The vending machine in the break room had always offered the usual assortment of soda, water, and an iced tea so unpleasant that abandoned bottles accumulated beside the sink. Then one Monday morning someone taped a handwritten label over an unused button. MOO JUICE, it said in thick black marker. Nobody admitted making the sign, and nobody remembered the button being there before.
The new hire tried it first. The machine accepted exact change and dispensed a plain white carton cold enough to gather condensation immediately. He said the drink tasted mostly like milk, though sweeter, with an aftertaste he described as the feeling of being praised by someone whose opinion mattered too much. Within half an hour he had stopped complaining about the workload. By lunch he was smiling at emails that would normally have sent him pacing around the floor.
Soon everyone wanted one. The effect was subtle and deeply appealing. Deadlines felt negotiable. Petty insults lost their edges. People stayed late without resentment and volunteered for tasks they had previously avoided. Productivity rose enough that management began stocking disposable straws beside the machine, though nobody could explain where the cartons came from or who was paying for them.
Facilities eventually investigated. The machine was not connected to power. Its cord entered a wall outlet that led nowhere, and the refrigeration unit inside had been removed years ago. The technician opened the rear panel and found no bottles, cans, or tubing. He did find a warm, flexible membrane stretched across the empty interior, pulsing very slowly behind the coils.
He drank a carton before filing his report.
After that, nobody seemed especially interested in investigating further. The office became calmer. Arguments ended quickly. Sick days declined. Several people stopped going home on time because the break room felt more comfortable than their apartments. The machine began offering larger cartons at no additional cost, and eventually someone moved a chair beside it.
I drink two a day now. Most of us do. The flavor has changed slightly over the past month, becoming richer and almost savory, and the cartons feel warm for several seconds before cooling in our hands. The machine has also started making a low sound after closing time, something rhythmic and contented that carries through the ventilation system.
Yesterday the handwritten sign fell off. Beneath it, printed directly on the machine in lettering none of us remember seeing, were two words: HERD PROGRAM. Someone taped the old label back over them before the morning shift arrived. It seemed kinder that way, and by then we were all thirsty.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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