A Glass of Water

I have three distinct memories of Richard.  The first one is a first-grade class picture.  He is easy to find because he's a head taller than everyone else and he's smiling.  We are all smiling as best we can but Richard is the only one whose puffed cheeks resemble a squirrel.
Richard did not live with his parents.  The only one of us who didn't come from a postwar suburban household, he shared a small garage apartment with his grandfather and younger brother.  I don't think I ever heard his grandfather speak, but I did see him on occasion because they lived across the street from Bob's, the neighborhood barbershop.  He had the look of an old German man. Richard's last name confirmed that.  His actions screamed frugality. There was very little money for anything according to Richard.
Richard and his brother were always well groomed, but not up on the current trends in clothing.  They must have struggled along and their grandfather looked to be well past 50.  That may have had something to do with why Richard never participated in Little League or Boy Scouts or other community activities.  Still, he smiled most of the time.

We never asked him about his parents.  We figured if he was ready to tell us anything, he'd let us know. Richard started coming by my street around the time that 6th grade turned to 7th and middle school.  One day he knocked on my door wanting to hang out and told him I couldn't because I had to canvas the neighborhood with my Radio Flyer stacked with boxes of Martino's doughnuts. My Boy Scout troop was trying to raise money for summer camp. "Would you like to buy some doughnuts from the Boy Scouts?"  That was our spiel.  Richard jumped at the chance.
"Can I go with you?" he pleaded.
"Sure, you can pull the wagon if you want."
Before we sold out, Richard was the one going to the door cheerfully succeeding by raising money for the troop of which he was not a member.  He was a natural.
The second memory I have is less painful than it once was.  As 7th graders attending middle school, we were on the bottom of the grade 7-9 barrel.  Our school was particularly tough having a diverse mixture of suburbanites, working-class families, and Latinos.  Bullying was rife, as was the tradition of "scrubbing" the new 7th graders.  This hazing rite featured big 9th graders grabbing7th graders and writing all over their faces in bright red lipstick.  Humiliating and shame-ridden.
Richard and I were aware of the danger.  We tried to walk home with any 8th or 9th graders we knew so as not to stick out.  Even the days when I walked home only with Richard I felt safe because he was taller than most.  But one day a chubby group of 9th graders approached us salivating about the fact that we might be their next 7th grade victims.
"Hey, aren't you guys 7th graders," a kid with a jiggly belly yelled as he grabbed us by our shirt sleeves.
"No, we're 8th graders, " we said, hearts racing.
"No you're not," he growled.
Richard took off running.  I had no choice but to do the same.
His big stride let him put distance on the bully bunch in no time.  Weighed down by textbooks and a binder, I didn't fare so well.
The day ended tearfully but my mom's cold cream did the trick.
Richard attended a different high school and we never saw much of each other for years.  The San Fernando Valley's population spurt created new schools and boundary lines that ended friendships.  I'd see him every so often on trips to the grocery store or barber shop but always from a distance.  Our lives like our friends transitioned into different worlds and then very different goals.  But five years later, one late August afternoon Richard strolled up my street and found his way to my front porch.  I'd been sitting outside reading when his broad smile greeted me.
"I thought you might still live here," he said.
"Yeah, just me and my dad now.  Mom died a few years ago and my sister's married now and lives in Northridge."
We caught up a bit.  After discussing high school and the whereabouts of people we remembered from elementary school, silence predominated. 
Finally I said, "Did you know that Bill Garcia was killed in Vietnam?"
He didn't.  I could see a row of fine sweat beads across Richard's forehead and upper lip.  Where had he been walking on this 90-degree day?

When I asked Richard where he was headed, his answer puzzled me.
"San Francisco, I'm tryin' to get to San Francisco. What to do think a Greyhound bus ticket costs?"
The picture before me developed quickly.  Richard's unusually short haircut screamed military. But i wondered if he was going back or going AWOL.
"I gotta get going, but could I trouble you for a glass of water?"
"Sure, would you like something to eat?"
"No just a glass of water would be great."
On my way to the kitchen, I checked my wallet.  I removed one of the two $20s I had and upon returning to the porch passed it to Richard along with an ice filled glass of water.
I've always believed we had no need to discuss anything further.
Richard departed and I never heard from him again.
Fast forward 50 years and the miracle of the internet.
One warm afternoon, on a lark I plugged Richard's name into a search engine.  I figured his last name was unusual enough that if anything came up it would be worth a look.  I found one match.  The person referenced was a student at a small community college in a remote part of Nevada.  Could this be a son? A relative?  What about a 60 something making up for lost time?