The tabletop jukebox

Unlike its free-standing cousin by the restrooms, the tabletop model has no legs, no colored lights worth mentioning, and no ambition beyond the booth it serves. A chrome dial flips pages of selections printed on cardstock that yellows faster than the songs themselves go out of fashion; three of the twenty listed titles have not played correctly in years, their numbers still selectable, their quarters still accepted, their tracks silently skipped by whatever mechanism handles such disappointments out of customer view. A nickel used to work. It does not anymore, though the slot has never been resized to reflect this, and a hand-written sign taped nearby explains the current price in marker faded to the approximate color of weak tea. Wiring runs under the table to a central player shared by every booth along the row, which means a song selected here plays for the whole aisle whether or not the neighboring booths approve of the choice, a small democratic failure repeated at every meal service. Children press every button in sequence, learn nothing, and move on to the sugar caddy. The mechanism hums faintly even when idle, a low electrical patience distinguishable from the diner's general noise only by regulars who have spent enough consecutive mornings in this booth to notice such things, and who rarely mention it to anyone, since there is not much to say about a hum.

Sig. Lundqvist