The soda machine at my office is possessed. If you push the coke button, you have probably a 2 in 3 chance of getting a cherry powerade. Mr. Pibb is slightly more reliable though the powerades do pop up from time to time. Now if you want a Sprite, you are almost assured of getting a Diet Coke. The only button on the machine that seems fool proof is, in fact, the cherry powerade button.
I'm really not fond of powerade.
It is uncertain whether the machine is experiencing some sort of electrical problem that is causing it to spit out the wrong thing, or whether the soda restocking guy is just screwing with us. Either way, getting a soda from the machine has become a bit of a gauntlet. As you approach the side door, the employees all look up from there desks, watching and whispering. Someone yells out, "Going for it, are you?" Another voice: "What'll it be today?"
"Maybe she'll get lucky," someone whispers. "I put my money on a powerade." "You're on."
The machine has a name, you know. Engraved in a small panel above the misnomered coca-cola button is the word "ROBODOOR." Many times has a hapless consumer been heard to howl, "Curse you, Robodoor! Curse you!"
In fact, our office manager went out there with a piece of masking tape and a sharpee. Now it's "ROBODORK."
You would think we would stop trying. There is a store around the corner. Sodas are probably cheaper there. It's become a bit of game, though.
I've never been much of a gambler myself. I passed through Reno once, on my way to somewhere else. I dropped a dollar in a slot machine, just to have done it. It didn't really hold my attention. I rather drop my dollar into a ski-ball game, get a little entertainment for my money, and then give the tickets to some little kid who actually wants the crap you can trade them in for.
I must say, though, something about Robodoor has me intrigued. I find myself buying more than my once-in-a-blue-moon soda at work, just to see if I'll win.
There are two people in my office that actually like powerades. If Robodoor is "the house" in this little gambling operation, you could consider them the bookies. They are the beneficiaries of all of Robodoor's misunderstandings. "Oh, you want to borrow another dollar for a soda? Sure. Be my guest."
I've taken to insulting Robodoor when it abuses me. "Your mother was a toaster!" "The fax machine works better than you!" "Why don't you hook up with the plotter and make useless, noisy, expensive babies that do nothing? I'll sell them and make a fortune, you overgrown door stopper!"
This is not very mature, I understand. But it's my only recourse. Unless I want to open up a blackmarket powerade shop.