Alexa Daskalakis

Quarters

​

 

No one remembered when the machines were installed.
Only that they had always been there.
Silver.
Sturdy.
Unmoved by context.

You approached with coins and selections.
You always got less than you asked for.
But something always came out.

⸻

Some insisted they were vending machines.
Others called them laundromat relics,
forgotten after the lease expired.
One man swore they were ticket booths
for a train that never ran.

No one questioned why they accepted tokens
from every currency.
Or why they sometimes gave receipts.

⸻

At some point, someone tried to tip one over.
Nothing fell out.
Not snacks.
Not socks.
Not stories.
Just dust—
and a sound like coughing behind metal.

Eventually, they painted the exteriors matte white.
Said it looked cleaner that way.

Now people just walk past.
Even the curious.
Even the hungry.