At
the Literature Symposium
When
I Got in a Fight
with
a Vending Machine
Black,
carefully pressed trousers swished against my ankles as my kitten heels tapped
down the tiled hallway, also black. For the sake of the image, I will also tell
you that I was wearing a salmon colored blouse with a black fitted jacket; my
hair was perfectly smoothed and in my left hand was a professional folder with
my presentation in it. It was in my left hand so that I could easily shake
hands with someone important, should I meet them just around the corner. I
walked expertly into the classroom and sat down at the conference table to
watch the other presentations while I awaited my turn.
My professor came over
to greet me, commenting on how sharp I appeared and wishing me luck. I had
spent the better part of five weeks working with him on my essay on the
well-known Hemingway piece, Hills Like
White Elephants. Everyone else in the room had read it, surely, and no one
else cared nearly as much about it as I did. I was convinced that I had cracked the code;
what I was about to say to them would impress and astonish, and they would go
home and reread the story and credit me forever in their retelling of how their
life was changed by this story.
The presentation went
well, my slides all worked in order, and the polite applause felt more than
polite as I sat down. We were all professionals there, no one knew, unless
previously introduced, who was a student, or an author, or an editor, or a
professor. Everyone was dressed in the same black-heavy ensemble, using big
words in complicated sentences to say simple things. “She was piously indebted to his work” instead
of “She is obsessed. Really, it’s sort of an issue”.
And right in the middle
of this wonderful networking opportunity, I got the munchies. There was a table
in the corner with coffee and tea and cheese cubes from the sponsors, but that
would not do. I took my very professional self out into the hallway, and went
on a hunt for some chocolate, crunchy chocolate. This was a situation in need
of nothing short of peanut M&M’s. Arriving at the vending machine. I
quickly scanned the rows, nearly disappointed before I caught sight of the last
yellow bag of pure happiness, sitting precariously on the edge of the shelf. I
hurriedly collected dirty coins from the bottom of my little purse and paid
homage to the vending machine gods to the beeping song of “E-12”.
The coins clanked and
the buttons beeped and the machine whirred as the little silver cage let my
M&M’s free; the yellow package hit the bottom of the machine with a noise
that was just loud enough for me to be embarrassed, hoping no one had heard me.
In the hopes of being discreet, I stooped to retrieve them and planning to
quickly put them in my bag, the end open for the sneaking-one-by-one position I
had perfected by now, after days and days of mid-class breaks that required
just this stop to get me through the last half of lecture.
And that’s when it
happened. The machine. The door, the little door on the bottom of the machine,
behind which sat my prize; it wouldn’t open. I mean, it opened, but not enough
to get my hand in. I paused with a verbal question mark escaping my lips as I
tried again. Nope, the door would only open far enough to get my fingers
through the gap, several inches away from my candy before it loudly hit the
metal plate inside that was bent just a millimeter too far in. I tried again and again, clank, slap, clank, slap, clank, slap. Surely someone would have
heard me by now but it didn’t matter, I needed my M&M’s; I paid for them
and I was NOT about to leave them
here for the next person with slightly smaller wrists to conquer!
I stood up and peered
down into the machine, where my M&M’s were held captive like a prisoner of
war. My makeup smeared on the glass as I leaned into it, holding both sides of
the machine as if I could shake the door open. I decided to try my foot as a
means of opening the machine, and my foot came in contact with the metal door
just as a larger door swung shut, and the director of the English program came
out of the classroom where I had just presented and walked down the hall
towards me. I quickly turned around and leaned ever so casually against the
corner of the vending machine, as if it would not be at all odd to find your
presenter hanging out with the overpriced junk food mini-mall. She approached
me and after faux-warm greetings, she said “I really enjoyed your speech; your
essay was so well thought out and it was a very dignified presentation, I look
forward to meeting with you in the future!” I offered thanks and an
enthusiastic smile as she walked down the hall. And when she turned the corner,
I kicked the machine again.
“Do
you feel better?” He asked. “I feel fine,”she said. “There’s nothing wrong with
me. I feel fine.”
