Bits And Pieces

My Money Goes

     Vending machines must have a personal grudge against me.  Just like the dog who senses your fear of him, these mechanical contrivances know they have the upper hand once they have swallowed my coin.

     With military precision they shift a series of gears at the insertion of a certain sum of money.  They sigh, shiver and shake; hum and either spit out my coin or gulp the nickels, dimes or quarters and lapse into stony silence.

     Childhood gum machines always accepted my penny but hung onto the chewing material.  No amount of small fists beating firmly on the metal box ever caused a response from the satiated machine, only some loud words from the store owner.

     I'm strictly no match for their secret inner workings but always a sucker eager to try the product offered.

     The penny arcades of every amusement park always bring out my gambling instinct.  Those diabolical glass enclosed steam shovels with their alluring display of small cameras, jewelry and miniature toys sitting in nests of candy-coated nuts always take my nickels or dimes.  No matter how carefully I aim the iron shovel, it usually returns to the starting point empty clawed or opened jaws to drop a couple pieces of stale candy into the chute.  

     The fortune telling machines hand me a blank card, or are marked "out of order" after they consume my small change.

     Little boxes with perfume spraying contraptions inside, where for a penny you're entitled to the French perfume of your choice usually spray me in the face causing the skin to burn the rest of the day.

     The penny vendors of my memory were small and contained uncomplicated inner workings.  But with modern vending machines their working mechanisms seem to remain secrets which only their inventors understand.  Today we're faced with all sorts of amazing contrivances.

     Going on a trip?  Have your money ready to appease the open mouthed monster standing sentry duty every twenty miles or so, on the Toll Road.  Naturally these machines and I never see eye to eye.  My aim is poor and a nickel will pop out on the cement as I toss the specified sum into the hopper.  This means I must get out of the car and search the ground for the coin always found under the car.  So I must move it forward which in turn starts the red light flashing and the bell ringing to announce to everyone in the area that this gal thinks she's going to get through a nickel short.  Once the lost coin is popped in, the machine settles into satisfied silence while I creep away red faced under the stares of the men in the little coin changing cages, and the horns of the cars behind me.

     Stop at a gas station and the soft drink cooler issues bottle after bottle from its cold insides with each dime.  But come my turn and the vendor will spit back my coin necessitating the attention of the station attendant.

     One mechanical merchant which constantly amazes me with its straight thinking is the coffee machine.  Here  you get your brew black, with cream and sugar, with just cream, just sugar, with double cream or an extra amount of sugar.  All worked fine I was told until I chanced along.  Then the machine diabolically clamped onto my dime, coughed and issued to me a paper cup of thick milk liberally lace with sugar.  Another dime and my order for black coffee was an empty cup with a few grains of sweetener on the bottom.

     Even though these machines don't always perform correctly on my money, I'm still amazed by their built in thinking powers.

     The record players which slip your choice on the turntable and replace it back on the rack when finished, help to even up the score in my favor in this Hatfield and McCoy feud because I sometimes get an extra record thrown in for my money.

     I'm awed, often frustrated because you can't shake or kick these mechanical contrivances when they hold my money and offer nothing in return.  But I'm always fascinated by these marvels which change your money into smaller amounts, offer food, drink and amusement or demand a fee for services rendered.

     I encourage these electrical miracles with my nickels and dimes because maybe someday something will be invented to be installed in the kitchen which for a coin will cook, wash, clean, baby-sit and run errands.  With my luck with things mechanical though, my helper would noisily clash gears, ring bells, shake, grumble and end up tearing down the house for my money. 

Written November 14, 1963