Wednesday, February 23, 2011

On Being Tormented by a Beverage Dispenser

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

I was standing in front of the Coca Cola machine holding a fresh, crisp one-dollar bill.  After aligning the corners of the bill to the currency slot, I gave my dollar a gentle push.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  The machine grabbed the top edge of my bill and tugged it from my grip. 

I inhaled deeply and held my breath.  “C’mon. C’mon.”

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  The Coke machine spit the bill back at me.  Again.

“Crap.”

I tried again.  And again.  And again.  And again. 
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit.  
Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit.

This is getting ridiculous, I thought.  All I wanted was a refreshing beverage. But I had been foiled again.  I yearned to bang the machine with my fist and demand that it take my dollar.  I wanted to scream "Why are you mocking me!"

From experience I knew that banging, demanding and screaming would not help.  The machine held all of the power.  The machine was in control.

This is so unfair, I thought.  I had a perfectly good dollar bill.  It was legal tender.  It said so right on the front.  It was a fine and fair piece of currency and it was entitled to the same respect as every other note.  But the damn soda machine disregarded the facts and spewed my money back as if it were a something bitter and distasteful, like a bug.

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

At this point, I had some choices.  I could have offered to change.  By that I mean, I could have dug around in my purse for eighty cents in coins in lieu of paper money.  But I didn't want change.  My dollar was my dollar.  I should be able to use it.

Change wasn’t my only option.  I had other choices too.  I could have given up and walked away.  I could have stood on my principals and boycotted the whole idea.  Or I could have used a different machine.  To hell with you Coca Coal, I’ll just move over here to the Pepsi box instead!  Yes, there were options available; I knew that.  

But why should I have to change or walk away or use a different dispenser?  After all, I was in the right.  The machine was in the wrong to reject my tender.  My money was good money.  The machine needed to understand and accept the bill I was offering.  The machine needed to amend its ways!

I tried to reason with it.  “Look here.” I said.  “This is a dollar bill.  You are required to accept it in exchange for a pop.  You have no valid reason for rejecting it.  So please, just knock it off.”

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

As I stood before the impersonal beast, it occurred to me that the struggle between me and machine was a metaphor.  It represented giant institutions around us.  It represented powerful organizations that set the rules without regard for my feelings or sense of fairness. 

The machine represented mechanical bodies that would just as soon spit me out before accepting me on my own terms.  The machine held all of the power.  The machine decided what would be accepted and what would be rejected.  The machine ruled.

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 

Flooded with frustration, shoulders sagging, I quit.  There would be no refreshing Coca Cola dispensed to me that day.  I had been defeated.   I walked away.

I was standing in front of the Pepsi machine holding a fresh, crisp one-dollar bill.  After aligning the corners of the bill to the currency slot, I gave my dollar a gentle push.  The machine grabbed the top edge of my bill and tugged it from my grip. 

Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Tug.  Zzzzzzzztttttt.  Spit. 


Images attributed to and reproduced under conditions stated at this image source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Coca-cola_50cl_white-bg.jpg; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Vending_machines_at_night_in_Tokyo.jpg

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