It is difficult not to wonder whether that combination of elements which produces a machine for labor does not create also a soul of sorts, a dull resentful metallic will, which can rebel at times.

– Pearl S. Buck

‘Come on,” I pleaded, forcing a smile. It was imperative that I not reveal the depth of my desperation. Click. Nothing. My thirst for cooperation made my throat raspy. Click. Still nothing. “Come on, I need this today. My stash is gone, there’s none in the cupboards, none left in my car.” A note of hysteria had entered my voice, only to be met by a blank stare. “Come on, don’t do this. Not now.” Click. Nada. I started to panic, could feel my cool slipping away. The blank stare winked at me, a direct taunt. A series of expletives came flying out of my mouth in rapid fire. The only difference between me and the crazy-screaming-bus-stop guy was that my tormentor wasn’t imaginary. Click-tchuh-click-tchuh. Something. A mixture of guilt and relief pricked at my skin like acupuncture needles. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please — YES! See? There you go! Was that so hard?” Sighing with relief as cold filtered water flowed into the glass I’d been clutching, I chided myself for not having faith. I gushed my thanks to the one that mercifully ended my suffering, having already suppressed the memory that the same one had started it. I have a dysfunctional, codependent relationship with the water and ice dispenser on my refrigerator. It wasn’t always this way. We used to be happy. The dispenser never groaned or balked, and I always got what I needed when I needed it. When it notified me by blinking a green light that its filter had to be changed, I didn’t hesitate to order a new one. I tried to be delicate when pushing its buttons, and it was careful to keep the water flowing in a well-directed stream.