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October 24, 2005

Posted on 10/23/2005 by Penny Profundo
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The Office Vending Machine - A Love/Hate Relationship

I hate vending machines.

I do.

But I’m not quite sure which I hate more: the items inside or getting the items outside.

The vending machine in my company sits next to the soda machine, which sits next to water cooler, printers, copy machines, fax machines and the bathroom entrance. This area, referred to as the "walkthrough", connects the East to the West or rather the engineering department to the programming department. The two departments harmoniously share the walkthrough and all the services and activities that occur within.

It is around 2:30 p.m. and my lunch—a slice of cheese nestled in between two pieces of buttered bread accompanied with water — is starting to wear off and I can feel the launch of a snack attack. I decide to refresh my water, hoping that by filling my stomach with something, the craving will diminish. I patiently stand at the water cooler and push the tiny blue lever and watch the water pour from the spout no faster than a bad leak. I can’t understand why a 10-gallon bottle, dumped upside down, doesn’t produce a more forceful flow. I don’t want to know the answer to that question, nor do I want to ponder it any further. A simple contraption like a water cooler isn’t worth my thought process and I’m distracted by vending machine activity anyway.

A colleague of mine has just put change into the vending machine and is pulling out a bag of Doritos. Having already been craving something sweet my temptation hasn’t increased but he just put in more change and pulled out a Twix Bar. I start to think about the vending machine concept while trying to prevent myself from salivating as he carries the Twix Bar out of my sight.

I wonder who invented the concept of storing snacks in a locked glass box to make money. Or maybe it wasn't to make money but rather just to torment passerby's? I wonder if he was friends with the person who created the slothful water cooler? I decide one was out for money the other was simply out to irritate people that were in a hurry to get out of harm's way of vending machine temptations.

I return to my desk and start typing on my computer but can’t get the thought of a succulent creamy, crunchy, caramel Twix Bar out of my mind. I look in my wallet for some change but find nothing but pennies. I check the billfold. Nothing. I check the bottom of my purse (knowing that whenever change is returned to me I carelessly throw it in any compartment) and I find two quarters in my little zipper compartment. I need 15 more cents to get the Twix Bar. I excitedly check my desk drawer but find only pennies. Uncertain why, I check my wallet again with hopes that change will magically appear. I think about the stamp I gave my cube mate earlier today and regret humbly declining the 37-cent payment so as not to appear stingy or cheap. I thought to myself that if I had only requested the 37-cent payment, I would have enough to get my Twix Bar. I stop searching for 15 cents and recheck all possible places with focus on a nickel. I am now willing to settle for 55-cent chips at this point, but I can’t even find a nickel. The thought of asking a colleague to exchange a nickel for 5 pennies seems embarrassing. Briefly, I consider sleuthing under the vending machines for lost change but quickly come to my senses and realize that I’m craving a snack—not starving for food. I remorsefully think about the dime I sucked up in the vacuum at the carwash last week, and the nickel that has been circulating the bottom of my washing machine for months.

I think about the stamp again and then the Twix, and leisurely stand up in the very direction of the cube mate who is in debt to me for the stamp and I broadly ask if anyone has a quarter that I can barrow. The cheap stamp bandit ignores me, overlooking that his phone bill is on its way to the postal hub with a free ride. A much kinder colleague quickly opens a drawer and hands me a quarter. The anticipation and anxiety subside. I politely say, "thank you" and tell her I’ll pay her back tomorrow.

I walk to the vending machine with 3 quarters in hand. The salivating increases, but I don’t mind because I know it is a matter of seconds before I sink my teeth into a juicy chocolate Twix stick. I get the usual cheap vending machine thrill as I put my quarters in the machine. I anticipate whether or not the product will fall out of the metal spirals as it should, or if it will get stuck and offer the next patron two snacks for the price of one. I recall briefly the time I got one snack for the price of two; my chips got stuck and I purchased a second bag only to have that bag stick as well.

I select A and then 3. A3, the "Home of the Twix". Just then an extra loud beep sounds in a pattern of 3 beeps. A message scrolls on the keypad telling me the machine is only accepting exact change. I panic. I cuss to myself. Under my breath I ask, “Are you kidding me?" Then I feel silly because I’m sure everyone to the East and West of the walkthrough knows I have been denied my snack. I feel worse than when my credit card is declined. I panic and I try one more time hoping I pushed the wrong keys or the machine was mistaken. Again the loud series of beeps sounds—as if the machine was doing Morse Code for “you idiot, exact change only”. I then consider getting the chips, but realize that again exact change would still be a problem.

I feel humiliated. People are walking by and they see me standing at the vending machine, which in itself is secretly embarrassing. I mean don’t we all occasionally sneak to the vending machine and quickly choose our selection without wanting to be seen as the one succumbing to bad snacks? Then we secretly slink back to our desks and snip the top of the bags open with our scissors to prevent the loud noise when opening a chip bag the traditional way.

I’m angry. Who charges 65-cents for a Twix Bar anyway? Why not 50-cents or 75-cents? It's then that I consider how much profit the vending machine is missing out on by not changing 75-cents.

I back away from the vending machine and collect my thoughts while pretending to wait for a fax. I now have 75-cents clenched in my fist, and from a distance I consider the other options that are available to me. I can see a small bag of peanuts for 75-cents. I consider the fat content, but then realize how stupid that is after I was just about to indulge in a Twix. There is a bowl of soup for 75-cents and I get annoyed. Soup in a vending machine—am I suppose to heat it up on the copy machine? And of course each vending machine hosts the mystery snack, always wrapped in an opaque color bag labeled with a name like "Auntie Ann’s Homemade Cookies", even though the manufacturing information says "Bulk Foods" from New York, New York.

I start to ponder the urban legend that says more people are killed each year by vending machines than by sharks. I can see why someone would go mad enough to try and tip a vending machine over to get a snack when they are under attack.

Suddenly, another colleague comes to the rescue with a hand full of change and gets a soda. I politely ask if he has change for my quarter and he fulfills my request. I feed the machine exact change, I select A3, and my Twix swiftly falls from the very top shelf out of the metal spirals. It breaks into pieces when it hits the tray at the bottom. I reach my arm into the hole that is covered by a flap with a razor-sharp edge and retrieve my broken Twix. I return to my desk and grab my scissors to quietly snip the top of the package, at last revealing the cracked chocolate sticks inside.

I hate that I have caved to the craving of the vending machine, but I sincerely am enjoying my snack. Now go get yourself a snack.

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October 24, 2005

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