The owner's coat pockets coughed up a meager collection of discolored dimes and the L'Express waitress offered some bottle caps as collateral. Nothing says 'authentic New York literary experience' like a 2013 dime with someone else's gum on it. The poet laureate had to threaten bodily harm for that one bottle cap of questionable origin. Now the Jar Of Dystopian Hope is slightly more full and our lattes taste like impending rent doom.