I took a Pez dispenser with me when I moved out of the house where I lived during my first year in Seattle. I may have stolen it; I wasn’t sure if it had belonged to one of my housemates or if it had been left behind by some forgotten housemate.
I bought some refills and kept it around in the new place. Then one morning, while I was fixing myself some cereal or tea or something, I spied it over on the kitchen table. I couldn’t remember if it was loaded or not.
I picked the Pez dispenser up and considered it. I could tell nothing by its weight — a full Pez dispenser feels much the same as an empty one. I could not detect the degree of tension on the spring inside the chamber based on outward appearance. Light sometimes shines through the plastic of lighter colored dispensers, revealing the shadow of the candy inside. But the light did not permeate the gray-blue plastic of this dispenser. So I pushed the head back. It was an experiment. I didn’t have a strong desire to eat Pez at that moment; I just wanted to know if there was a Pez.
I noticed the Pez dispenser on the kitchen table again the next morning, and I couldn’t remember whether there’d been Pez in it or not. So I pushed Batman’s head back again and a Pez came out or it didn’t.