Nostalgia has a funny way of resurfacing childhood memories, often bringing with it a fresh wave of comprehension, as if you’re truly understanding the absurdity of past events for the very first time. Recently, my mind wandered back to a peculiar episode from high school, centered around something we called “The Money Machine.”
Every year, our high school would play host to a representative from a magazine sales company. This individual, radiating an intense “salesman” aura, would annually transform the entire student body into his personal salesforce. I suspect the school administration saw a financial incentive, taking a cut of the magazine sales, but the rewards offered to us students were laughably meager. We’re talking pen lights and Kit-Kat bars for selling a certain number of magazines. Yet, despite these underwhelming prizes, he managed to ignite a competitive frenzy, all fueled by the allure of… The Money Machine.
What exactly was this Money Machine? Imagine a clear box, roughly the size of a phone booth, with a fan duct-taped onto its side. The student who emerged as the top magazine salesperson—the one who outsold everyone else—would earn a coveted 40 seconds inside this Money Machine. The spectacle was always staged: the chosen student would be brought on stage in front of the entire school, the machine loaded with dollar bills, and then the fan would be activated, sending the cash swirling into a frenzy. The objective? To frantically grab as much money as possible as it whipped around in the artificial wind.
Even the Money Machine itself was rigged with its own set of comical rules. You couldn’t scoop money from the floor, you couldn’t trap bills within your clothing—limitations designed to minimize your haul. After the whirlwind 40 seconds, the sales representative would ceremoniously extract you from the Money Machine and prompt you to count your earnings from this “incredible opportunity.” Inevitably, the total would hover around a paltry $23, rarely exceeding $30. But the sales guy would announce this sum with theatrical grandeur, proclaiming, “THAT’S RIGHT! SHE CAME OUT WITH…. TWENTY-TWO DOLLARS!!!” as if it were a king’s ransom.
Looking back, the whole affair was frankly ridiculous. However, during my freshman year, there was a senior named Joey Allegra. I didn’t know him personally, but I always pegged him as an anti-establishment, slacker type, someone generally unimpressed by the typical high school fanfare. So, it was a genuine shock when, with considerable pomp, they announced Joey Allegra as the top magazine seller, the champion of the entire student body. “That kid?” I remember thinking, questioning my entire perception of him. “Maybe I was wrong about him all along?” My youthful cynicism felt momentarily deflated.
But Joey Allegra calmly walked to the stage and stood by the Money Machine. The sales guy was practically bouncing off the walls with manufactured excitement, trying to pump up the crowd, but Joey remained notably unfazed. Finally, the doors of the Money Machine swung open, and he stepped inside. The sales representative launched into a dramatic countdown: “THREE…. TWO…. ONE…. GOOO!!!” The fan roared to life, and dollar bills erupted into a chaotic vortex around Joey. But Joey didn’t reach for a single bill. In fact, he simply sat down on the floor of the Money Machine and stared out at the audience.
Panic began to flicker across the sales guy’s face. He clearly hadn’t anticipated this deviation from the script. “But you’ve only got thirty seconds left!” he shouted, his voice laced with desperation. His attempts to coax Joey into grabbing the money grew increasingly frantic and futile. “COME ON MAN YOU’VE ONLY GOT TWENTY SECONDS! TWENTY SECONDS MAN!” Finally, the timer ran out, leaving the sales guy no choice but to switch off the Money Machine. As the fan slowed to a halt, the swirling bills settled to the floor around Joey, except for a lone dollar bill that drifted down and landed squarely on his head. A stunned silence fell over the entire auditorium. Shamefacedly, the sales guy opened the door. As Joey stood up, the dollar bill slipped from his head and fluttered to the floor.
The sales representative was visibly flustered, completely unsure how to proceed. His usual routine of having the winner count their bounty and announcing it with false enthusiasm was utterly impossible. What was he supposed to do? Announce “That’s right! ZZEEERROOO dollars!”? He looked bewildered, almost broken. Joey didn’t linger; he simply returned to his seat without uttering a word.
As I mentioned, I never knew Joey, and I never had the chance to discuss that Money Machine moment with him. My interpretation has always been that his actions were deliberate, meticulously planned from the outset. That his disdain for the entire charade was so profound that he resolved to become the top seller—a significant achievement considering how invested some students were—solely to orchestrate that silent protest within the Money Machine.
I’ll never know the true story behind Joey Allegra’s Money Machine rebellion, or what became of him after high school. But Joey, wherever you are, I hope you’re still offering a beacon of hope to those facing down the metaphorical money machines of the world.
