The Financial Lives Of the Poets

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And behind the counter, the ever-patient Rahjiv makes half-lidded eye contact with me as he rings up another patchouli-foul giggler-Reese’s Pieces, Pic-6 Lotto, Red Bull and a cheddar-jack tacquito-Rahjiv probably thinking: These kids, eh Matt-or maybe not, because Rahjiv doesn’t know my name and I don’t wear a nametag. I’m just the middle-aged guy who leaves my gunmetal sedan running when I come in after midnight. When I can’t sleep. And I’ve forgotten to get milk at a regular store. Milk for the kids’ cereal. In the morning. Before school.

The milk is like nine dollars a gallon.

For years, recent immigrants like Rahjiv have been a political Rorschach: see turban, think terrorist and you’re a Red ’Merican. Assume Indian neurosurgeon fluent in five languages, stuck serving morons at midnight for minimum wage, and you’re Blue, like me. Of course I have no more proof that Rahjiv was a doctor in Delhi than some Texas trucker does that he’s a bomber. Rahjiv may have jockeyed a 7/11 in India too for all we know-so impeccable is he with change, effortlessly plastic-bagging Hostess Sno Balls and Little Debbies, Power Bars and Mountain Dews-“No wait…dude. Chocolate milk! And pork rinds”-as yet another stoner reassesses the aisles-“And ooh, ooh! Cool Ranch Doritos!”

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