Transnationalism for $0.75

Every Tuesday or Friday, I walk across town to intern at Senator Gillibrand's office. Some days, like today, I get enough sleep and breakfast so that I don't need coffee. But after a few hours of work, my head inevitably begins to spin (I usually get lightheaded when I have to tell people their homelessness cannot be resolved this month).

I go downstairs, wave at security, and try not to smash into the glass as I spin through the revolving doors. I walk past the overpriced cafe downstairs, where everyone in suits and greys and on blackberrys gets their croissants and their natural flaxseed smoothies and tins of toffee. And I walk over to the white old Italian man in the cart, who smiles every single week, without fail, as though serving coffee and old muffins is his calling.

I get the same thing every week, coffee with skim and a bit of sugar. I never want a brown paper bag, just a few napkins for my constantly runny nose. I hand him a dollar, he gives me a quarter and says, "Shookriyah gee."

I never respond in Hindi. I'm too scared he'd make fun of my accent.