Vending Machine Blues

I was just in the break room fixing my breakfast. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a rather plump woman over staring into the vending machine. Strike that, she wasn’t plumb, she was play old fat, short, fat, old and she looked grumpy like the world owed her something.

 
She had the look in her eye of a cheetah about to strike at it’s pray. (I wasn’t really paying that close of attention). She puts her dollar in the slot, I hear the machine make a noise and nothing. She waits a second, a long unpleasant second, then she simply hit the side of the machine once, nothing, she hit it again and waits, nothing, then she starts pounding on the front, kicking it over and over again, I think I saw her feet lift from the ground as she attacked the machine like a ninja. I just stood there, trying not to look, or laugh, while filling my cup with hot water. She just kept on hitting the machine, alternating from the side to the plexi glass, opening and shutting the little swinging door at the bottom, pressing the change return button. This woman had a passion in her, a drive to survive the ages. It was as if her child was pinned under a truck. Possessing the will of an Olympic marathon runner with the finish line in sight, she continued to pound on the machine. Over and over and over again.
It suddenly went quiet. It was as if the sun had suddenly gone black, a cold chilling silence. I dare not move, I just stood there stirring my oatmeal. I swear I heard a tear hit the floor. She had been defeated. As she tromped out of the break room, in a resentful hate filled voice she bellowed, “Nothing works in this building!” I couldn’t help but think to myself, what else in this building doesn’t work?
 
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