For Chrissy Osmulski (1981-2015)
In the lobby of the office where I work there used to be a
small candy machine perched on a pole by the elevators, the kind where if you put
in a quarter and turned a crank, a mass of candies would drop down a chute, clatter
through a hinged doorway, and fall neatly into your hand. This machine, though, was different: while
most candy machines have only three or four slots in a neat line, this one was
a cube with slots on all sides, two on each horizontal face, with a total of
eight candies to choose from. It had M&Ms,
Skittles, Reese’s Pieces, Mike and Ikes, Hot Tamales, trail mix, novelty gummy
candies, and even some brown nuts of a kind I’d never seen in a vending
machine.
The candy machine was the one iconic feature of the building
lobby, where I spend no more than a few seconds waiting for the elevator each
time I go into work. It’s a long,
rectangular lobby with entrances on either side, both of which are covered by
square, flat awnings. Oversized American
flags and a potted plant attempt to instill a friendly atmosphere in the
corridor, and perpendicular to the entrances large glass doors open into large
offices, though both of these offices have moved and printed notices remind
visitors to come to their new locations.
I noticed the candy machine on my first day because it was
the one object in the lobby that actually stood out, and I swiveled around it
to see the types of candy on its four faces, two of which were tilted
inconveniently close to the wall. It
occurred to me that if I had a quarter (which I usually don’t—I rarely carry
change anymore unless I’m doing laundry or happen to have purchased something
with cash that day) I could turn the crank and get a handful of Reese’s Pieces
to eat on my way home, a reward for making it through the workday. I could also have tried the brown nuts I’d never
seen in a vending machine before, or bought some Skittles to eat one at a time (since
Skittles are best savored individually, rather than in a mixed handful). I wondered how much candy one got for a
quarter—had the manufacturers considered inflation by working an adjustable
valve into each slot’s measuring mechanism, or did twenty-five cents buy the
same number of M&Ms today as it did in 1980? If it did, then buying candy from the machine
might be a better deal than buying it in single-serving bags from the gas
station, a bargain the building owners may or may not have foreseen.
Then, one day, the machine disappeared. When I came into work and found it not in its
usual spot, I looked first to the other end of the lobby to check whether a thorough
janitor or furniture mover had placed it there temporarily, but it wasn’t at
the other end of the lobby either. Nor
was it there the next time I came, or the time after that, and even though the American
flags and potted plant were always in their same places, the candy machine
wasn’t.
I often remember how the candy machine’s compartments were always
full, and though I’d initially considered this an illusion maintained by
slanted surfaces inside the case, it occurred to me that fewer people passing
through the lobby meant fewer candy purchases, and fewer of those people
carrying change meant fewer purchases still.
I wonder how much money the building owners made from the machine, or
whether some rental agreement had actually caused them to lose money by keeping
it there. I also wonder whether I could
have halted them from removing it if I myself had started carrying change and
actually used the machine. I wonder what
those brown nuts tasted like and what they’re called; I can’t describe them
exactly, but would know them if I saw them again. But most of all, I wonder about the men who’d
come while I was away and pulled the machine down the outside ramp on to a
truck, and whether they’d taken that truck to a warehouse somewhere with all
the other candy machines no one wanted.
If I’d happened to be walking in the day they were bringing the machine
out, I could have done nothing more than watch them from the back stairs.
I miss the machine now that it’s gone, since there’s nothing
else in the lobby to look at, and without it I find my thoughts at the
beginning and end of the day much emptier than they used to be, with fewer
things left about which to wonder.
