Vending Machine
By Joshua Graff
My relationship with the snack vending machine at work is the fourth most dysfunctional relationship of my entire life.
I show up to work certain that today is a different day. I’m going to ignore that machine with its vast assortment of healthy and unhealthy snacks. I’m going to be strong and walk to my meetings without a second glance.
Then, as the day gets longer, I find myself drawn to it. Like a moth to flame. I’ll tell myself that I’m just looking. That it’s harmless.
Soon, I start to crave something…beef jerky or maybe something sweet. I dig hastily into my wallet for cash because the thing doesn’t take cards.
At some point, someone put a handwritten sign on it letting you know that it also doesn’t take fives.
I dig for the required sacrificial offering and select my desired snack. The thing gobbles up my money like some sort of starved beast, and I begin to anticipate my treat.
Slowly the gears turn. Today my snack is a healthy choice as labeled by these handy plastic covers someone placed over the coil. They seek to inform you, the uninformed, that beef jerky is healthier than a Hershey bar. I weep that something like this is necessary.
As the item inches its way closer to the edge, anticipation grows. It builds quickly, and I have to remind myself how many times I’ve been burned.
It marches on, turns, and begins to fall. The corner, just the corner, catches on the healthy choice plastic and it hangs over the edge. I stare at it, disbelieving. How could you do this? How could you tempt me and pull away? Who the hell thought it was a good idea to put those plastic labels on the rails? Here, have this healthy choice snack….just kidding, eat a dick.
I stand there for a moment, hoping that gravity will draw the snack down. Of course it doesn’t.
I look around the hallway, coming to a swift conclusion. I begin to rock the machine, trying to gauge the level of intensity. Is this how a person professionally rocks a snack machine, or do I look like a man chasing a diabetic coma? Is the sweat forming on my brow from exertion or from a desperate need to win?
Sadly the item is lodged tighter into the ring and I start to pace, frustrated. Do I walk away and admit defeat or raise the level of effort from polite discourse to full on vending assault?
Inevitably, my attempts to beat this infernal machine into submission draws the attention of a co-worker. They approach, confused and concerned. Who would assault this machine thus? It only takes them a moment to assess and sympathize. Sometimes they pat my back and walk away. Other times, they offer assistance.
They have observed the level of dry humping I was performing, and have found that level unsatisfying. They will then proceed to demonstrate how to truly hall-fuck a vending machine.
Sometimes this pays off in extreme ways, like an entire payout of a single item. If the machine does reward your efforts, it usually spits out an item next to the one lodged permanently into the coil, like some deranged half gift. “You wanted the jerky, but I have deemed your efforts deserving of this bag of ten year old sunchips.”
Your colleague will interpret this as a win and walk away, smug with his overwhelming machismo. You weep quietly as your teeth grind on stale corn meal.
More often than not, you are both met with disappointment and regret as the item shifts back and forth, but never breaks free.
You wander away defeated, locked in the knowledge that the next person who walks by with ones in their pocket will get two jerky’s for the price of one. In a small way, you will have turned this failure into someone else’s triumph.
You have left the world a bit better through your suffering.
