Ashok’s Shop
For twelve years there was a convenience shop I frequented in the Manhattan office building where I work. It was a cramped place, essentially a hole in the wall with a door attached to it, at the back end of the lobby. The sign on the door said Headline Newsstand, but as newspapers gradually disappeared as a necessity of daily life, the shop survived by selling coffee and other sundries: cellophane-wrapped bagels and muffins, gum and candy bars, soda, bananas, cold medications, cigarettes, cheap umbrellas. The store was run by Ashok, a short, middle-aged Indian man. Over time I got to know him. My first impressions of Ashok were not favorable. The problem, at the beginning, was that when I ordered a large regular coffee, he’d often pour my cup... Read more...
