A Taste Without a Price

March 23, Somewhere Along the Road. Post #23 on the road to completing this 30 posts in 30 days challenge I set for myself, a taste without a price.

It’s interesting to watch people. The different types. The quiet way they move in and out of places like this—each carrying invisible baggage, unknown stories, and reasons I’ll never hear.

I’m sitting in the corner of a brand-new truck stop store, one of those polished, pieced-together buildings meant to project purposeful correctness. Not even on the map that distracts me from the trail yet. It’s bright. Fresh. Engineered to make you feel like you’re somewhere important. Somewhere acceptable. And maybe, to some degree, I am. I’ve earned enough in my life to stand here without fear. I can afford a drink, a snack, even the overpriced jerky if I want it. But not everyone in here can.

I just watched a man walk in, go straight to the soda fountain, fill up a tiny mouthful of fizz, taste it, and walk out. No purchase. Just a sip. A sparkle on his tongue. He didn’t fill the cup to the top, just enough for a mouthful and a half. When he noticed me watching, his demeanor changed. At first my ego’s judgment said he may have felt like he got caught and was in trouble. Another internal gavel wielder said it was embarrassment laced with humility. Perhaps it was, I’ll never know. He finished his sip, deposited the cup into the trash receptacle and departed.

And I sat there wondering: What’s wrong with that? What invisible rulebook says a man must pay to taste something sweet? What twisted gospel of economics says you can’t be hungry unless you’ve got money? Who wrote the doctrine that says survival must be transactional?

It’s hard to watch without tears rising. Not out of pity—but out of memory. Because I remember where I come from. I remember the want. The hope. The ache of watching others have while you pretend not to notice your own have not. I look at what I have now—a ridiculous abundance, truly—and I don’t even know how it came to me. Some mix of hard work, luck, grace, timing, and a few kind souls along the way. And now I sit here, surrounded by things that beep, shine, and offer comfort for a price. I want them. I’m willing to pay for them. But that doesn’t mean everyone can. Or should have to.

That man didn’t steal. He didn’t lie. He just wanted a taste. And maybe that taste gave him a little hope. A tiny reminder that life can still fizz up and sparkle, even for a second.

We forget sometimes. In all our buying and achieving and upgrading—we forget how fragile life is when you’re trying to survive in a system designed to ignore you. And maybe all it takes to undo that forgetting is a moment like this. A man and a sip and a taste without a price. If I had known, if I had seen him sooner, I might’ve filled a cup and handed it to him without a word. Not for applause. Not to feel better about myself. Just because we’re human. And we’re supposed to take care of each other.

Let the economists argue about right and wrong, let society obsess over profit margins and loss prevention. Let the perfect stores keep shining. I’ll sit here, in the corner, eyes open. Heart soft. Remembering that the best kind of wealth is the kind you’re willing to share with someone who just wants a taste of sweetness.

And if the future me reads this, I hope you still notice the people on the edges. The ones passing through. The ones without a dollar or a dime. I hope you always keep a cup ready—because one small act might just be the thing that reminds another soul: you matter.

– Author Known

Have you ever offered someone a taste of hope, a taste without a price? Share your story in the comments or pass this on to someone who needs a little reminder.