THE DOLLAR MACHINE, or...
DON'T KEEP PUTTING ANOTHER DOLLAR INTO A MACHINE AFTER YOU'VE LEARNED WHAT THE MACHINE DOES
There is a vending machine somewhere in the world that is an absolute piece of shit.
You know the one.
It doesn't have to be your vending machine.
Every building has one.
Maybe the buttons don't work.
Maybe C4 gives you B7.
Maybe the little spiral turns three-quarters of the way and leaves your Snickers hanging there by the corner like it's participating in a fucking hostage negotiation.
Maybe the card reader says:
PROCESSING...
PROCESSING...
PROCESSING...
And then charges you anyway.
Or maybe this particular machine has developed the simplest business model known to mankind:
You put money in.
It keeps the money.
That's it.
No product.
No apology.
No customer satisfaction survey.
Just:
CHONK.
Thank you for your contribution.
Now, the first time this happens, I have sympathy.
Of course I do.
You had a dollar.
You wanted a Coke.
You put your dollar into the machine.
The machine consumed your dollar.
You received precisely fuck-all.
That's unfortunate.
Shake the machine.
Complain about the machine.
Tell somebody the machine is broken.
Stand there staring through the glass at the Coke that should rightfully belong to you.
I understand.
You have been wronged.
But then something extraordinary happens.
The next day arrives.
And somehow...
SOMEHOW...
the same person who yesterday appeared to possess exactly one United States dollar has acquired another dollar.
I don't know where it came from.
Perhaps employment.
Perhaps charity.
Perhaps the Federal Reserve personally dispatched Jerome Powell to the parking lot with emergency liquidity.
I don't fucking know.
What matters is this:
Yesterday, this person had one dollar.
The machine ate it.
Today, this person has another dollar.
And standing before them is...
THE SAME FUCKING MACHINE.
Now surely we've learned something.
Surely yesterday's sacrifice was not made in vain.
Surely that dollar purchased something far more valuable than a Coke.
Knowledge.
We now know what this machine does.
So what does our hero do?
Dollar goes in.
CHONK.
"MAN! THIS MACHINE TOOK MY MONEY!"
Motherfucker.
WE RAN THIS EXPERIMENT YESTERDAY.
At this point I am no longer studying the vending machine.
The vending machine has been remarkably transparent.
The machine never promised personal growth.
The machine never went home that evening, poured itself a glass of wine, stared solemnly into the sunset and thought:
"You know... I've hurt people."
It didn't attend therapy.
It didn't read The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Vending Machines.
It didn't spend the night journaling.
It did not awaken the following morning committed to becoming the vending machine its customers deserved.
It's a fucked-up vending machine.
Yesterday it was a fucked-up vending machine.
Today it is a fucked-up vending machine.
Tomorrow there is a statistically significant possibility that it will remain...
a fucked-up vending machine.
The machine isn't confused about this.
You are.
And somewhere along the way, I realized I have spent a surprising amount of my life putting additional dollars into machines after I already knew what those machines did.
Not always literal dollars.
Sometimes money.
Sometimes time.
Sometimes attention.
Sometimes effort.
Sometimes patience.
Sometimes another explanation.
Sometimes another chance.
Sometimes another subscription month.
Sometimes another purchase.
Sometimes another message.
Sometimes another twelve-hour shift.
Sometimes another little piece of yourself handed over because some stubborn part of your brain keeps whispering:
"Maybe this time."
And maybe this time is one expensive motherfucker.
Because human beings love the possibility that one more attempt will finally produce the result we wanted from the beginning.
Maybe the machine will work this time.
Maybe the person will behave differently this time.
Maybe the app will suddenly become worth the money this time.
Maybe the workplace will finally become consistent this time.
Maybe the policy will mean what everybody says it means this time.
Maybe the thing that has behaved exactly the same way seventeen times is merely waiting for attempt number eighteen to unveil its secret character arc.
And sometimes?
Sure.
Things change.
People change.
Machines get repaired.
Organizations improve.
Circumstances shift.
Yesterday's information does not permanently dictate tomorrow.
I'm not suggesting you carve every disappointment into stone and spend the rest of your life refusing to reconsider anything.
I'm saying something much simpler.
Patterns are information.
And at some point, refusing to use that information becomes expensive.
I recently spent a lot of time inside a completely fictional institution known as:
Haus Morgenrot.
Haus Morgenrot believes very strongly in something called:
DA RULES™.
Haus Morgenrot loves Da Rules.
Haus Morgenrot cherishes Da Rules.
Haus Morgenrot will explain Da Rules.
Haus Morgenrot will hold meetings concerning Da Rules.
Haus Morgenrot will discuss your relationship with Da Rules.
There are procedures.
There are expectations.
There are things you absolutely should do.
There are things you absolutely should not do.
There are things that apparently depend upon who is working.
There are things that apparently depend upon what day it is.
There are things that exist in writing.
There are things that exist because somebody said so.
There are things everybody does until suddenly somebody asks why everybody does them.
And somewhere in the middle of this glorious bureaucratic ecosystem wanders:
the hallway cat.
The hallway cat possesses remarkable institutional knowledge.
Apparently, if hallway cat is out...
it must be free time.
Why?
Fuck if I know.
Perhaps hallway cat has access to scheduling software.
Perhaps hallway cat attended the morning meeting.
Perhaps hallway cat has been promoted.
Perhaps hallway cat is secretly an SOD.
All I know is that the appearance of hallway cat apparently carries information.
Cat out?
FREE TIME.
There is something almost beautiful about it.
Management may have procedures.
Staff may have instructions.
There may be schedules.
There may be routines.
But somewhere, somebody sees a cat in the hallway and concludes:
THE FELINE HAS SPOKEN. RELEASE THE POPULATION.
And after enough time inside any system, you begin recognizing these things.
Not because somebody sat you down and explained them.
Because you've seen them.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You start recognizing the difference between what a system says it is and what the system repeatedly demonstrates itself to be.
That doesn't mean every rule is bullshit.
It doesn't mean every manager is wrong.
It doesn't mean every workplace is secretly plotting against you.
It means:
Pay attention.
Because experience is data.
Then there's money.
Oh, sweet merciful fuck.
Money.
I have watched people complain that they don't have money.
And I believe them.
Then somehow these magnificent creatures produce a dollar.
They approach the janky vending machine.
They insert the dollar.
CHONK.
Gone.
Complaint.
Anger.
Disbelief.
Tomorrow:
NEW DOLLAR HAS SPAWNED.
Where?!
HOW?!
You were broke yesterday!
I personally witnessed you achieve broke!
Yet here you stand, apparently having discovered an infinite-money exploit.
And what shall we do with this miraculous second chance at financial solvency?
Food?
Save it?
Hold onto it?
Perhaps purchase something from a machine that has not already demonstrated open hostility toward currency?
No.
Of course not.
We approach our ancient adversary.
The vending machine waits.
Hallway Cat and Vending Machine lock eyes.
A tumbleweed passes.
Dollar rises.
CHONK.
"THIS FUCKING MACHINE!"
Sir.
At some point, the machine is no longer the interesting part of this story.
Why are you still feeding it?
And THAT is where this stopped being a vending-machine story for me.
Because I've got machines too.
We all do.
I recently found another one on my phone.
Someone sends me a picture.
Or a video.
"Oooooh. Look what I sent you."
Wonderful.
I tap it.
The app extends its hand.
$4.99.
Or:
$5.99.
Ah.
I see.
CHONK requested.
And here's the beautiful thing:
I don't have to solve the mystery.
Maybe it's an incredible picture.
Maybe it's an incredible video.
Maybe Steven Spielberg personally directed six seconds of ass.
Maybe Martin Scorsese consulted on the lighting.
Maybe Hans Zimmer composed the soundtrack.
Maybe the Academy has already created a category specifically for whatever lies behind that little blurred rectangle.
Doesn't matter.
Because I already know what the machine does.
I press button.
Money leaves.
Content appears.
And then tomorrow there will be another button.
And another.
And another.
So I developed a highly sophisticated financial strategy.
Years of economic study went into this.
Consultants were retained.
Markets were analyzed.
Charts were produced.
The Federal Reserve was notified.
Ready?
No.
That's the strategy.
If it costs me?
I'll let it go.
I can even provide another route.
Send it somewhere free.
Here.
Use this.
No paywall.
No unlock.
No tiny digital toll booth standing between me and whatever the fuck you wanted me to see.
And if the response is another locked attachment?
Well.
I guess I shall live the remainder of my natural life without knowing what was inside.
Some mysteries remain unsolved.
Human civilization continues.
The sun rises.
The birds sing.
Panda blinks.
Couch Doog cronches an animal cracker.
And somewhere, an unopened $5.99 video quietly returns to the earth.
This isn't really about being cheap.
It's about deciding that curiosity does not automatically receive purchasing authority.
That's important.
Because curiosity is a fucking idiot with a debit card.
Curiosity says:
"But what if—"
No.
"It might be—"
Don't care.
"Just this once—"
We have historical data.
"But maybe—"
THE MACHINE HAS ALREADY BEEN TESTED.
This is where my favorite doctrine enters:
Act Broke.
Act Broke doesn't mean actually having nothing.
It doesn't mean denying yourself everything enjoyable.
It doesn't mean sitting in darkness eating uncooked rice while guarding your checking account with a spear.
It means money doesn't become available merely because something interesting appeared.
The existence of money is not permission to spend money.
And the existence of a button is not an instruction to press the fucking button.
That's where pattern recognition becomes useful.
Pattern recognition isn't magic.
It's not clairvoyance.
It's not:
"I experienced one bad thing once, therefore I understand the universe."
That's bullshit.
Pattern recognition requires the second point.
And the third.
And the fourth.
Eventually the little dots start forming a line.
And once you can see the line, you have a choice.
You can acknowledge it.
Or you can keep buying more dots.
That's the part I think I've finally gotten better at.
I don't need seventeen copies of the same lesson anymore.
One?
Fine.
Sometimes you genuinely don't know.
The first dollar buys information.
Maybe the machine works.
Maybe it doesn't.
Maybe the job is good.
Maybe it isn't.
Maybe the subscription is worth it.
Maybe it isn't.
Maybe the person follows through.
Maybe they don't.
Maybe the situation improves.
Maybe it doesn't.
Life requires uncertainty.
Sometimes you have to put the first dollar in.
And occasionally you lose it.
That's the cost of finding out.
But once the information arrives?
Use the fucking information.
If Dollar One taught me:
THIS MACHINE EATS DOLLARS
then Dollar Two isn't purchasing knowledge.
Dollar Three isn't purchasing knowledge.
Dollar Four isn't purchasing knowledge.
At that point I am purchasing:
THE REMASTERED DEFINITIVE COLLECTOR'S EDITION OF THE LESSON I ALREADY FUCKING OWN.
Now with bonus commentary!
Director's cut!
Behind-the-scenes footage!
Exclusive steelbook packaging!
STILL THE SAME FUCKING LESSON.
There is a point where persistence becomes repetition.
There is a point where optimism becomes denial.
There is a point where giving something another chance becomes repeatedly volunteering for information you already possess.
And that's the point I want to recognize sooner.
Not perfectly.
I'm human.
I'll fuck it up.
I'll absolutely find some completely different metaphorical vending machine six months from now and stand there thinking:
"Surely this one—"
CHONK.
"FAAAAAAAK!"
Fine.
Lesson acquired.
But I would at least like to stop paying recurring tuition.
Because that's what this really is.
Tuition.
Life teaches expensive classes.
Some cost money.
Some cost time.
Some cost embarrassment.
Some cost relationships.
Some cost opportunities.
Some cost twelve hours at a time.
Some cost nothing more than five bucks and the realization that whatever was behind the paywall absolutely was not worth five bucks.
The price varies.
But once you've passed the class?
Stop reenrolling.
You already have the credit.
You already took the exam.
You already wrote the paper.
You already watched the professor wheel the broken vending machine into the lecture hall and demonstrate:
Dollar.
Machine.
CHONK.
Gone.
Class dismissed.
And maybe that's one of the stranger things I've learned lately.
I don't have to be angry at every machine.
I don't have to defeat every machine.
I don't have to expose every machine.
I don't have to understand why every machine behaves the way it does.
Sometimes I can simply identify it.
"Ah."
"That's what you do."
And walk the fuck away.
There is tremendous freedom in that.
Because once you stop demanding that the machine become something else, the decision returns to you.
The machine controls what the machine does.
I control the dollar.
Haus Morgenrot controls Haus Morgenrot.
An app controls its paywall.
Another person controls their choices.
A company controls its policies.
A vending machine controls whether it wishes to dispense my fucking Coke.
Fine.
But my hand?
My wallet?
My attention?
My effort?
My next move?
Those belong to me.
And if experience has already shown me what happens when I feed something—
I am allowed to stop feeding it.
No grand confrontation required.
No dramatic exit.
No dissertation.
No revenge.
No final attempt to make the vending machine understand how disappointed I am in its performance.
Just:
Nope.
Dollar stays in pocket.
Deuces thrown.
Life continues.
And somewhere behind me:
CHONK.
Somebody else just put another dollar in.
"THIS MACHINE TOOK MY MONEY!"
Yeah.
I know.
It does that.
Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice
The first dollar buys information.
Sometimes that information is:
"This machine is fucked."
Fine.
Education costs money.
But the second, third, fourth, and fifth dollars?
Those aren't buying new information anymore.
You're purchasing additional copies of a lesson you already own.
Stop buying duplicates.
Learn what deserves another chance and what has simply demonstrated a pattern.
Learn when new evidence has appeared and when you're just hoping old evidence will magically stop being true.
And most importantly:
The machine cannot eat the dollar you refuse to insert.
Keep your dollar.
Keep your time.
Keep your attention.
Keep whatever part of yourself you've been repeatedly feeding into something that keeps producing the same disappointing result.
You don't have to hate the machine.
You just have to believe it.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
- Senior Vice President of Peppercorn Purina & Hostile Margin Notes