A Tiny Cup

Short story

Alakazam!

Long ago, there lived a family: a father, a mother, two sons, and two daughters. They were neither rich or poor, but they lived in comfort compared to many. The children were basically good. Their main fault, if it may be described as such, was that they left dirty dishes stacked in the sink, leaving the loading of the dishwasher as a chore for their parents.

The parents grew weary of this state of affairs, so they called a family meeting.

“We call this family meeting to order,” said the father. His co-chair, the mother, nodded in agreement. The children waited expectantly, for family meetings often involved announcements of frolicsome diversions such as trips to restaurants or the dollar cinema.

This time, though, the one item on the agenda was not anything so delightful as a planned excursion to a theme park, but the children’s habitually leaving dirty dishes on the kitchen counter. The father and mother took turns outlining the current state of affairs before proceeding to the meat of the matter: a plan to address the situation.

The plan was this: each day, as indicated on the calendar attached by magnets to the refrigerator in the kitchen, one child would be responsible for keeping the counters and the sink clear of dishes. As envisioned by the parents, this would not be an onerous task, involving as it did perhaps two or three 30-second efforts to place dishes in the dishwasher. Those efforts did not have to be on a strict timetable, for the parents knew that each child had other, more important things to do—things like homework, playing outdoors, chattering on the phone with friends, and whatever furtive solo pursuits occurred to them. Besides, everyone in the house passed through the kitchen at least ten times in the course of each twenty-four hour period, so the person whose turn it was would have ample opportunity to perform their minor chore for the benefit of the whole household. The only hint of formality to the new requirement was the presence of one child’s name on the calendar each day.

With this message conveyed and all questions and clarifications addressed, and with no new business advanced by those there assembled, adjournment was swiftly moved, seconded, and approved by outcry.

The next evening, the family settled in to watch their favorite television program together. As was their habit, they all had various snacks and drinks at hand. Some snacks were consumed directly from the packages in which they had been brought from the store, while others were taken from the package and placed on plates. A contented communal crunching, munching, and slurping sound emanated from the happy family as all eyes followed the action on the television screen.

All seemed normal until the eldest son, Clive, returned from a foraging expedition in the kitchen. He had chosen a slice of pizza left over from the previous day’s dinner. The pizza itself did not excite notice; rather, it was the fact that he carried the pizza, folded lengthwise and with the point aimed downward, balanced in a tiny porcelain teacup. Clive’s facial expression betrayed no hint of levity, and his movements, aside from the care dictated by the need to keep the pizza upright in the minuscule conveyance lest it fall to the floor, were normal. He resumed his seat on the sofa and aimed his eyes toward the television screen.

The father said, “Clive?”

Clive turned mid-munch and said, “Yes, Father?”

The younger son, Bertram, said loudly, “Gwab abud gah yooh?” around an enormous bite of cheeseburger. Bertram’s “snacks” tended toward the full-meal portion size—a habit which his parents indulged because he was an active lad and not yet afflicted with obesity. They did not, however, indulge his habit of speaking with his mouth full.

“Chew and swallow, Bert. Remember the rule.” said the father.

“Yes, Bert. Doctor Heimlich himself couldn’t save you if you inhaled that mouthful,” added the mother. The two middle sisters tittered and puffed out their cheeks in hilarious mimicry of Bertram’s Dizzy Gillespie-esque aspect.

Bertram rather strenuously swallowed his inadequately masticated bite of burger and, through gasps, said, “I said, ‘What about the rule?’ No talking during the program unless it’s an emergency.”

This story obviously took place before the advent of streaming television. It’s hard to believe now, but back then, you couldn’t pause a program. You had to consume it on the network’s terms, at the appointed time of broadcast. For that reason, the family observed a rule that, when watching a non-sports program together, one should only speak during the commercial breaks.

The father said, “You’re absolutely right, Bert. I’m sorry.” The family fell silent as the program continued.

At the next commercial break, the father said, “Clive, what are you doing?”

Clive, holding the pizza crust in one hand and the tiny porcelain cup between the thumb and forefinger of the other hand, with pinky extended, said, “I have decided to take my meals only from a tiny cup.”

The mother said, “Is that from my heirloom china set?”

Clive said, “No, Mother. I wouldn’t do that to you. I bought this cup from the thrift shop on the way home from school. It’s much more sturdy than your heirloom china. This baby could last me a lifetime.” He banged the cup against his knee bone.

The father said, “Son, that seems so inconvenient. Why would you do that?”

Clive said, “No reason, Father.”

The father said, “Oh, come on. There has to be—oops, the program’s back.”

Over the next few days, Clive did indeed consume all of his meals and snacks from the tiny cup. Beverages, too. Doing so radically altered his behavior at mealtimes. Where everyone else would load their plates, salad bowls, and drinking glasses one time, with a possible return—especially by Bertram—for seconds, Clive’s use of the tiny cup meant that he was constantly refilling his cup with a one-bite portion of one dish or another, regarding the food for a few seconds, and then eating it. At first, he would try to use his silverware to carry the sliver of food from cup to mouth, but knife and fork are not meant to be wielded vertically in so confined a vessel, but horizontally and unimpeded by steep edges. Eventually, he simply “drank” his food directly from the cup, tossing it back as one would a shot of liquor.

Aside from Clive taking his meals from a tiny cup, the family was operating more smoothly than ever. The dishes-clearing plan worked well for the first three days, with the children vying to earn the most praise from the parents for their cheerful assiduousness in placing dishes into the dishwasher. Everyone’s needs were being met, and no one was taking obvious advantage of anyone else, and the kitchen just looked less messy most of the time.

All was well until the fourth day after the plan was implemented. Late on the evening of that day, the father emerged from his study after completing a project for his job. He went to get a glass of water and was surprised to see the counter covered in dirty dishes.

Someone had not performed their duty.

He went to the refrigerator and studied the calendar and saw the name “Clive” written in the mother’s neat hand on that date.

Clive had not performed his duty.

It was late at night and everyone else was in bed, asleep. The father began rinsing the dirty dishes, preparatory to placing them into the dishwasher. But then he stopped and regarded his reflection in the window over the sink and asked himself, “What lesson are you teaching?” His jaw set firmly, he closed the dishwasher and went up to Clive’s bedroom. He knocked softly before opening the door. He entered the room and regarded Clive’s sleeping form, wrapped in bedsheets and turned toward the wall.

The father almost left without waking his son, but he caught his own reflection in the curved, reflective brass base of a lamp in that room and, under his own cartoonishly misshapen yet still discernibly stern gaze, resolved to face this issue head-on.

Shaking Clive gently by the shoulder, the father said, “Clive? Son? Wake up.”

Clive rolled toward his father groggily and said, “What? Dad? What time is it? Am I late for school?”

The father said, “No, son, it’s still nighttime. I’m sorry to wake you, but I think you forgot to do something. I need you to get up and do it.”

Clive sat up and shook the sleep from his head. “I did? What did I forget to do?”

The father said, “The dishes, son. Today was your turn to put the between-meal dishes into the dishwasher. I know it’s a new rule and you probably forgot it was your turn. That’s why we write it on the—”

Clive, fully awake now, said, “But I didn’t forget, Father.”

The father, used as he was to obedience to reasonable rules and requests, said, “You didn’t?”

Clive said, “Not at all. I remembered. I saw my name there.”

The father said, “Well, I’m confused, then. Why didn’t you do your chore?”

Clive said, as though it were obvious to any fool, “Dad, remember: I take my meals only from a tiny cup now.”

The father said, “Don’t I know it, son. But what does that have to do with being in charge of the snack dishes?”

Clive said, “Well, I think that using only one tiny cup for everything is a better solution than making me take care of everyone else’s dishes. You don’t see my tiny cup on the counter down there, do you?” Clive helpfully aimed his eyes at his bedside table where, visible in the dim light, there glowed the ivory-colored cup, in which a drop of liquid residue also caught what light there was.

“What’s in that thing?” asked the father.

Clive said, “Oh, I got thirsty and had some water.” He added significantly, “Water from my tiny cup. No mess, no worry.”

The father smiled and said, “I think I see the problem here, son. You see, when we had the family meeting and we announced the program whereby you kids would take turns taking care of the dishes—you do remember that, don’t you?”

Clive nodded, “Of course I do. That’s why I started using the tiny cup.”

The father said, “Right, I see that now. What I’m telling you is that you misunderstood our intent. We were not seeking alternative strategies to manage the number of dirty dishes that we generate. We were seeking to come up with a communal solution to a communal problem. Everyone—you kids, at least—was contributing to the problem, so everyone—you kids, specifically—could take turns solving it.”

Clive said, “Yeah. That’s typical of you.”

The father waited a full minute, during which he took deep breaths, before saying, “I know you’re smart, son. Prove it by watching your tone, now. Think carefully about your next action.”

Clive studied his father’s face for a long time. Then, sighing heavily, he strode downstairs and completed his chore.

The father and Clive never spoke of their dispute again, and Clive performed the chore without fail every fourth day from that day until the day two years later when he went off to college.

Clive did, however, continue taking his nourishment only from the tiny cup until the day, forty years later, of his father’s funeral. Then he discarded the cup and resumed taking his meals from normal dishes.

Boing!