, if'n you don't mind," he answered slowly.
His throat had to have been parched, looking for work all day in the hot sun.
"That'll cost you a nickel," she demanded.
"I ain't got no nickuh, Mam," he apologized.
All eyes were now on the old man and there was a hush in the room.
"Then I can't help you!" snapped the woman.
"Give him a nickel!" shouted a voice in my mind.
He turned and walked slowly to the front door.
"Give him a dollar!" the voice screamed at me. Still I sat there with downcast eyes like everyone else.
"Don't just sit there, do something!" pleaded the voice in my mind. "Think of the good example you could set. You could make that nasty waitress look like a cold-hearted fool." Though I wrestled with the situation in my mind, still I sat there not moving a muscle.
I watched as the old man passed my window and glance in at me as I sat there holding my icy cold shake. I picked up my last hamburger and took a bite. There wasn't much flavor in it anymore. My conscience wouldn't let me forget the opportunity that I had just passed up. As I sat there the words of Matthew came clearly to mind.
"...And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water...shall in no wise lose his reward."
Still I did nothing.
"I know, I'll report her to the manager," I thought trying to ease my conscience. I saw him at the cash register taking money and placing it in a zipper bag.
"He's busy," I thought. "I'll write a letter. It'll have more impact."
As I walked to my truck I guess I knew that I would never write that letter. It was just a ploy to calm my own troubled mind. As I drove down the street, I looked to see if I could find the old man. I'd stop and give him a couple of dollars. It would be easier to do that in private than in a public place I told myself. I scanned each store I passed but I never saw the old man again.
Every now and then, while dusting off the file cabinets in my mind, I come across that scene of the old man asking for water. To this day I feel a twinge of guilt each time I remember the part that I DIDN'T play. But maybe that's not such a bad thing because it spurs me on to keep looking for him. I look for him as I help a stranded motorist or help someone with directions. I look for him as I help a child or comfort a grieving friend. I think that I will always be looking for that old man and I think that I will be a better person for it.
For A Cup Of Water by John Gilbert