by Lukens, Mark
He thrust his hands into his pants pockets, one of which held six quarters for the Coke machine in the laundry room. He had swiped the quarters from his mom’s change on the kitchen table. She was a waitress at a breakfast, lunch, and dinner diner so she always had plenty of change. The owner called the diner “The Palace” but it definitely was not a palace. Mom called it a dive, which Sammy didn’t really understand, but he knew it wasn’t meant as a compliment.
Sammy had snuck out of the apartment while his mom was napping between her shifts. As usual, his older brother, Sean, had dashed out the door as soon as their mother entered the apartment.
“You better be back in two hours!” she screamed at him as he bolted out the door.
“You should put speed bumps in front of the door for him,” Sammy said in his naturally quiet and depressed tone of voice that seemed to piss a lot of people off for some reason.
Of course Mom didn’t think his joke was funny. In fact, Mom didn’t think too much was funny these days. As a teenager she had gotten into a car accident and cracked her head against the dashboard. The result was some minor brain damage—just enough to give her migraines on and off for the rest of her life. The doctors tried treating her; they took CAT scan after CAT scan (Sammy couldn’t figure out what cats had do with Mom’s brain, but he never asked her for fear of sounding “slow for his age”), but they came up with nothing.
“The brain’s a very complicated thing,” one doctor told his mom as Sammy waited in the doctor’s office with her. As far as Sammy could tell, these doctors didn’t seem to know what to do about his mom’s condition or how to make it better.
Mom was lying in bed right now suffering through another of her latest attacks. After swallowing about a zillion Advils and grabbing the ice pack from the freezer, she tried to nap through the worst of it so she could finish the rest of her shift and wait on a lot of grumpy people who had to have their food “in a hurry.” At least she wasn’t puking right now. Sometimes her migraines were so bad she would go back and forth to the bathroom, throwing up until all she could vomit was stringy bile.
Sammy had been sitting in the living room watching TV when Mom came home, stumbling blindly forward, hand to forehead, purse/keys/apron thrown on the dining room table (which was really in their living room in this small apartment). She shuffled off to her bedroom and closed the door. And that’s when Sean bolted out the door to meet up with his scummy friends to plan whatever deviant thing they would do that night.
That’s when Sammy decided to go get a Coca-Cola from the vending machine down in the laundry room—a treat he looked forward to every day.
The laundry room—it was really a laundry building at the far end of their apartment complex of eight buildings with sixteen apartments in each of them.
Mom was always telling Sammy not to go down to the laundry room alone; some “strange” people hung out around there. But Sammy had noticed that “strange” people lived here in their apartment complex, so it made sense that “strange” people might be at the laundry room.
Sammy glanced around, feeling watched and followed as he walked down the sidewalk. He felt a little nervous out here alone even though it was afternoon. Maybe it was the idea of being in the laundry room alone that was making him a little nervous. He listened to the scrape of his sneakers on the concrete walkway and played with the quarters in his pocket.
“A quick in and out mission, men,” he told himself in his Sergeant Blood and Guts voice. “No effing around. Just get in, get the can of Coke, and get out,” he said as he stood in front of the doorless opening to the small laundry building that looked darker than usual today.
Did he really want a Coke that bad?
Was that the question he should be asking himself?
He could hear Sean’s voice echoing in his mind: When are you going to stop being so afraid of everything? Sammy didn’t play sports because he was afraid of getting hurt (and looking foolish on the field). He didn’t explore new places because he was afraid of getting lost or running into “strangers.” He didn’t have any friends because he was afraid of meeting people.
Sammy stepped inside the laundry building, hoping no one was in there. One of the washing machines churned against the wall and the smell of laundry soap was thick in the tight quarters of the damp room. The machine sounded alive and angry.
Nobody in there. But someone would be coming back for their laundry soon. He would be gone by then.
He glanced around quickly, and then he stepped up to the Coke machine which thankfully wasn’t too far away from the doorway. He held the quarters in his left hand and used his right hand to plunk quarter after quarter into the slot. He realized that his hand was shaking slightly. He listened as each quarter dropped down to its secret compartment where it mingled with other quarters.
Was that a noise?
Sammy heard some kind of sound muffled underneath the din of the running washing machine which was now shaking violently on spin cycle. Sammy could imagine the machine rocking back and forth, slyly inching forward until it was close enough to tip over and suck him down into the madly spinning mouth that had at some point grown curved steel teeth.
Sammy glanced back at the washing machine to make sure it was still against the wall where it was supposed to be.
Then he looked back at the soda machine, trying to ignore his vivid imagination, which was a difficult thing to do. Mom had said his imagination made up for his lack of other talents. Some days when Sammy was depressed about not being good at anything, she would tell him that he may not see it now but his imagination would carry him far later on in life, right into a good career probably.
“Then I’d take care of you,” he told her happily.
He dropped the next quarter into the slot, swearing the noise he heard was the sound of soft voices under the racket of the washing machine. It sounded almost like whispers.
He had to get on with this mission. He tried to put the last quarter into the slot a little too quickly and it slipped out of his slick fingers. He followed the little silver disc with his eyes as it fell and bounced down onto the concrete floor and then rolled right underneath one of the dryers.
He ran over to the dryer and crouched down in front of it. He tried to squeeze his fingers under the dryer, but he couldn’t find the quarter. Then he had a mental picture of the whole dryer chopping down on the tips of his fingers, slicing them clean off, and then he saw himself running all the way back to their apartment while he clutched his fingerless hand, leaving a trail of blood behind him on the walkway.
It was no use—the quarter was lost. He got back up to his feet and walked over to the machine, deciding to push the button for a Coke anyway.
“I wish the Coke would come out,” he mumbled.
He heard another noise.
This time it was the familiar rumbling from inside the soda machine, then the slamming of the can of Coke down into the plastic pocket at the bottom of the machine.
“Cool,” Sammy whispered.
He snatched the can of soda out of the plastic pocket as if it wasn’t really his. He had only paid for part of it. He held it to himself stingily and he stepped out of the laundry room, out of the awful red stare of the Coke machine.
• • •
That night Sammy lay in his bed tossing and turning. It had been the first day of his Christmas vacation from school which lasted a little over two weeks and he had done nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. He was happy about the break from school. He hated school. He didn’t mind the work; he just hated the kids in school. They seemed put there by some cruel School-god just to pick on him. Sammy was smart for his age, but sometimes he pretended not to be smart because all of the kids called him a nerd or a geek. They would wait for him during recess to pick fights with him, knowing he would never fight back, or they would try to embarrass him on the ball field, which wasn’t really a difficult thing to do; he usually did a good job of that all by himself. This cruel S
chool-god had given Sammy some brains but had purposely left out any strength, speed, or coordination.
Sammy stared out the window of their small bedroom. The window looked down onto the parking lot. Sammy had whined to their mom until she made Sean give him that side of the room. Sean slept in his bed on the other side of the room—not too far away. Snoring already.
Sammy’s mind began to wander back to the laundry room, back to the Coke machine.
Was there a chance that the machine ejected a Coke after he had wished for it? Maybe it was a magic Coke machine.
Or maybe someone had left an extra quarter in the machine—that was a more likely reason.
Still the thought nagged at him. What if?
He felt compelled to go down there to the laundry room, even right now in the middle of the night, to see if it would work. What if he could get all the free sodas he wanted? He wondered if he could get all the free sodas he wanted until the machine ran out, or if there might be an endless supply. Surely a magic Coke machine would have an endless supply.
Somewhere along these thoughts he drifted off to sleep.
• • •
Sean slept in late as usual. Sammy had never known anyone who could sleep for such a long period of time.
Sammy got dressed quickly. Mom had gone into work for an early shift and she’d already been gone for a few hours. He hurried across the living room and opened the front door. He stuck his head out to see if he would need his gigantic coat. It wasn’t as cold today, but he decided he would feel better with his coat on.
He purposely left the apartment with no quarters. Testing his theory meant he couldn’t have any distractions. Knowing that he could slip money into the machine at any time would be a distraction. He scurried down the steps to the cracked concrete walkway and then he hurried to the laundry building.
This time the laundry room was silent; nobody was washing or drying clothes this early. It was silent except for the strange whisperings that came from the Coke machine. He stepped up to the machine and his heart sank. He knew he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. He gingerly touched the white piece of paper that had been taped to the machine: Out of Order.
So it wasn’t a magic machine at all, it had been malfunctioning.
Great.
Sammy started to leave, but then he turned back to the machine again, touching it. He could feel a slight vibration from it, and the soft whisperings were even louder now.
Well, he was here anyway. Why not try it? Why not put his mind at ease once and for all?
Sammy tentatively pushed the button beside the red Coke sign. He held his breath.
Nothing.
He held the button down. “I wish I had a Coke,” he whispered, yet his words seemed to echo in the laundry room. His words sounded strange to his ears, they sounded deep and confident, almost like a magician’s voice.
He imagined himself as a magician: Sammy the Great, putting the Coke machine under his irresistible spell, bending the machine’s will to his own, controlling it like a magnet controlled metal. He was tall, dark, and strong. He was confident and he never hesitated about anything. He never perspired or trembled. He never doubted his powers. And he was never afraid. If someone picked on him or made fun of him, then he just stared at them with his hypnotic black eyes and put them under his spell.
As his mind wandered away with Sammy the Great, a can of Coke shot down into the plastic pocket at the bottom of the machine. At first it didn’t even register to Sammy, but then after he stared down at the ordinary can of soda for a few seconds, he realized that there wasn’t anything ordinary about any of this. There was nothing ordinary about this soda, nothing ordinary about this vending machine, or maybe even this laundry room. Or maybe even himself.
Sammy plucked the cold can of soda up out of the pocket and studied it like it was a golden artifact recently dug up from an Egyptian tomb. He was no longer Sammy the Great, now he was Sammy the Scientist. He walked over to the plastic folding table that was littered with obscenities written all over it and he set the can down. He studied it for a few moments. He popped it open and looked down inside. He could smell the soda; he could feel the tingling fizz coming up from the mouth of the can. Sammy the Scientist poured a little of the soda onto the table top and inspected the liquid, dabbing his finger into the liquid and moving it around.
Now for the real test. He swallowed a small sip as if it might be acid.
It tasted normal.
Everything seemed normal about the can of Coke, but at the same time he knew this wasn’t normal. He walked back over to the machine and eyed it closely. He had to do it again.
Sammy held the Coke button down.
“I wish I had a Coke.”
Out popped another can of Coke. He plucked it out and set it on the table next to the open one and then he walked back to the magic machine.
Again he repeated the process and again a can of Coke fell out of the vending machine. Again he plucked it out and walked to the table to set it right next to the other two.
Sammy hurried back to this amazing machine, hardly able to believe what was happening. And it was his, all his.
This time when Sammy held the button down and wished for a Coke, nothing happened. No Coke. No nothing. Sammy pushed the button and repeated his request. Nothing. He tried again and again, but still nothing happened. He even tried other buttons. Even Diet Coke, which he didn’t like but he knew his mom would drink.
Nothing.
Maybe it had finally run out of sodas. Maybe it was still malfunctioning. He sat around for a little while inside the laundry room until he started feeling uncomfortable in this spooky place. He finished his first Coke and grabbed the other two. He tried one more time on his way out.
Still nothing.
He took his Cokes and left the laundry room.
• • •
Later in the afternoon, after Mom got home, Sammy ran down to the laundry room to try one more time. But somebody was in there. He waited around until they left, which seemed like forever, and then he tried again.
But the Coke machine still wasn’t giving up any treasures.
He went back to the apartment and plopped down on the couch in front of the TV, not really watching it.
“Sammy?” his mom asked. “You feeling all right?”
“Yeah.”
“You want some of this tuna fish I made? A sandwich or something? It’s got plenty of pickles and not too much mayo, just the way you like it.”
“No thanks. Not hungry.”
• • •
That night Sammy lay in bed, tossing and turning. It was late, but he couldn’t get to sleep.
It had to work, he thought. Even though the idea of the whole thing had started to seem stupid to him in the daytime, at night, in the dark, magic things seemed possible. Monsters could come from the shadows in the dark, the power of light no longer holding them back. The things he laughed at in the daylight hours suddenly became very real at night.
But instead of his usual darker thoughts of monsters and zombies shuffling up towards their apartment building, Sammy’s mind stayed on the Coke machine. He started thinking about it differently, trying to think of different ways it could work.
It had to work. It just had to. He couldn’t have gotten this close to magic for it not to work.
He made a deal with himself. He would try again tomorrow, and if it still didn’t work, then he would forget it.
• • •
“I wish I had a Coke.”
Out popped a can of Coke from the machine, and a smile popped on Sammy’s face.
He wished for another Coke and the machine spit it out.
And it happened a third time.
And then it stopped. Three Cokes. The machine gave forth three Cokes a day. Three Cokes, that was all. He tried again and again, but nothing happened.
• • •
In bed that night, an idea suddenly occurred to Sammy.
Three Cokes w
as the same as three wishes. Like a genie from a magic lamp would grant.
What if the cans of soda weren’t the only thing this magic machine could grant? Maybe it could grant other wishes. Sammy’s mind started racing, his thoughts filled with desires.
He would test it tomorrow. If it didn’t grant other wishes, then the Coke machine might just be an ordinary soda machine that would have to be fixed one day so it stopped handing out free sodas to kids with wild imaginations.
He fell asleep, his dreams full of toys, games, and other treasures.
• • •
Sammy stood in front of the Coke machine, his legs spread apart in a gunfighter’s stance, his arms out from his sides like he was about to quick-draw a quarter. But he didn’t have any quarters with him. He pushed the button and decided to wish for things he could see right here in the pocket of the machine.
“I wish I had a Coke,” he said, trying it out to make sure it still worked.
Out came a can of Coke and perhaps a precious wish.
“I wish I had a Hot Wheels Corvette,” he said as he pushed the button down. He didn’t really have an overwhelming desire for a Hot Wheels car, but he wanted to wish for something small that could come down from the machine and fit into the pocket easily. If the prizes only came down into the pocket, it might not be a good idea to wish for a camel or something.
Nothing happened. A toy car did not clunk down into the machine’s pocket.
He waited and listened. He could still hear those soft whisperings and a gurgling behind the machine’s door like little gremlins conspiring together.
He held the button down again. “I wish I had a Hot Wheels Corvette,” he said again.
Nothing happened.
At least he could have another can of soda. “I wish I had a Coke.”
Now it wasn’t even working with the sodas. Sammy hoped he hadn’t broken it. He hoped he hadn’t ruined his three free Cokes a day.
Depressed and feeling a little foolish now out here in the stark and cool daylight, Sammy walked back to his apartment to watch some TV.
It was a rather boring day on the Boob-Tube. His Mom came home and Sammy gave her a hug, and then he helped her put the bag of groceries away. She was tired and she wanted to lie down.
