water cup

When I ask for a “water cup” at a fast food restaurant with a self-serve soda fountain, a rapid exchange of telling glances between the cashier and me ensue. The cashier’s untrusting eyes say "Are you going to steal my soda? Are you too cheap to pay the $.95 for a small drink? I and all my henchmen here in El Pollo Loco will be watching you." With my eyes I offer the maniacal rebuttal “I know you’ll be watching, but what if I sneakily fill my water cup with Sprite? From your distant post behind the counter, Sprite and water look identical. And unless you or your henchmen are willing to smell my beverage to discern the contents of my water cup, I am home free. So go ahead, smell my beverage. I dare you.”

With glares locked in mutual disdain, the cashier hands me my cup and I back slowly towards the soda fountain, never breaking our laser-beam eye lock. Once there, I grasp the flimsy handle affixed to the side of Hi-C dispensing portion of the soda fountain and let the water drain into my cup. As I and my cup again pass by the cashier en route to a seat on the hard plastic swivel chairs along the big aluminum-framed window, I send one last message via my squinty gaze which reads: “Please, do you really think I would sell my integrity for $.95 worth of corn syrup and carbonation? I tread the higher road. I accompany my meals not with the cheap thrills of soda, but with the substantive goodness of water.”