The small cherry-red box with a chrome accents immediately caught my attention. The panel on its door was missing, so the circuit board dangled freely on some wires. My strained face was reflected back to me in its glossy surface as we lifted the surprisingly heavy refrigerator onto the back of my 2002 F-150.

 

“Oughta really upgrade your ride to somethin’ more contemporary!” Titus, the owner of the scrapyard, appealed to me for the millionth time to ditch my beloved old timer. I just shrugged.

 

“Yeah, yeah… I get it. See ya tomorrow, then? We’re getting some old car GPS. One or two sats might still be up… twenty bucks says you won’t get a signal from it.”

 

I couldn’t help but smile as he smacked the side of my truck to send me on my way, like a cowboy may a friend on a fierce steed in one of those old westerns. That day, I wasn't going to pick up anything else, since I wanted to get home as quick as possible to start tinkering with my find. On the inside, there was even the original manual, which was a particular cause for excitement, although I was still skeptical if what it promised would still work, let alone if I should believe it.

 

The fridge seemed to be largely intact, besides the missing flat screen covering the circuitry, but I wouldn't be needing that until later anyway. Safely getting it from the truck bed to the garage floor proved to be more complicated than getting it on there in the first place. After grabbing my tools, I decided that it would be much safer to test it here first, before plugging it in for the first time in the kitchen. The instructions had called for a network connection on the back next to the compressor, and I had eventually managed to find an old adapter that would fit. Holding my breath, I plugged the device into the wall.

 

It started to hum. After a few cautious minutes, during which nothing further happened, I dared to look inside. The small light turned on as the heavy door swung open. On all of its walls, several horizontal and vertical steel rods formed a coarse mesh around the inside of the fridge. Opposite the top mounted evaporator, a small tube sat inside a grooved piece of ceramic on the bottom. I reassured myself using the manual: I probably wasn't going to blow up the garage. All or nothing. According to the warranty sticker on the back, it was pre-paid. I was praying to the goddess of scavengers luck that whoever owned this before me didn’t use it all that much. Putting the open manual on the floor next to me, I kneeled down next to the exposed electronics, bridged the fuse socket with a screwdriver I always carry in my denims and pressed what I identified as the “Restock” button.

 

Bang! A blue ark shot from the tip of the screwdriver up my arm, and the shock and scare made me jump backwards. The humming had taken on a violent electrical character, and an eerie glow was coming from the gap in the door. Metal filings from all over the floor started to slowly migrate towards the red attractor. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The low humming once more only seemed to come from the compressor. Silently bubbling with anticipation, I crept towards the door handle and pulled. Before me lay a frozen peperoni pizza, a tropical fruit salad in a plastic bowl, two buckets of vanilla ice cream, as well as half a case worth of beers. I checked the best before on everything: Bingo! Man, what’d they put in that stuff?

 

* * *

 

The next few days I lived like Faraday in Cockaigne. Throughout the day, I would conduct experiments on the device, which had now finally moved to my kitchen. By now, I had learned how to avoid producing sparks when conjuring up delicacies. The manual and the traces had told me that a simple shift register encoded the target shelf, with which I experimented to my heart's content. In the evenings, I would treat myself to the spoils of my labor which never disappointed: Big Chef's five-minute chicken wings with secret dipping sauce, Big Chef's double-glazed doughnuts, caramel pecan pie, farmer's stew (grandma's style), mac'n cheese, nougat, all kinds of ice tea's and sodas. Only once in the beginning did a miscalculation result in delivering nothing but a severed piece of one of the storage racks, the ends where the metal had been cut still glowing red-hot. As I munched on my lavish feast, I watched the synchronization packets for my next order dancing across the network from my computer screen. Strange that the service was still working. It had been a while since Big Chef went out of operation here. Trying to break into appliances had broken their back and relegated them to an overseas novelty franchise. Well… at least they were kind enough to have reserved some for me.

 

* * *

 

Weeks passed, or even months. I haven't moved my car at all, haven't been back visiting Titus at the scrapyard, haven't spoken to a soul. The only thing I do after waking up is eating and sitting in front of my screen, researching about any products from Big Chef that I have yet to discover. How can I regain the motivation to do something else? Anything! The mindless routine of picking whatever food I fancy at that time, and moments later opening the door to its delivery, has trapped me. I even keep re-using the same plate and utensils without washing them. What's it matter. My breathing is heavy, and I am sweating a lot. I hate what the reflective polish of the red door reveals to me.

 

Why did I curse myself with that fridge? Tomorrow, I am throwing it out!