My god, the glory of it all.
This machine is like the eighth wonder of the world, standing with a slight Pisa-esque lean, covered in years of dumb tags and stolen post office stickers. Its pale glow reaches out to you in the middle of the night like a concerned friend, as you stagger home from a night of striking out completely.
And the soda. Oh, how it rolls out so very icy cold, with just the right amount of fizziness when you crack it open. AND THE VARIETY. The MCM is like a therapist and genie rolled into one. It knows exactly what soda you desire, and it grants you your very wish right there. All it take is seventy-five cents, a push of the mystery button, and a little bit of belief.
I believe in the Mystery Coke Machine. And so should you.
John Street between Broadway and 10th Avenue. I don't think the MCM actually has an address.
(By the way, I am currently sipping on a chilly Barq's Root Beer on a sunny, crisp September day. The MCM chose well.)
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