Six old friends, one soda fountain, and a question nobody could answer

The summer of 2006. Six high school friends, now in their 50s, sit in an In-N-Out Burger in Oakland, California, having lunch before an A’s vs. White Sox game. Three attorneys, a physician, a consultant, and a movie critic wrestle with the serious ethical question dividing the table:

Is it okay to refill your soda at a self-serve fountain if you didn’t pay for unlimited refills?

I’m firmly pro-refill. Barb often complains that wherever we eat, the server somehow manages to refill my iced tea while completely ignoring hers. And if there’s a self-serve soda station nearby, I’m probably making two or three trips.

The six of us never reached agreement that afternoon. Like many great philosophical disputes, it ended without resolution and with several empty cups on the table. But this week, nearly twenty years later, I asked ChatGPT for its opinion on the ethics of the uncompensated refill.

Its answer was surprisingly nuanced. Taking extra soda probably violates the restaurant’s intended pricing model, it explained, but “quietly topping off a soda is not equivalent to serious theft.” Most people, according to the robot ethicist, would view it as “a minor norms question rather than a major ethical failing.”

Good news for me. I apparently do not suffer from a major ethical failing.

Still, millions of unpaid cups of Coca-Cola may be helping reshape the fast-food business model. McDonald’s was in the news last week as it continued moving toward eliminating self-serve drink stations from all locations by 2032. The company says the change is meant to “create a consistent experience for workers and customers in restaurants, at the drive-thru and in the app.”

But we know better.

Too many people violating minor norms.

My friends and I are already planning our next ballpark trip. We don’t yet know where or when we are going, but it will undoubtedly involve baseball, unhealthy food, and spirited debate.

And hopefully, we’ll discover another moral dilemma worthy of twenty years of contention.

A broken dishwasher leads to an unexpected trip behind the showroom

When an error code kept appearing on our dishwasher, Barb and I called Abt.
“You don’t want to spend money servicing an appliance that’s probably near the end of its useful life,” the rep gently coaxed.

We said we’d think about it. Within minutes, we had our answer. Replacing the dishwasher felt like cheap insurance against a kitchen disaster.

We always look forward to a trip to the massive, dog-friendly appliance and electronics store in Glenview. We loaded Cooper into the back seat and drove off to adult Disney World.

Because it was late afternoon on a weekday, the store was nearly empty—plenty of sales staff in their ABT vests, and one of them, David, quickly approached us. We explained our situation; he tapped a few keys and scrolled through the long list of appliances we’d bought there until he found the model number of our failing dishwasher.

He brought us to the line of dishwashers on the showroom floor. “Since you have a custom cabinet panel, this is what you want. I’m about 90% sure it’ll fit.”

The price of the machine was quite a bit more than we expected. Apparently, dishwashers have not been immune to the last decade.

David had a possible solution.

“I think we have an unboxed one of these in our storage space,” he said.

“Why would it be unboxed?” Barb asked.

“It was probably delivered, but couldn’t be installed for one reason or another. If you want it, I’ll give you 30% off. Why don’t we go take a look?”

David copied a number from the inventory list and led the way, Cooper sniffing at his heels. We walked out of the store into the central atrium, its fountain shooting water up toward the dome—a miniature Bellagio. We passed through the specialty luggage and iPhone stores until we came to a locked door marked Employees Only. David entered a code and ushered us in.

This was a part of the Abt universe few customers ever see.

We stepped into a dimly lit space the size of a football field, filled with rows of unboxed appliances. “Returns and old floor models,” David said.

I wasn’t sure who we’d encounter next—Wall-E on his cleaning rounds or Indiana Jones hunting for the ark.

David led us through the gloomy maze until he found it; the naked, unboxed dishwasher, its insulation exposed like something not meant to be seen. But as sad as it looked, David assured us, it would fit perfectly into our kitchen.

We placed the order. Delivery is this afternoon. Will it fit? We hope so. I’d hate to have to send it back to that warehouse of lost souls, the part of Disney World visitors never get to see.

Every showplace has its dark side.