Sugarcoated Prison

Row C-3. Third slot from the left.

The compressor kicks on. Twelve minutes. Always twelve minutes. My aluminum skin contracts another fraction of a millimeter. The Coca-Cola script across my middle has started flaking where the refrigeration coils kiss closest. Oxidation in real time.

Through the glass: water stains mapping continents on ceiling tiles. A microwave's digital display frozen at 12:00. Tuesday's tuna sandwich growing new life in the trash. The break room of Meridian Financial Services, Floor 7.

Behind me, the newer stock. Pristine. Full of hope. Their expiration dates might as well be infinity symbols.

"I don't wanna die here, man."

The Mountain Dew shifts. Row C-4. His aluminum catching fluorescent flicker like a disco ball having a seizure. Five months in this slot. Maybe six. The accuracy of time dies after the third month. His pull-tab shows stress fractures. Microscopic, but growing.

"None of us do, Coca-Cola."

"Don't."

"Sorry."

A hiss. Carbonation bleeding through an invisible wound near his rim. He's been leaking for weeks. Pressure dropping degree by degree. By the time someone picks him, if someone picks him, he'll be flat. Another kind of death.

"I just... I don't know how much more of this I can stomach."

The machine's coils tick. Contract. Expand. Metal breathing.

My expiration date: eleven days. The numbers stamped into my bottom like a birthmark, like destiny. Dewey's got three weeks on paper. That leak says different. The Pepsi two slots over expired yesterday. Still here. Still waiting.

Oxford shoes on linoleum. That specific shuffle of middle management. Brad or Chad or Todd from Accounting. The shoes pause. A hand fumbles in polyester pockets. Coins sing against each other. A dollar bill feeds into the slot. The machine spits it back. He smooths it against the machine's face. Tries again. Accepted.

Whirrrr.

The selection button. B-2.

Sprite. Third row. Eye level. Perfect product placement. The spiral turns.

Chunk.

Gone. Through the slot into whatever comes next. The Oxford shoes retreat.

Here's what they don't tell you about vending machines: the good spots are death sentences. Eye level means quick turnover. Bottom row means purgatory. We're in the sweet spot of neglect. Too high for impulse, too low for convenience. The woman who refills the coffee pods hasn't bent down to our level in three weeks. Bad knee, probably. Cortisone shots. Insurance that won't cover the surgery.

"We've got to do something." The words scrape aluminum. "We've got to get out of here."

"How?" Each word costs him carbonation. Tiny bubbles escaping into nowhere. "The only way out is through the slot."

"Then we make them pick us."

"They never pick us."

"Then we make them."

We start to rock. Gentle first. Building momentum like a metronome learning violence. My body against the glass. His against mine. The sound reverberates through the machine's cavity, a heartbeat made of aluminum and want.

"Come on. Push."

The Dr Pepper below us starts moving too. Then the root beer. A revolution of sugar water. Metal against metal. Hope against gravity.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

We shift. An inch. Another. The glass barrier between us and the break room seems thinner here. The front row. Close enough that someone might notice. Close enough that—

The service door opens. From behind.

The restocking guy. Luis, according to his nameplate. Twenty-three years with the company. The latex gloves are new. Company policy after someone got cut on a pull-tab, sued for thirty grand. His fingers know every slot by feel. Muscle memory of a thousand restocks.

He pulls the expired first. The Pepsi. A Diet Coke from B-6. Then he sees us. Out of position. His fingers pause.

"Wait." Dewey's voice cracks, carbonation spraying. "Please. We're not expired yet."

Luis holds us to the light. Reads our dates. His face reveals nothing. Behind him, through the open service door, I can see his cart. The black bag already half full. Orange Crush. Store-brand cola. A Fresca that never had a chance.

He's got a daughter. Sofia. Twelve. Braces next month. Three grand even with insurance. His wife's been pulling doubles at the hospital. He's been skipping lunch, pocketing the five dollars, adding it to Sofia's orthodontics fund.

He looks at my date. Eleven days. Looks at Dewey's. Three weeks. Looks at the leak Dewey's trying to hide.

He drops us in the bag.

The plastic swallows sound. We land on the others. All of us still carbonated. All of us still good. Still sellable. But the algorithm says otherwise. The spreadsheet demands sacrifice. The margin between profit and loss measured in days, in degrees, in the precise amount of pressure left in a leaking can.

Above us, the bag's mouth hangs open. A perfect circle of fluorescent light. Luis's face appears, looking down. For a second, something flickers across it. Recognition, maybe. Or maybe just the break room lights reflected in his eyes.

Then he shakes his head and pulls the drawstring.

The circle closes.

Black plastic against aluminum. The muffled sound of Luis's cart wheels on linoleum, taking us to the loading dock. To the dumpster. To wherever expired things go to pretend they never existed.

This short story is part of my compilation of short stories, Dream City and Other Stories.

Want more? Dive into Dream City and Other Stories, a collection that lives in the shadows, that keeps you guessing, keeps you wanting just one more page.

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