Vending Machine Asphyxiation

The vending machine in our building is evil.

Aside from having a generally disappointing assortment of overpriced goodies, it occasionally likes to steal our money without warning. Total bully.

From across the building, and even within these soundproof walls, I will occasionally feel the low, seismic-like rumble of someone angrily hurdling their entire bodily weight against the snack machine; I think I can even tell when they've had a running start. Hours later, a bag of French Onion Sun Chips will still be lazily dangling from A4, kinda like a teasing sign saying, "Hah... You got owned. See this baggy of Sun Chips, you sissy? I got your seventy-five cents... seven times over, you loser. And I'm never giving you these Sun Chips. Go ahead. Keep throwing yourself at me. Go ahead, you just try and lift me, girlfriend."

Then there are the hand-written manifestos of anger. Sometimes typed-up letters, as if anonymity will keep the anger of the vending machine Gods at bay.


"The machine owes me 2.55."


"The Twix bar that's hanging is mine."


"If someone gets the Pretzl Niblets, I want the BBQ chips behind it"


"FYI the machine takes fives and tens, doesn't take ones or loose change, and only gives change back in nickels."

etc.



This week, the note says, "You can't get anything from Row B".
Well that's nice to know. Then, why are the items in Row B even there? Decoration?

I only ever get the Party Mix.

Party Mix!!!! WHOO!!!! YEAH PARTY! YEAH MIX!!
It's not a party without the MIX! WORD!
Party Mix! WHOOOOOOOO!

It's fifty-five cents, and it's a nice sampler of Cheetos-like thingys, Doritos-ish chips, pretzel sticks, and is fairly dense. I think it's a pretty good bang for your buck.


Fortunately for me, Party Mix is on Row C.

Today, starving. Slide a buck in without issue, punch in my C2. Nada. C2 again. Dollar spits out. Slide dollar in, but it won't take. Hit reset eleven times. Slide dollar in again, and hit C.... then 2....

AND THEN I HOLD MY BREATH.





I hear churning.





I hear bubbling.





I see the metal spiral thingy begin to rotate.





Party Mix starts to trudge forward.





It is barely to the edge when I see spiral movement STOP.










.... and then it is just a moment.

ALL TIME STOPS.


Silence.




... and then the bag begins to gently lean forward...





C'MON C'MON C'MON.... FALL!!!!!!!!!!








It awkwardly leans forward, and when the last corner of the bag begins to slide past the metal spiral thingy, it stalls, and the corner catches on the metal.








And that's when I realize: I am holding my breath.








WTF. Seriously. It's a $0.55 bag of generic snack leftovers.







I start to exhale some disappointment when the bag continues to descend and I hear that vague crunch as it hits the bottom of the vending machine window.





TRIUMPH. Thank God.








The majestic orchestral sounds play in my head, and sounds of cheering and smile proudly as I walk through the halls carrying my prize with my orange fingers.





Seriously, this is totally ridiculous. That I go through this vignette of dramatic excitement EVERY TIME I USE THE VENDING MACHINE. If I had a nickel for every time I have held my breath in apprehension using that damned machine, I'd be rich.





Well, no I wouldn't.





But I'd sure have enough change to attempt to a make a six-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper bottles. But man, I don't think I'm up to the task.