The Ice Cream Sandwich

It seemed just my luck that on the coldest night of the year, the Hot Drink vending machine would eat my last four quarters.

Not just the four last quarters that I had on me, but the very last dollar I had to my name.

I knew better than to assault the hulking behemoth. There are tales of vending machines toppling over and crushing people and I wasn’t about to test that.

Maybe it was just out of cocoa? I pressed the blocky button for chicken noodle soup, listening for any signs of life inside the machine-- the churning of gears, the drop of the paper cup but nothing happened.

Pressing the coin return button repeatedly, I cursed under my breath, the words tumbling out in a rolling fog of steam. The machine stood stoically in the line of ancient automats, its display light flickering as I glared at it. Warming my hands under my armpits, I took a seat on the picnic table opposite the bank of vending machines next to a mocking ATM. Unclipping the support strap, I took off my backpack. Maybe there was a snack I had missed on a previous exploration? Maybe some hidden coins? I knew the chances were slim, but I was starving.

Still rifling through my trusty JanSport knock-off, I heard the dollar feed on the drink machine whir to life. I looked up to find a cute co-ed in a chunky sweater and jeans standing in front of the beast choosing from the selection of refreshments.

“It doesn’t work,” I called to her as she pressed a button.

“What?” she said, turning around to look at me as the machine deposited a paper cup perfectly into place. The unmistakable sound of percolating coffee followed.

“Nevermind,” I said with a sigh, “I guess it just doesn’t work for me.”

She looked back at me, a confused expression on her face. I shrugged.

With her hot beverage in hand, she raised her cup to me, giving me a half-smile. “Keep warm,” she said, the drink fogging her glasses as she brought it to her lips.

“Thanks,” I said glumly, then I hopped up to follow her. “Wait, do you have any other change by chance? It ate my last dollar,” I said. “I’m not trying to be a creep, I’m just starving.”

“No,” she said, motioning at the antagonistic device, “that was the last of my money. Good luck!” She shrugged apologetically before hurrying towards the computer science building. I didn’t blame her for scuttling off. I would have likely done the same.

Eyeing the rest of the line of snack offerings, lit up like forgotten masterpieces behind dusty panes of glass, I embraced my desperation. From one to the next, I inspected every coin return and pressed every button combination possible, trying to will the metal coils to turn and spit out some stale animal crackers or a bloomed chocolate bar. I attacked the dispenser ports, pushing back the swinging flap at the bottom of each device, feeling all around in the dark recesses for a loose Oreo or forgotten packet of Toast Chee snack crackers to quiet my stomach. Nothing.

Disappointed and despondent, I allowed myself to crumple to the floor in front of the nearest machine, my cheek skidding down the cold glass panel as I slid myself down the coin-operated crook. It made a comical sound as I descended, my cheek no doubt red from the friction it created. Slumped on the floor, I flopped back onto the ground in the covered alcove at the center of my university and kicked my legs like a child. The concrete floor was so much colder than the frigid winter air. I’m sure if I’d been a science major, it would have made sense, but my Poetry classes had nothing of substance to say on the matter of thermodynamics.

Resigned to my fate, I turned my head, reconsidering my peaceful treaty with the thieving purveyor of hot beverages when the ice cream machine at the far end of the bay issued a jaunty jingle. My brain was instantly fuzzy with memories of warm sun-soaked summers running after the Mr. Freezie truck, a fist full of change from my mom clamped in my tiny hand. It gave my stomach a surge of hope.

You didn’t check the ice cream machine, it reminded me with a loud gurgle.

‘I know, I didn’t, stomach. Because it is 22 degrees out here, and eating left-behind ice cream will most likely lead to our untimely demise.’

But I’m hungry, my stomach insisted.

Pulling myself up theatrically, I argued with my stomach. ‘No one leaves behind ice cream. Certainly, not in the dead of winter. You’re not thinking clearly. Or at all, because you’re just a digestive organ,’ I told it, grumpily.

Just check, it said. I know about these things.

Exasperated, I got up now, smug, and shook my head. ‘You want me to check it? Fine!’ I said, emphatically toggling the coin return lever and probing the slot with a finger. ‘See?’

Press the buttons, it whispered.

‘You can’t be serious,’ I groaned.

It gurgled pathetically in response.

‘FINE!’ I yelled. I angrily went down the line of offerings, sarcastically pressing buttons. Drumstick. Fudgesicle. Creamsicle. Bomb Pop. Ice Cream Sandwich.

‘Are you satisfied?’ I ask, pressing the button again forcefully with my thumb. ‘There’s nothing--’

Kathunk.

Ice cream sandwich! my stomach exclaimed.

People say this all the time and they never really mean it, but I tell you, my jaw dropped right open releasing a tiny cloud of condensed surprise.

Get it! Get it! get it! my stomach shouted.

I wrenched the ice cream repository open, jamming my hand in. My fingers clasped and then paused. This wasn’t right. The rectangle inside was so frozen solid it seemed it would be impossible to eat. Pulling it out, I turned it over in my hands, inspecting it.

Well, what are you waiting for? my stomach complained.

I unwrapped the waxy white paper carefully glued around the package to reveal, not a bar of silky ice cream surrounded by rich dark chocolate cookies, but instead, a little black notebook masquerading as a treat.

‘Great, just great,’ I groaned.

Wait, look, my stomach exclaimed with a lurch as I thumbed through the small pad, there’s something written inside.

My stomach was right. I didn’t even know it could read. Opening the book, I flipped the pages back. Typed in red ink was a web address. I looked at it questioningly.

Well, what are you waiting for? my stomach asked again.

Pulling out my phone to silence my pushy gut, I entered the website into my browser.

‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ it read. ‘You’ve won $20,000!’

I blinked, the wind knocked out of me.

After scanning a code at the back of the notebook, I was instructed to return to the ice cream machine. Following its prompts, the page walked me through a complicated combination of button pushes that ended with another firm press on the Ice Cream Sandwich button.

Kathunk.

My stomach lept. This wasn’t a cruel joke!

Opening the swinging door, I reached in and wrapped my hand around a small envelope. I pulled it out, ripping it open in my excitement to find what looked like an ATM card. Dancing over to the automatic teller, I inspected the card, finding a PIN under a scratch-off patch on the back.

It was unreal. I had started the night complaining about my chronic bad luck and look at me now!

Pressing the buttons on the ATM’s pad, I withdrew 100 dollars from my miraculous windfall. I would order a feast when I got home. It was not that long of a bike ride to my dorm knowing I had something to look forward to.

But maybe something to tide us over until then? my stomach asked weakly.

‘Yeah, buddy, you’ve earned it,’ I said, taking one of my twenty-dollar bills to the change machine at the end of the line.

Slipping the rest of the handful of quarters into my backpack, I held back four. Eyeing the Hot Beverage Machine, I placed my change in and pressed the button for cocoa once again. I waited for the scratching slip of the cup falling into place, the percolating burble of water heating but it just stood, looking at me heartlessly.

Anger bubbled up in me like I had never felt before. I pressed all the buttons, wildly. My stomach urged me on, its indignance, unfathomable. With a scream, I threw my body at the machine, my arms and legs wrapped around its boxy frame, shaking it with all of my might.

“What in the world!” a familiar voice exclaimed at my wild screeches. I turned my head, latched on to the front of the device like a rabid weasel. Tilting back, I saw her; the cute girl in the glasses was rounding the corner.

“I felt bad,” she said, “so I came back.” She was holding out a Hot Pocket, steaming in the cold night.

I reached for her, my stomach longing for the warm rectangle of sustenance, and then she dropped it, her eyes widening in horror. I hadn’t noticed the machine tilting forward as I changed position, now at enough of an angle to knock me loose. I fell back, bringing my arms up feebly. Too little, too late; the light on the display cut out as the beast broke itself free from its moorings. A sloshing creak bellowed through the cavernous space. I let out one final scream as my nemesis pitched forward, crushing me. My mind went back to that Mr. Freezie jingle from my childhood. It rang out in the coins falling around me, warming me with memories of summers past. Or maybe it was just the spill of boiling liquid from inside that damned machine. I don’t know. I died before I could be sure.