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In this episode of 7 Minute Stories, Aaron tells the story of a broken gumball machine, a chance driveway encounter, and a man who chose to live by an unusual philosophy...
What begins as a simple attempt to clean out the garage turns into a conversation about boxes — the ones we live in, the ones we work in, and the ones we may spend our lives trying to escape.
It’s a short story about freedom, sacrifice, and the unexpected teachers we meet when we think we’re just throwing something away.
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The Team:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
A Lesson from the Gumball Philosopher
By Aaron Calafato
“I believe in a world with less debt and more gifts.”
Have you ever had things in your house — or in your garage — that you don’t know how they got there, why they’re there, or even when they showed up? They’ve been there so long you just accept them as part of the world. Part of the house. Part of the garage.
Years go by, and then one day, I don’t know if it’s the light hitting the room a certain way or I finally stop and take a breath with my coffee, but something catches my eye and I think, What the hell is that? And why is it here?
That’s when I realize… we don’t need it there anymore.
Now, I have a wonderful wife who enjoys taking old things and making new things out of them, flipping antiques, fixing stuff — all of that. And that’s great.
But one day I was walking through the garage and I saw a gumball machine. A gumball machine that had been sitting there for almost a year. I went up to Cori and said, “Hey, what’s the deal with the gumball machine?”
She said, “I’ll be honest. I don’t know either. I picked it up at some point. It doesn’t work. We should get rid of it.”
So I grabbed it and immediately put it by the trash. She said, “No, no, wait. We can’t just throw it away.”
I said, “Why? It’s garbage.”
She said, “But I feel bad. There’s a story here. Where did it come from? Who built it? Who used it? What stories intersected with it?”
I said, “I don’t know. It’s a broken gumball machine and I can’t park the car in the garage.”
She said, “Can you meet me halfway? Before you throw it away, can I put it on Facebook Marketplace for free?”
I said, “You’ve got yourself a deal. Twenty-four hours. If it’s not gone, it’s trash.”
Ten minutes later, she says someone reached out.
“Is this still available?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
So I’m standing at the top of the driveway with the gumball machine, ready to get this thing out of my life. A rickety station wagon pulls up, and I get the sense this conversation is going to take longer than planned.
He’s a perfectly nice guy.
“Need help lifting this?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
We lift it together. We talk about dimensions. Will it fit? It does. We close the trunk like a tag team. I shake his hand and say, “Nice meeting you.”
But he keeps shaking my hand.
We just stand there, watching the sunset. I’m waiting for him to leave. He’s waiting for me to ask something.
So I say, “So… are you gonna flip it?”
“Flip what?”
“The gumball machine.”
He says, “Not really. I have a philosophy.”
“About gumball machines?”
“No. About my life.”
He tells me that for ten years he lived boxed in — a house, a car, a job making boxes in a factory. He worked just to keep the box he lived in.
“I thought I’d do this forever,” he said. “Pay to go to work. Work pays me. And I never get ahead. Eventually, I end up in a box.”
“So I did the opposite,” he said. “I bought a little trailer. It’s the only box I own. I don’t need much. I can’t have a family or a real relationship. But I wake up every day and create.”
“I drive around and pick up people’s trash. I make art from it. And then I give it away.”
“I made a website. People reach out. I drive the art to them and give it to them as a gift.”
“You choose this?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s been the best year of my life. I believe we need a world with less debt and more gifts. I just want to be part of the giving.”
I said, “You’re kind of like Santa Claus. Just not on Christmas.”
We laughed.
We shook hands.
“You’re the first person I’ve told,” he said.
He drove away slowly, the gumball machine rattling in the back. Rolled down the window and waved as the sun went down.
It felt cinematic.
I stood there realizing I get to meet these little characters all the time.
I thought I was throwing away trash.
What I didn’t realize…
was that he was the gift.
Not the machine.
Not the stuff.
The story.
The philosophy.
Getting to audit the class of the gumball philosopher.
