Hungry. Again. Sitting in the vending room at a flimsy metal
table on a wobbly chair. The vending machines hum and whisper. Don’t ask me
what they’re saying. I don’t speak vending machine.
I scan the options for desirable snack choices. One machine
holds normal vending noshes: candy bars, potato chips, cheese puffs. The other machine
boasts “Healthy Options” but apparently it’s the loosest possible definition of
“healthy.” I can choose from potato chips—baked, not fried; tiny bags of nuts,
granola bars, Twizzler bites, and—healthiest of all—Cheez-Its.
I am nothing if not health-conscious. I choose the
Cheez-Its. One dollar for a one-point-five ounce air-puffed cellophane bag of
golden, crispy, melt-in-your-mouth squares. I would literally sell my soul for a
Cheez-It on any given day.
As an aside the other day a man and a woman were browsing
the cracker aisle in Target, and I heard him say, “All of a sudden you’re
against Cheez-Its?” and she said, “I haven’t had a Cheez-It in like six years.”
Under her breath, but loud enough for the Cheez-It-despising sociopath to hear,
a woman who ate a whole box of Cheez-Its yesterday (me) said, “Communist.”
I poke the edge of my George Washington face-up into the
cash slot. The machine sucks it out of my grasp, like a pre-schooler snatching
a candy-bar from a stranger in a white van, or like Toni Taxwinkle (props John
Kass) siphoning tax dollars directly out of my bank account.
I double-check the item code and press G-5. The silver coil
turns, slowly advancing the red bag of yummage to the edge of the shelf. The
bag starts to fall, and I hold my breath, anticipating the first crunchy bite
of cheesy goodness.
But the bag catches and holds on, braced between the side of
the vending machine and the ledge. It mocks me.
I pound fecklessly on the glass, but the crackers don’t
budge. I try shaking the machine, but it weighs as much as a Hummer.
I refuse to be daunted, and I know exactly what to do. I’m
going to double down. I pull out another dollar from my wallet and square off
against the thieving apparatus. The working theory is that the second bag of
Cheez-Its will knock the first bag down as it falls.
Everything goes great: the dollar slides in, I press the
buttons, the silver coil turns. The red bag slides forward. As it reaches the
edge, I hold my breath. The package starts to fall, encounters its brother—and the
first batch gives in to the gentle push from behind, dropping into the bin.
The second package continues to move forward. For a brief
moment, my heart floods with hope, which quickly turns to bitter
disappointment. The bag hangs up in exactly the same location as the first, and
I almost give up on life.
But I like to think I’m a problem solver. I stare at the
window of row after row of delicious “healthy” snacks. I ponder how to get the
stubborn package of cheese crackers down from its perch where it clings like a
squirrel on a telephone wire: it looks like it should fall, but it stays put,
defying the alleged law of gravity. I lean down and try to reach my hand up
past the swinging plastic theft guard. (I’m only guessing that it’s called a
theft guard, because there’s no way to reach past it to the first row of snack
items, let alone three rows up where my crackers levitate.)
I look surreptitiously over my shoulder like a person
getting ready to tell a racist joke, then try another shake, another feckless
glass pounding. Nothing.
Crazy idea pops into my head. Maybe if I select the item
above the crackers, it’ll knock the bag down as it falls. I check the stash to
make sure the snack option one row up is worth the investment. I’m not going to
waste a whole dollar on sugar-free vanilla wafers for crap’s sake. Bleah. But
I’m in luck. It’s delicious, chewy Twizzler bites.
Dollar in. Buttons pressed. Coil turns. The chewy twists fall,
and I swear Time has slowed down. It’s like watching an outfield play in slow
motion, the ball heading toward the wall, the outfielder leaping, arm
outstretched—and the ball ekes past the open glove by a millimeter. The
Twizzlers bounce against the Cheez-Its, knocking them slightly out of position,
but falling uselessly to the bottom of the tray. Well, not completely
uselessly. I still get to enjoy some tasty Twizzler bites.
But now I’m mad. So far I’ve spent three dollars just to get
a tiny bag of cheese crackers, and I’ll be damned if I will let the Machines
win. This is probably what a steam-punk hero feels like. Courageous, facing
unbeatable odds in a harsh, futuristic mechanized world. “Leave no snack
behind” becomes my rallying cry.
I know it doesn’t make sense to keep trying the same thing
over and over again, but I’ve pretty much decided to spend every dollar in my
wallet if I have to—one dollar at a time. What’s the worst thing that could
happen if I give it another try? I could end up one dollar poorer still, with
only two bags of Cheez-Its and a pack of Twizzler bites to ease the sorrow of
this journey we call life.
I go for one more bag of Cheez-Its. For a terrifying moment
I think they’re both caught in vending machine limbo.
They teeter.
They fall.
Both of them.
I feel like Jack Bauer right after he disarms a nuclear bomb
and saves Los Angeles, only this is real life, man. This is some real shit.
I tell this story to M. Peevie.
“Well, where are the snacks?” she asks, always a pragmatic
child.
“I ate them,” I say.
“All of them?” She can’t believe it, which is weird because
she’s met me.
“Well, I did give one bag of Cheez-Its to Robert the
homeless guy,” I admit, blushing to admit such an act of overwhelming generosity.
“I can’t believe you didn’t save me any Twizzlers,” she
says.
