Total Focus
Dear Diary:
It had been raining in the city for two days straight, and I was on my way to Times Square for the opening night of a film festival.
I waded into the Seventh Avenue subway at 14th Street, but the 1, 2 and 3 trains were all shut down because of flooding.
I splashed my way across to the Eighth Avenue trains. An A was waiting but delayed. The doors kept opening and shutting. I finally managed to squeeze inside a car tightly packed with riders.
Suddenly, the train lurched forward. A woman in the middle of the crowded car began to hyperventilate.
“Let me out!” she yelled. “I have to get out. I can’t stay here.”
Recognizing that she was having a panic attack, people sprang into action. Somehow, space opened up around her. Someone lowered a window. Someone else produced a bottle of water.
And then a man holding a wand jumped directly in front of the woman.
“Watch the wand closely,” he said. “I promise it will be OK. I’m just going to lightly hypnotize you.”
He kept the woman’s eyes focused on the wand as he talked to her quietly until we reached 34th Street.
When the train stopped there, everyone filed out in perfect order, helped the woman onto the platform and then packed back into the car for the trip uptown.
— Rayna Rapp
Bronx Contemplation
Dear Diary:
In the heart of the Bronx — a forest
rung by droning avenues and old-style tenements.
At the center of the forest, a crickety wooden bridge.
Below the bridge a bullfrog squatting on the muddy bank
of a vernal rivulet that trickles into a stream,
a stream that runs toward a river, a river that flows to the sea.
The bullfrog knows nothing of the sea, and little
of the forest where it dwells, this remnant patch
of old growth at the city’s core. The city is my
throbbing body, the subways are my arteries and veins.
Today they all converge on this lush forest —
my verdant heart.
I want to make that squat lump jump.
I want to touch its side, like doubting Thomas,
to feel the amphibial ooze slip beneath my fingertips.
But I resist this adolescent urge. Today it is enough
to stand on an old plank bridge and watch
an old bullfrog sit there like a green Buddha
and do nothing at all.
— Richard Schiffman
Quite a Day
Dear Diary:
It was 1945. We wanted to be married. I was 19. I saw a picture of a bride in a wedding gown. I wanted to do that.
We had one week. He was on furlough. His father’s office had phones. We used them to invite guests. We were married with 100 family and friends and a fancy dinner at the Ambassador Hotel on Park Avenue.
He was in uniform. I was in a bridal gown that a salesperson had grabbed from someone else’s future order.
It was Aug. 12, 1945. The wedding festivities were winding down when the ballroom doors burst open. People crowded in, shouting, crying, laughing, whispering: The war was over.
The band started playing again. Drinks were on the house. People were kissing and hugging. Some were praying.
The war was over.
— Beverly Cannold
Spring Break
Dear Diary:
I came to New York for spring break in 1961. I had a room at the Sloane House Y.M.C.A. and then upgraded to an apartment on the Upper East Side thanks to a friend of a friend.
I caught the Modern Jazz Quartet at the Village Vanguard, missed Leontyne Price at the Met and saw a Tom Mix movie at the Museum of Modern Art.
On my last night in town I was coming home late from seeing Edward Albee’s “The American Dream.” Heading east across Park Avenue, I encountered two older women bundled against the chill and waiting for the light to change
“Can I help you ladies cross the street?” I asked.
“Yes, young man,” one said. “That would be very nice of you.”
“Where are you headed so late?” I asked.
They pointed to a small bar on the corner and suggested that I join them.
We entered and took seats at the bar. I don’t remember what we ordered, but I do recall that the bartender seemed less suspicious of me when I paid for the round.
“Aren’t you up a little late?” he asked the women. “What brings you out?”
“Well, we went to bed a little early tonight,” one of them said. “Then we woke up and wanted a drink.
“But Eleanor had hidden the liquor so good we couldn’t find it,” she continued. “So we had to get dressed and come out for a drink.”
— Thorns Craven
Inside Information?
Dear Diary:
I recently attended a memorial service for a friend at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel.
After the service, a member of the staff walked me to the elevator.
As I got in, I thanked him.
“See you soon,” he said.
Does he know something I don’t know?
— Herbert Fishman
Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email [email protected] or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.
The post ‘A Woman in the Middle of the Crowded Car Began to Hyperventilate.’ appeared first on New York Times.
