Resa Writes

My dad lived and breathed vending for over forty years. Vending machines were how my parents put food on the table, how they kept a roof over our head, how basically all of our needs were met.

When I was in high school, I used to spend summers working with my dad and his vending business. We’d get in the truck at the crack of dawn and spend the day driving all over the cities, filling machines full of pop, candy, chips, sandwiches, ice cream, and more. We kept people’s stomachs full. Including ours. Perks of the job were if you were hungry? Just grab a snack off the truck. Thirsty? Grab a cold beverage while filling the machine.

That job was the best job I ever had not just because of the free snacks, but because I also got to spend the days with my dad, just the two of us driving across the Twin Cities filling machines. My dad was a very social guy and I got to watch him interact with his customers, joking, and shooting the breeze, and getting them to buy more stuff.

Once in a while he’d ask if I was hungry and I’d say yes, and I’d start walking to the back of his truck and he’d shake his head and we’d instead drive somewhere and sit down to eat, just the two of us.
My dad took pride in his business and how he operated things. He had this whole meticulous system about filling the machines, and a method to everything. You put the pop cans in, top first otherwise they’d get stuck. Certain places couldn’t have Hershey’s bars because it was too hot, and they’d melt in the machine. And the chips. You had to tuck your corners of the bags a certain way, so they wouldn’t get stuck.

A few months ago, I was with him at the hospital for a doctor’s appointment and we saw a vending machine room. It had been six years since he'd retired but he still got excited about vending machines. I asked him if he wanted to check out the room and his face lit up. He looked at the machine and analyzed its contents. The prices, too high. The variety, not enough. The chips. Not filled right. They’d get stuck.

I asked him if he wanted a snack, and he nodded excitedly, but then said he didn’t have any cash. That’s okay, I told him, and I swiped my card and bought two bags of chips.

A nearby hospital volunteer saw us eating our snacks and joined our conversation. My dad explained to her how he’d done this type of work for over forty years. In fact, he’d had machines in the building across the street. He told her of the experiences he’d had, the people he’d met, the places he’d been.

But his favorite thing about vending, he’d said, was when his wife and each of his three daughters had taken turns helping him out on the route, and the time he got to have with them when they did.

The other day, I bought a bag of chips from a vending machine. As I stood there, I thought about that moment at the hospital, which I didn’t know then but would end up being our last real moment together before his quick decline and subsequent death. I thought about how I’d never be able to enjoy a vending machine snack with him again.

Then the chips weren’t filled the way my dad would’ve done it. I thought about my dad as I swiped my card and pressed the buttons. And then, my chips got stuck. I didn’t shake the machine, though. Dad hated it when people did that.

So, I bought another bag, just like Dad would have told me was the better thing to do.

Except now I had two bags of chips.

But then I realized I was sitting there with two bags of chips.

One for me, and one for my dad, who was probably up there somewhere watching me, with a wink and a smile.