The Vending Machine Man

The vending machine man came today, boxes and boxes of chips and popcorn stacked on top of his wooden cart. Quietly, he slips in, and slowly, he slips out. Out of the bustling cafeteria, unnoticed and unsmiling. I think he must come every Tuesday. He must have the potential to smile, I guess. He seems like he would laugh at something funny. But it would have to be particularly interesting. When he opens the cover of the vending machine, he places each plastic bag in its thin-wire slot, slowly and carefully. For some brands, like Kettlecorn, he wears a black winter hat. For others, he simply lowers his head. Only one machine is filled. When he is done, he shuffles out of the white-lit room, leaning over the top of his boxes to check for incoming people. And then he leaves. Straight through the door, the one that doesn't hold shut when you push against it. His burden is not lightened. His hat is not donned. He will be back next week. Someday, I'd like to ask him some questions. Where are you from, vending machine man? Did you always dream of your job? Did you want to be a piano-maker or a book-binder or a social studies teacher? Is filling vending machines like emptying garbage cans in the other direction? To provide what will soon be trash instead of taking it away? Would you like to go away for while? Do you cringe when you see vending machines? When you don't? Do you care? When you get home from work, does your wife ask you how your day has been? What do you tell her? Do you talk about the likelihood of dying from a vending machine, how it is more dangerous than working with wolves? Or do you live alone in an apartment, part-time vending machine man and part-time college student? Are you still planning to bind books someday? What's your name?