The Will to Resist

Jerry's Marginalia — The Machine Doesn't Care

Or: No Refunds, No Answers, No Problem.

There comes a point in every man's life when he realizes that he's been working inside a vending machine.

Not literally, of course.

Although, given some of the shit I've witnessed, I wouldn't be particularly surprised if somebody eventually tried to assign me to one.

Welcome back to Haus Morgenrot.

A wonderful establishment where policies are plentiful, explanations are optional, and apparently even the vending machines have learned something from management.

Today's lesson?

THE MACHINE DOESN'T CARE.

And, as it turns out, neither does the sign attached to it.

Chapter One: Insert Money. Receive Nothing.

Let's discuss the magnificent vending machines of Haus Morgenrot.

These technological marvels possessed an extraordinary ability to accept money without necessarily dispensing the product somebody had purchased.

A remarkable business model.

Insert money.

Select snack.

Wait.

Nothing.

Congratulations! You've just made a charitable contribution to the vending machine.

Naturally, the establishment anticipated that customers might object to paying for absolutely fucking nothing.

Fortunately, someone had thoughtfully provided instructions.

Not instructions explaining how to obtain a refund.

Oh, no.

Something considerably more entertaining.

A notice informing everyone that the machines belonged to Haus Morgenrot and that staff would not issue refunds if the machines failed to dispense anything.

NO REFUNDS.

There.

Problem solved.

The machine has taken your money, but the sign has absolved everyone of responsibility.

Customer service has officially achieved enlightenment.

Unfortunately, the customers occasionally wanted their fucking money back.

The nerve of these people.

Chapter Two: The Unofficial Department of Giving a Shit

Now, here's where things became interesting.

Despite the intimidating notice, there was a procedure I followed when somebody reported losing money.

I wrote down their name.

That's it.

No complicated paperwork. No emergency meeting. No elaborate investigation involving seventeen departments and a ceremonial rubber stamp.

I documented the complaint and passed the information to the appropriate technician.

Not the individual who owned and stocked the machines.

A different person.

The technician would eventually arrange refunds, at least in some of the cases I personally handled.

As I recall, there weren't many. Perhaps two or three.

But the important distinction is that there was a practical way to address the problem, despite the sign declaring that refunds weren't available.

Officially?

NO REFUNDS.

In practice?

Write down the name and pass it along.

Which raises a perfectly reasonable question.

If there's a functioning refund procedure, why the fuck are we telling everybody there isn't one?

Perhaps there was an explanation.

I certainly wasn't the vending-machine owner.

I was simply the guy trying to get somebody's money back.

And I wasn't about to invent a new policy because the existing one appeared to have been written by a particularly disgruntled toaster.

Chapter Three: The Mysterious Economics of the Hallway Cats

Of course, another question occasionally crossed my mind.

Where was everybody getting their money?

We had clients who were supposedly broke.

Yet money continued circulating.

And the facility had another recurring problem: contraband.

Clients would leave, return, and sometimes bring back things they weren't supposed to possess.

Smoking, getting high and other prohibited activities were problems I encountered during my employment.

Now, let me be perfectly clear.

I cannot establish where every client obtained their money. I certainly cannot claim that money used in the vending machines came from contraband-related activities.

Those are separate observations.

But when you're working inside an institution where people repeatedly engage in prohibited activities while apparently lacking money, you occasionally find yourself asking questions.

Such as:

How?

Where?

And why am I standing here trying to get somebody a refund for a snack when we have considerably larger problems?

Unfortunately, I wasn't employed as the facility's chief financial investigator.

I was a Tech Assistant.

My job was to follow procedures, document what needed documenting and perform my assigned duties.

BE BORING.

A surprisingly difficult philosophy to maintain when your workplace insists on generating new side quests.

Chapter Four: The Employee Has Become the Snack

And now we arrive at my favorite part.

The machine.

Not the vending machine.

The institution itself.

On September 14, 2026, I was suspended following an allegation involving a client.

There was an investigation to be conducted, and I understood that the allegation needed to be addressed.

I wasn't expecting the facility to ignore it.

I wasn't demanding an exemption from its procedures.

I wanted the situation investigated and resolved.

A perfectly ordinary request, I would have thought.

Yet here we are.

September 30.

More than two weeks later.

No definitive employment decision communicated to me.

No confirmed return date.

And no clear explanation of when this situation will finally conclude.

I'm still waiting.

Somewhere along the way, I apparently became a vending-machine snack.

Inserted into the system.

Processed.

And subsequently stuck between two fucking metal coils.

The customer is waiting.

The machine isn't responding.

And there's probably a sign somewhere explaining that management accepts no responsibility for the inconvenience.

PLEASE DO NOT SHAKE THE MACHINE.

Believe me.

I've considered it.

Chapter Five: When I Was There

Something interesting happened while I was talking about the vending machines.

I referred to my employment in the past tense.

"When I was there."

I actually caught myself doing it.

Which is particularly funny because, as of writing this, I haven't received a definitive answer about whether I'm returning.

Apparently, my brain has already submitted its resignation.

My employment status, however, remains an administrative mystery.

And that distinction matters.

I'm not announcing that I've been terminated.

I'm not claiming that management has secretly reached a particular decision.

I'm documenting the fact that I've spent more than two weeks waiting for an answer.

Meanwhile, I've continued pursuing other employment opportunities.

Because bills don't suspend themselves.

Rent doesn't enter an investigative period.

Groceries don't accept explanations about pending administrative reviews.

And transportation certainly doesn't operate on the promise that somebody might eventually call me.

The world continues demanding payment whether my employer has made a decision or not.

Which brings me back to our beloved vending machine.

Chapter Six: The Machine Doesn't Care Who Feeds It

Here's the uncomfortable realization.

Haus Morgenrot doesn't have to stop operating because I'm not there.

Somebody else can perform my duties.

Somebody else can cover my shifts.

Eventually, somebody else might occupy my former position.

The facility will continue functioning.

And that, by itself, isn't unusual.

Organizations need to operate when employees are absent, resign or are terminated.

But here's the distinction.

Being able to replace an employee doesn't excuse leaving that employee without an answer.

Those are two entirely different things.

I don't expect the institution to collapse because I'm sitting at home.

I don't expect management to erect a statue in my honor.

Although a small bronze raccoon near the vending machines would be appreciated.

I simply expect a decision.

If I'm returning, tell me.

If I'm being reassigned, tell me.

If I'm being terminated, tell me.

And if the investigation genuinely requires additional time, communicate that.

Don't leave me trying to interpret silence.

Don't make me guess whether I'm still expected to report for duty.

Don't turn the absence of information into another administrative procedure.

Because the longer this continues, the more the institution begins resembling its own vending machines.

Something goes in.

Nothing comes out.

And somebody else is left dealing with the consequences.

Chapter Seven: No More Dollars

There's a particular lesson I've learned from all this.

Don't keep putting another dollar into a machine after you've learned what the machine does.

Originally, that philosophy concerned actual vending machines.

If a machine takes your money without dispensing anything, perhaps inserting another dollar isn't the greatest financial strategy.

Especially when somebody has thoughtfully attached a sign explaining that you're shit out of luck.

But the principle extends beyond snacks.

Time is a currency.

Effort is a currency.

Patience is a currency.

And while I cannot control when another person or institution makes a decision, I can control how much of my life I devote to waiting for it.

That's why I've been applying for other jobs.

Not because I've received a termination notice.

Not because I've established the outcome of the investigation.

But because I have responsibilities, and indefinitely waiting for somebody else to determine my future isn't a particularly sustainable employment strategy.

The facility can continue operating.

So can I.

Those two things aren't mutually exclusive.

And perhaps that's the most important distinction of all.

I don't need the machine to break down.

I don't need revenge against the machine.

I don't even need the machine to acknowledge that I'm leaving the vending-machine aisle.

I need to stop standing in front of it, wondering whether something will eventually fall out.

If it does, I'll deal with it.

Until then, I've got other places to be.

Preferably somewhere with a paycheck.

And functioning vending machines.

Although, at this point, I'll settle for the paycheck.

Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice

Ladies and gentlemen, today's advice comes courtesy of the Haus Morgenrot Department of Unclaimed Snacks and Unresolved Employment.

If a vending machine takes your money, document the problem.

If your employer places you under investigation, cooperate with the process and keep records of your communications.

And if an institution leaves you waiting indefinitely, don't mistake your willingness to cooperate for an obligation to put the rest of your life on hold.

You can respect a process without enjoying it.

You can fulfill your responsibilities without pretending that uncertainty is acceptable.

And you can pursue another opportunity without needing the previous institution to fail.

Be boring. Document everything. Don't freestyle.

Especially when writing about actual events.

Because the raccoon doesn't manufacture evidence.

He simply collects it, examines it and occasionally threatens to bite somebody's ankles.

Figuratively, of course.

Legal has asked me to clarify that.

One final thought.

An institution's ability to replace you is a statement about how organizations operate.

It is not a measurement of your worth.

And if you ever find yourself staring at a machine that repeatedly takes your money without delivering anything?

STOP FEEDING THE FUCKING MACHINE.

Throw the deuces.

Find another one.

Preferably one that works.

P.S. The vending machine has declined to comment. Management has not provided an estimated response time. The raccoon has begun looking for another job.