An Occurrence at ... The Candy Machine

I stand there, saliva nearly dripping from the corners of my mouth as I survey the selections before me. Chocolaty goodness beckons, crunchy cookie calls, soft angel food cake appeals. I slide my dollar into the machine’s open, gaping maw and it hungrily feasts on my bill.

With nearly quivering hand and tense fingers, I make my selection: E3, Baby Ruth! Chocolate, nougat, peanuts—everything a growing boy needs to make it through those last hours of a long day.

My stomach grumbles.
My mouth quivers.

The familiar, all too comforting sounds of the engine whirring to life elicits a sigh from me. The spiral candy holder begins to turn like a slow, steady screw as it pushes my sweet treat forward to the lip of the shelf. I watch, mesmerized by the spinning mechanism. I wait, leaning forward onto my toes so I can watch the candy’s fall to the floor of the machine and into reach of my grasping fingers.

One spin.
Two spins.
Whir, click.

What? No!

There, held in a cold, plastic embrace still sits my mouthwatering delectable, leaning forward at a cockeyed angle, unreleased by the stingy machine. I grasp the machine by its corners and give it a shake, only too aware of the potential for death that awaits me should I enrage the machine by exerting too much force. No Darwin Candidate am I! The sweet Baby Ruth slides closer, skewing above the shelf at such a degree that it seems impossible the chocolate can resist the seductive pull of gravity.

Another shake, a little more violent as my agitation with this turn of events gains hold over me. Again the bar sinks, giving me hope. Only to settle once more, even more securely entrenched in the arms of that mocking confectioner’s torture machine. Denied again!

I hear a mocking laugh from behind me. A fellow coworker has spied my distress and, having already procured her own sweet salvation, coldly mocks my misery. She is haughty in her chocolate ownership, and commanding in her place as The One With Candy. She will survive the final push to the finish line while I already am stumbling.

I nearly cry, then, knowing my own saccharine satisfaction seems so utterly unattainable. With a dejected sigh, I move away from the evil machine, collecting the few coins it does provide me on my way to the Facilities office to recuperate the rest of my lost money.

As I am about to leave the room, with defeat and forty cents in hand, I swear I hear the machine one last time. I swear the whirring sounds strangely like “Next time.”

Now the whirring sounds like laughter.

One last long, loving look at the forlorn Baby Ruth bar still dangling in the grasp of E3, and then I tear myself away and leave the cruel machine.

‘Oh yes, there will be a next time,’ I think.

I chuckle as I head down the steps toward Facilities, thoughts of retribution and destruction my sweet repast now.

'Oh yes, next time.'