the vending machine

the vending machine took my dollar and gave me back a different dollar.

i noticed because the first one had a crease across the eagle and this one had a smear where the number should be. bev was standing beside me with a sandwich that had been sweating through its wrapper. they said, "that's still a dollar," like the machine had been waiting for a witness to make the ruling.

i put the new dollar on the counter and looked at the old one in the machine's return slot. there were seventy-nine things wrong with the exchange, including the machine's coin tray, the flickering light over the chips, and the fact that my thumbprint was on the money it refused to give me. the crease was not one of them. i had remembered it wrong.

bev pressed the selection button again. the machine hummed, considered the request, and dropped a packet of crackers. i opened the flap and found the other dollar behind it, warm from the motor. now i had two dollars and no proof that either one belonged to me. the first dollar looked cleaner. the second dollar looked like it had been listening.

i called the number printed on the machine. a man answered and asked whether it had taken my money. i said yes. he asked whether it had returned money. i said yes. he said, "then it balanced." bev had finished the sandwich by then. they wiped their hands on a receipt and told me the machine was probably tired.

i put both dollars in my pocket. if you see the crease, leave it there.