THE VENDING MACHINE-1982
On the way to school, I had to cross the busy intersection where Hollywood and Sunset Boulevard met. This crossing was considered so dangerous, the city planners dug a tunnel beneath the streets so students could safely avoid the reckless drivers on the surface, drivers who never seemed to see old people and kids, the only citizens on foot in Los Angeles.
The tunnel itself was surrounded by a gate that they locked after midnight. Dim yellow lights were the only illumination offered in the long stretch of the dark path with the single angled left turn in the middle. This turn was the most frightening part of the tunnel as it was rumored that child killers waited in the darkness just out of sight. This rumor prompted concerned parents to pay for the installation of a convex mirror mounted on the ceiling that revealed any maniac that might be waiting in the cubby that perplexingly was placed at the perfect angle and depth to hide a large man.
One rainy morning, I passed through the tunnel and discovered that the cubby space had been filled with a vending machine. The device was unremarkable. It sold soda and snacks. What made it different though was the single slot that dispensed a small box wrapped in butcher paper. There was no label, only a hand scrawled note that read “surprise box”. As I bent down to get a closer look, a spark from the machine left me temporarily stunned. The box was five dollars which amounted to ten times the price of the candy and soda. I didn’t have the twenty quarters on me so I made a plan to revisit the vending machine tomorrow with coins in hand.
The next day brought more rain and the tunnel was starting to fill with water. I saw the man locking the tunnel on the other side of Sunset Boulevard. I rushed down to the vending machine to get the mystery box before the gate was barred on my side of the street. Down in the tunnel, my shoes became soaked as I trudged through deeper and deeper water. Finally, I reached the vending machine and put my money in. Gears whirred and the coil that held the box in place turned, kicking the item down to the dispenser drawer where I could reach it.
“Hey! There someone down there?!” The worker called out from the tunnel entrance.
“Yeah!” I reflexively yelled back.
“Hell, I almost locked you in. Get out of there. It’s flooding!”
As I ascended, the grumpy old man shut the gate behind me and padlocked it. He glanced down at my wet shoes in disapproval.
“You ain’t got no sense going down there. You’ll catch cold now.”
“Yes sir.” I said apologetically. As he turned to leave, I asked him about the vending machine.
“I don’t know nothing about it. I don’t go down there unless I have to. That tunnel is ill-omened, especially since they found that kid in there.”
I asked him to elaborate, but he refused.
“Take my advice and steer clear of the tunnel.” The old man blurted as he left. He never did explain about he kid they found in there.
The mystery box itself was quite heavy for being only a little bigger than a deck of cards. It took everything I had not to rip the paper off on the walk home. Finally, when I got it in my room, I carefully peeled back the tape and unwrapped it.
The box itself was wooden with a hinged lid. I opened it, unveiling a red velvet interior and a cloth pillow that held a key. Picking it up, I saw there was a St. Ethel Hotel tag on the keyring. This was one of the worst hotels on Hollywood Boulevard. It was said you had to be a drug dealer, prostitute or murderer to live there. “Room 88” it read on the tag.
For several days I kept the hotel key in my pocket. Finally, my curiosity overtook my fear and I took the city bus to the hotel. I followed a fat man into the decrepit lobby. A wall sign pointed down to “Room 1 through 88.” The basement stairwell was poorly lit and I had to cling to the handrail on the way down. The hallway itself wasn’t much better with only one of four bulbs still illuminating. The walls themselves were sticky with grease.
At the very end of the hall, room 88 stood at the end. I put my head to the door and listened. There was a sound like the faint rushing of water.
I turned the lock and opened the door to room 88.
The first thing I noticed was that the floor was covered in dirt, the kind you get at the garden store with the little flecks sprinkled inside. There was no furniture in the room. Being a basement apartment, there were no windows that I could see.
A path was swept through the dirt and led into a dark hallway. I followed the path through it and found the source of the sound of water. In the hallway bathroom, the toilet had a stuck valve. I jiggled the handle and I could hear the toilet filling up. In a few seconds, the tank was full enough and the water stopped. There was an audible click that came from the hallway. It was then that I realized the toilet itself might be a trigger and I should’ve left it alone. It was just last month that my history teacher taught us about similar booby traps during world war two. Pictures would be hung crooked with hand grenades fastened to the back on hair triggers. As soon as a soldier straightened the picture, the grenade blew him to pieces. It was a trigger, probably the same as the toilet handle.
The lone window in the apartment was just above the tub. A raven tapped at the glass, like a warning sent in some kind of raven Morse code. “RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT” The raven tapped.
“I wish I knew what you’re saying.” I told him apologetically.
I cautiously glanced down the hall and found the door at the end of the hall sitting wide open. Even at this distance, I could see it. There were photos taped to every inch of the walls in that room. Exploring closer, I realized that the photos, all kids about my age, were taken in that scary tunnel. Wondering who could’ve taken these picture I remember the light as soon as I bent down to get a better look at the mystery box. That must have been the camera taking pictures of anyone who looked at the box.
As I studied the photos, I felt a chill as I realized that some of these kids were classmates of mine. Finally, the inevitable conclusion of these photos came as I saw my picture taped to the wall.
From another room, I heard a grinding sound. The hallway seemed to go on forever, dark and cold. The last room had a light and the door was cracked open. I opened the door and found a machine about the size of a refrigerator. It was some kind of etching device and its product was hotel room keys. Specifically the tags. There were dozens of them in a pile on the ground, all for room 88.
The far side of what might have been a long bedroom was partitioned of with a plastic sheet. Behind appeared to be the shadow of a bed. I pulled the plastic sheet open and saw that I was only half right. It was a bed, but not in the sense of sleeping. It was a bed in the sense of restraining someone. There were arm and leg cuffs attached to the bed with leather straps. All of it seemed set up for a new victim, the straps arranged in neat rows.
My curiosity left me at this point and all I could think of was to get out of there before the resident returned home. The thought that terrified me was, there would be someone waiting for me on the long maze leading out of the building. Then I remembered the window.
The single window in the bathroom was installed recently judging by how the plaster and paint were mismatched from the rest of the room. It was one of those egress windows that someone could escape from if there was a fire. I opened it and tore off the screen. There was more than enough room for me to get out through the thin dark alleyway that eventually led out to the street. The raven that warned me earlier was gone.
When I neared the one-way metal gate, I glanced back and saw him. From the egress window, the man with the black ski mask was staring right at me. The only feature I could see, even at this distance were his eyes, piercing and somehow reflective. I realized that I still held the key to room 88 in my hand. I threw it down and pushed the gate open to Hollywood Boulevard. I had escaped. I ran home finally stopping to look behind me. No one was following, at least not anyone that I could see.
I told the police what I had seen. They didn’t think that it constituted a crime.
“Maybe it was a prank.” The fat cop said to me dismissively.
Days later, I saw them removing the vending machine from the tunnel, then lock the gate, this time it would remain closed forever. The tunnel is still there to this day.
A year later, the hotel was finally condemned. While I never had the courage to go inside again, I looked through the mountain of trash that remained when they liquidated the furniture and personal effects of the tenants. There, in a translucent bag, were dozens of keys to room 88. I took one as a souvenir.
On the way home, I kept looking over my shoulder. It was then that I realized that I didn’t need the souvenir after all. I didn’t realize it then, but I was standing right next to the gated tunnel. I pushed the key through the gate and it fell down the stairs, coming to a stop on the dark wet floor.
“Goodbye.” I said to the key. I made it a point to never pass by the tunnel again.