Brisk April Day
Dear Diary:
Hard to believe it was the middle of April. The clouds hung low, the temperature was brisk, the sun had set.
It was that in-between time. After work, before drinks. The sidewalks were empty. The traffic was light.
I went out to run a quick errand. I was wearing a spring-weight fleece jacket and wishing I had worn gloves.
As I walked along, I noticed a man standing at a corner about 20 feet away. I was struck by his clothing: a winter jacket and a knit hat.
“It’s cold,” I said.
“It is,” he said.
We should be wearing gloves, I said.
My sentence was cut off by the rumble of a truck barreling up the avenue.
The man’s arm shot out as he looked at me.
“Step back,” he said.
I did as I was told.
He started to pat his pants. His expression suggested he was trying to solve a puzzle. His fingers reached into one of his pockets, and he pulled something out: a pair of gloves. He offered them to me as we began to cross the street.
“This is so New York,” I said, taken aback by his gesture. “You’re a New Yorker.”
He looked at me over his shoulder and nodded once. Then he raised his arm, waved his hand and continued on.
— Betsy Petrick
Train Pals
Dear Diary:
For nearly 10 years, an older man and I exchanged greetings on the F train as we both got off at Avenue X in Brooklyn.
I worried about him during the pandemic and was so happy when I saw him again after I returned to commuting.
We always chatted about the weather and compared notes about our “arthur-it is.” But I never knew his name.
Recently, he told me he would be retiring in a few days. We walked down the stairs to the street together. I seized the moment, finally introducing myself.
His name? Lloyd.
Happy Retirement, Lloyd! I’ll miss your smile and your gravelly voice.
— Kathy Giaimo
Big Night Out
Dear Diary:
It was 1980, and I was a student at Fordham. Disco was king, and Studio 54 was the place to be. One Saturday night, although my girlfriends and I knew the odds of getting in were long, we decided to take a shot.
So, decked out in our hottest disco wear, we hopped on a D train in the Bronx and headed into Manhattan to take our chances at getting past the velvet rope. We knew that admission was at the whim of the doorman. How could we convince him we were worthy?
With my long hair pinned up, wearing sparkly earrings, a short black coat with a big fur collar and black, strappy, high-heel sandals, I stood slightly away from the fray and feigned indifference.
It took a while, but at some point, my eyes and the doorman’s met. He pointed my way and beckoned me to come inside.
I managed to maintain my poker face.
“I’m here with my two girlfriends,” I said, staring straight in his eyes.
He hesitated, and I started to think I had overplayed my hand.
“OK,” he said. “Them too.”
And in we went.
I don’t remember much about what happened after that, but I was on top of the world for that one night.
— Donna Ledwin
‘It Had to Be You’
Dear Diary:
On Thursday nights after the Broadway shows let out, the M104 from the Theater District to the Upper West Side tends to be crowded with cranky passengers anxious to get home.
On this particular night, I was standing toward the front of the bus. A man who appeared to be in his 80s was holding onto a pole nearby and humming softly.
I recognized the tune: “It Had to Be You.”
“A half-price fare and a serenade!” I said. “What a deal!”
The man’s voice rose, and I joined in.
“Some others I’ve seen, might never be mean,” we sang. “Might never be cross, or try to be boss, but they wouldn’t do.”
Soon, almost everyone on bus was singing along. When we reached the end, we all basked in the moment, sharing nods and knowing smiles.
Then we moved on to “Sunny Side of the Street.”
— Sybil H. Pollet
Potent Scent
Dear Diary:
It was late afternoon on the Upper West Side. I was sitting on a bench outside Central Park at 82nd Street, working on my laptop and smoking a cigar.
A woman stopped on the sidewalk in front of me. I looked up from what I was doing.
“I hope you don’t mind if I stand here a moment,” she said quietly. “My late husband smoked cigars, and I miss …” — she paused for several seconds — “ … that awful smell.”
— John Thomas Waite
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