Coke and Me

This is totally serious and totally scary.

This is a story about Coke.

On Tuesday, Sept. 2, I had a major hankering for a Coke. I went to the break room, but the machines there only have 20oz bottles for $1.00, and I didn't want that much sloshing around all day, so I made the long lonely trek up to the 5th floor. There we have an ancient, rickety old machine that serves 12oz can for $0.50. For you mathematicians out there, that's a reduction in price from $0.05/oz to $0.04166/oz, or 16.66%. Needless to say, I was pretty stoked. So I put in two quarters and gleefully mashed the Coke button with my right thumb, only to be greeted with an incessantly blinking orange-red light next to the fateful words "Sold Out". Totally bummed out, I conceded defeat and pulled the coin release lever. BUT IT DIDN'T WORK! (Here's where stuff starts to get hairy.) I pulled and pulled, like a be-nickeled slot machine patron, but to no avail. I perused the less palatable options and eventually settled on the lesser of 4 evils, Sprite. Sprite is an odd sugar-water substance that is supposed to taste like lemons and limes (which would be delightful!) but instead tastes like carbonated corn syrup in water. Because that's what it is. Finishing a whole can of Sprite usually makes me feel vaguely ill, a little jittery and washed out at the same time, like I just drank diluted Windex. But I would rather feel sick than lose $0.50 of my hard earned cash! Opening a can of Sprite is the worst part. You get that wonderful kuh-shhhh-thuk sound of aluminum snapping and carbon escaping into atmosphere, and your Pavlov brain screams "Coke!" to which your tongue has to deliver the bad news, like a parent telling their overexcited offspring that they are not going to Disney World, but Dizzy Whirled instead. I dejectedly slumped back to my cube to finish the deed.

At least that was the end of my problems.

OR SO I THOUGHT!

Flash forward to Wednesday. My unsatiated taste-buds are turning on the charm again, and I think I'll try for that Coke. They must have refilled the machines last night! There will be plenty of Coke for all! I jumped on the elevator and ascended towards the clouds, my mind billowing with the prospects of Coke in the near-future. I run to the old machine to find - GASP - they have not refilled the machine. The sold out light is still resolutely shining, and for all I know may have been shining for the past 10 years, an aging beacon of a the past century. But today, I will settle for nothing less than my ultimate goal. Undeterred, I jumped back on the elevator (the girl at the front desk glancing up quizzically, wondering why I keep running around the top floor with no apparent errand), and plummet slowly back to the basement. My lips tingle as I approach the break room. I don't care if it is 20oz, I've got two days worth of Coke-imbibing pleasure to catch up on. (Which, by my previous goal of 12oz, would be 24oz, so really 20oz is taking a 4oz cut, or 20%. But at a time like this, I couldn't give a rat's ass, plus I didn't bring my calculator, because I already used my pockets to load up on quarters and hands.) Finally, there I stood, basking in the red glow of the coke machine. Just before I pushed my quarters into the slot, I glanced up and read a pleasant reminder not to shake or rock the Coke machine. Now why would I want to do that? Nationwide, more people were killed this year by falling Coke machines than by terrorists. (It's funny though, we haven't spent trillions of dollars fighting automatic drink vendors...) I chortle merrily as my quarters go bumping and chinking down the chute to rest with their kin. At last, the display reads $1.00. This is my stop, time to get off. I gently press the Coke button and wait for salvation. A whirr. A pause. A sudden clunk as a plastic bottle of liquid falls helter-skelter down from it's frigid abode. I reach into the bin at the bottom of the machine and pull out - A SPRITE! My mind reels. My hand shakes. My tongue cowers in the back of my mouth, threatening to jump down my throat and just end it all. Why, O Fates, have you such hatred reserved for me? For a moment my reeling mind reels towards revenge. I want to hurt that machine. I want to make it feel my pain. Eyes burning, I advance towards it, arms outstretched, when I remember the warning about shaking. Of course. That's just what it wants me to do. I realize this is one battle I can't win. I back away slowly, never breaking eye contact, until I'm out in the hall. Back at my desk, I feebly dump Sprite down my throat, trying to drown my sorrows in Windexy oblivion

You've won the battle, Coke machines.

But the War... well, let's just say I've got a lot of quarters left, and I won't be doing laundry for a long time. If you know what I mean.

Be afraid!

THE END