Street Vending Quotes

Roarke didn't quite make it to Eve's office. He found her down the corridor, in front of one of the vending machines. She and the machine appeared to be in the middle of a vicious argument. "I put the proper credits in, you blood-sucking, money-grubbing son of a bitch." Eve punctuated this by slamming her fist where the machine's heart would be, if it had one. ANY ATTEMPT TO VANDALIZE, DEFACE, OR DAMAGE THIS UNIT IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE. The machine spoke in a prissy, singsong voice Roarke was certain was sending his wife's blood pressure through the roof. THIS UNIT IS EQUIPPED WITH SCANEYE, AND HAS RECORDED YOUR BADGE NUMBER. DALLAS, LIEUTENANT EVE. PLEASE INSERT PROPER CREDIT, IN COIN OR CREDIT CODE, FOR YOUR SELECTION. AND REFRAIN FROM ATTEMPTING TO VANDALIZE, DEFACE, OR DAMAGE THIS UNIT. "Okay, I'll stop attempting to vandalize, deface, or damage you, you electronic street thief. I'll just do it." She swung back her right foot, which Roarke had cause to know could deliver a paralyzing kick from a standing position. But before she could follow through he stepped up and nudged her off balance. "Please, allow me, Lieutenant." "Don't put any more credits in that thieving bastard," she began, then hissed when Roarke did just that. "Candy bar, I assume. Did you have any lunch?" "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know it's just going to keep stealing if people like you pander to it." "Eve, darling, it's a machine. It does not think." "Ever hear of artificial intelligence, ace?" "Not in a vending machine that dispenses chocolate bars.

Some chauffeurs of PD cars like to have an excuse to step on it, and some don’t. That one did. He didn’t use much noise, but plenty of gas, and when he was in the fourth grade a maladjusted schoolteacher had made him write five hundred times, “A miss is as good as a mile,” and it sank in. I should have clocked us from 230 West Twentieth Street to 240 Centre Street. As I got out I told him he should have an insurance vending machine, like those at airports, installed on his dash, and he grinned sociably. “Impressed you, did it, bud?

Along the streets thats lead away from the apartment he can never see anything through the concrete and the brick and neon but he knows that buried within it are grotesque, twisted souls forever trying the manners that will convince themselves the possess Quality, learning strange poses of style and glamour vended by dream magazines and other mass media, and paid for by the vendors of substance. He thinks of them at night alone with their advertised glamorous shoes and stockings and underclothes off, staring through the sooty windows at the grotesque shells revealed beyond them, when the poses weaken and the truth creeps in, the only truth that exists here, crying to heaven, God, there is nothing here but dead neon and cement and brick.

One of the things I've noticed in Frank, and this is coming from that fear as a child that lingers, is that a kid on Tree Street, the only time Frank could eat comfortably was very late at night after John was asleep or passed out. And I've noticed now, having spent a lot of time with Frank, that he still consumes nearly half his calories in any twenty-four-hour period standing at the kitchen cupboard in the middle of the night, or if we're on the road, raiding hotel vending machines, because it's safe.

And the historical corrective goes even further, as the energetic and material foundations of modern civilization go back into the five decades before the beginning of World War I and, to a surprisingly high degree, to a single decade, the 1880s. That decade saw the invention and patenting, and in many cases also the successful commercial introduction, of so many processes, converters, and materials indispensable for modern civilization that their aggregate makes the decade’s record unprecedented, and most likely unrepeatable. Bicycles, cash registers, vending machines, punch cards, adding machines, ballpoint pens, revolving doors, and antiperspirants (and Coca Cola and the Wall Street Journal) could be dismissed as the decade’s minor inventions and innovations.

Halfway home from Plaza Espana, I was in no rush and stopped by a quiet, closed little square on my way, called Plaza de Santa Madrona. I bought a Lucky Strike, “blando” softpack, “sin aditivos”, from a small bar's cigarette vending machine and ordered a cafe cortado, my favorite coffee in Spain. Both Adam and I smoked the same type of cigarettes in Spain; that was the best one. In Italy, I preferred to smoke MS Azzurro and caffe corretto con La Vecchia Romagna - a short, strong espresso with a shot of Italian cognac. That could wake you up after a seventeen-hour roadtrip from Budapest to Gaeta, which was necessary as administrative duties had been added to my interpreter roles over time. If I made a mistake, I wouldn't receive a bonus. Indeed. There was speech. Only once or twice in almost 5 years by the end of 2014. I knew I would end up at the Magalhaes and Radas corner, walking that way towards home anyhow. I was just sitting on that little square, surrounded by buildings; I was the only person sitting at the bar terrace. This was the first time I did not want to go home to Carrer Radas. There was a fountain in the middle; you could almost hear the water running down into a tub, echoing on the hidden little street which had no traffic whatsoever. It was almost like a holy moment - “Santa Madrona, help me,” I thought. I, the atheist, was asking for some miracle in that silent, peaceful, hidden little plazita where time seemed to stand still.

Shopping Dana Gioia I enter the temple of my people but do not pray. I pass the altars of the gods but do not kneel Or offer sacrifices proper to the season. Strolling the hushed aisles of the department store, I see visions shining under glass, Divinities of leather, gold, and porcelain, Shrines of cut crystal, stainless steel, and silicon. But I wander the arcades of abundance, Empty of desire, no credit to my people, Envying the acolytes their passionate faith. Blessed are the acquisitive, For theirs is the kingdom of commerce. Redeem me, gods of the mall and marketplace. Mercury, protector of cell phones and fax machines, Venus, patroness of bath and bedroom chains, Tantalus, guardian of the food court. Beguile me with the aromas of coffee, musk, and cinnamon. Surround me with delicately colored soaps and moisturizing creams. Comfort me with posters of children with perfect smiles And pouting teenage models clad in lingerie. I am not made of stone. Show me satins, linen, crepe de chine, and silk, Heaped like cumuli in the morning sky, As if all caravans and argosies ended in this parking lot To fill these stockrooms and loading docks. Sing me the hymns of no cash down and the installment plan, Of custom fit, remote control, and priced to move. Whisper the blessing of Egyptian cotton, polyester, and cashmere. Tell me in what department my desire shall be found. Because I would buy happiness if I could find it, Spend all that I possessed or could borrow. But what can I bring you from these sad emporia? Where in this splendid clutter Shall I discover the one true thing? Nothing to carry, I should stroll easily Among the crowded countertops and eager cashiers, Bypassing the sullen lines and footsore customers, Spending only my time, discounting all I see. Instead I look for you among the pressing crowds, But they know nothing of you, turning away, Carrying their brightly packaged burdens. There is no angel among the vending stalls and signage. Where are you, my fugitive? Without you There is nothing but the getting and the spending Of things that have a price. Why else have I stalked the leased arcades Searching the kiosks and the cash machines? Where are you, my errant soul and innermost companion? Are you outside amid the potted palm trees, Bumming a cigarette or joking with the guards, Or are you wandering the parking lot Lost among the rows of Subarus and Audis? Or is it you I catch a sudden glimpse of Smiling behind the greasy window of the bus As it disappears into the evening rush?

And since January I have been wearing four or five new pairs of pants a day, all of which will eventually take pride of place, when suitably soiled, in vending machines on the streets of Tokyo's most fashionable districts. My wife, of course, finds this turn of events ridiculous, but she will be laughing on the other side of her stupid face when the flyblown briefs she currently uses as dishcloths become priceless collector's items.