I recently discovered that when it comes to the vending machines at work, I have a slight reputation. Apparently, I tend to be a “spaz.” A source of mirth for my colleagues. A true entertainment spectacle. To which I firmly retort:

Yeah, I know.

I’m not talking about the ordinary stuff. I think that everyone can relate to the age-old tale of getting one’s cash “eaten” by a vending machine. You put the money in, carefully make your selection, push the button, lick your lips in anticipation, and . . . nothing happens. You push the refund thingy, and . . . nothing happens. You give the machine a gentle nudge with your hip, and . . . nothing happens. You pound that bulletproof safety glass with your fists, mutter obscenities under your breath, push EVERY ONE of the buttons, and . . . you guessed it . . . nothing happens. Out of money, you skulk out of the break room as someone else is going in. (You resist the temptation to follow them in and watch them lose their money. Barely.)

But my relationship with vending machines goes deeper. I typically purchase a Diet Mountain Dew and a bag of Sun Chips at lunchtime. You would think it would be easy . . . but more often than not, something goes wrong. Resigned to my status as the Bridget Jones of the Workplace, I didn’t think too much about it until last week, when my embarrassed colleague came out of the break room claiming to have had a “Kathy moment” in there.

There’s a “moment” named after me!

So I’m coming clean now about my typical vending machine confrontations. Let me know if any of this sounds familiar to you:

It begins with the exchange of currency. Now we all know that there is no way that the “Accepts Dollar Bills” sign is telling the truth. (Trust me on this: DON’T LOOK DIRECTLY AT THE SIGN! It’s an evil conspiracy, designed to lull you into a false sense of security when you have no change.) So, because I am a person who likes to be prepared for all contingencies, I generally comb through my wallet at my desk and pull out every dollar bill I can find before my journey, saving my precious coinage for a true vending emergency. (Of course, I end up bringing the coins too, because every trip to the break room is a potential vending emergency.)

I start with the most pristine bill I own. A dollar so slender, crisp and perfect you would swear it had just been FedExed directly to my office, hot from the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Making sure to insert it face up, with good old George Washington gazing in the direction that matches the [totally misleading] “Accepts Dollar Bills” sign, I gently and optimistically release the bill into the greedy grasp of the machine’s slot. With a whiny buzz it gets sucked in. And there is a pause. An almost imperceptible delay that dangles a shred of hope in front of me like a carrot. During that fraction of a second, my emotions ricochet from disbelief, to relief, to joy, to . . . and then the dollar is spit out again with great disdain.

What the . . .?

Time to get serious.

I snatch the dollar back out of the machine and reinsert it with GW facing the OTHER way. Spit. Upside down, facing me? Spit. Upside down, facing you? Spit.

Fine. Let’s try another dollar. I just so happened to bring seven of them, you lying piece of crap! And you’ll be sorry; they’re not as pretty as the first one. You wanna play? I can go all day!

Spit, spit, spit, spit . . .

Resigned, I start plugging the machine with the motley assortment of nickels and dimes that I retrieved earlier from the bottom of my purse, as the now-pompous pop machine starts to display my pathetic journey to its asking price of $1.00:

$.05, $0.15, $0.25, $0.30, $0.40, $0.50, $0.55, $0.60, $0.65, $0.75, $0.80, $0.90, $0.95 . . .

And, smelling victory, I get cocky, and shoot that final nickel into the slot.

And it goes through to the change return.

I grab that nickel out of the change return, and humbly press it into the slot again, using normal force.

And it goes through to the change return.

I muster up all of my patience, take that nickel one last time, and gently, reverently, approach the slot. I slowly slide it through, making sure that Jefferson’s head remains upright, facing the machine during the final approach. I let gravity itself dictate the velocity of the entry as the trembling coin starts its descent, and . . . bingo! $1.00!! I am cleared for takeoff!

My confidence regained, it is time to choose my beverage. Clearly a dry martini is in order by this time, but I remain focused on the task at hand and select D-2 for my Diet Mountain Dew, at which time one of four options may occur (all of which did occur during the last two weeks, by the way):

Option 1. The machine has randomly decided it will not accept D, E or F selections. If someone pushes one of those buttons, nothing happens. But we consumers are free to choose from the egregious selections contained in rows A-C! Of course, those rows contain beverages like $2.75 Starbucks frappuccinos, scary “energy” drinks with dragons on the label, or $1.25 bottles of water, all of which would involve finessing more cash into the machine. I visit the drinking fountain.

Option 2. The machine noisily vends my plastic bottle of DMD down into the bottom receptacle, and I am supposed to predict which one of the three openings is hiding my beverage. (Is it door number one? Or door number two?…) I finally choose the right opening, only to discover that the bottle fell perfectly vertically, landing standing up, completely blocking the opening, and, consequently, dashing any hope of retrieving the beverage. And I ask you, is there any chance that I was alone in the break room when this freakish physics-defying fall occurred? Of course not. With the amused spectators looking on, I flapped that little door over and over again, as each nudge caused the bottle to list a micrometer to the left until it finally fell over in surrender.

Option 3. All systems are go. In this scenario, my bottle of Diet Mountain Dew falls onto its side in the receptacle. I choose the right door, and grab the bottle, only to discover that it is completely warm. Room temperature. The result of a recently replenished machine. And the only thing worse than pop that isn’t ice cold is coffee that isn’t scalding hot. No thanks.

Option 4. The stars are aligned: my money has been grudgingly accepted, my selection has been approved by the vending overlords, the bottle is sideways AND ice cold. I get back to my desk and set it down. And then I look closer:

It isn’t full! The above picture shows what it looked like right after being dispensed. No Photoshop tricks, no misleading tactics (And yes, I’m talking to YOU, “Accepts Dollar Bills” sign!). I examine the cap, and it hasn’t been opened. It’s just . . . not filled up all the way. Words like “tampering” and “cyanide” come to mind, and I decide that I am certainly NOT going to drink it now. I don’t care HOW cold and refreshing it looks.

Okay, pop machine. You win this round. I admit that I admire your fortitude and creativity. But for the record, I moved on to the chip machine right after that, put my money in, and selected my Sun Chips. The little restraining coil started to spin lazily, the chip bag inched forward, and I swear to God, it got stuck in the coil and didn’t drop. I hit the machine with my fist, and lo and behold, the coil started back up and graciously dropped TWO BAGS of Sun Chips gently into the bottom.

I quickly retrieved my two bags of chips before it changed its mind, grabbed my ominously tainted bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, and sauntered out of that break room, whistling, without looking back.

I’m willing to call it even.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008 at 12:10 pm and is filed under parent. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.