Member of the Press
Dear Diary:
I was recently chosen for a role as a background actor on “Law & Order.” My part was “member of the press.”
I was sent to the prop truck, where the prop master dumped out a plastic bag and told me to take my pick from the press badges, small notebooks, and pens and pencils.
After settling into the “courtroom,” I began to thumb through the pad I had chosen. Flipping through pages filled with different sets of handwriting was kind of like flipping through a guest book.
I was amused by the notes left by previous “reporters.” Every few pages reflected each person’s take on their experience.
Here, a neat record of long-forgotten plot points; there, an impromptu poem or observations about law enforcement. And then there was the entry that, assessing one of the characters, said people with mustaches were not to be trusted.
— Karen Foppiani
Summer in the City
Dear Diary:
In 1966, when I was still in high school, my older sister and I were allowed to go to New York on our own for the summer. It was the first time we had flown on a plane.
The only advice we were given was to stay at the Martha Washington Hotel because it was only for women and to send home every day one of the stamped postcards we had been given to prove we were alive.
The hotel was dark, old and hot, but it had what was described as a “roof garden.” There was no actual garden, but the roof offered us our first glimpse of the city’s skyline.
My sister had heard that the “happening” place in the city that summer was Greenwich Village. So after one night in the hotel, we walked down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square and then onto Sullivan Street.
We struck up a conversation with a man who was fixing a doorknob. We asked if there were any apartments available in the building. He said someone had just left a fully furnished place a few days earlier. The rent was $30 a week.
We dragged our suitcases 30 blocks downtown and moved in. “Summer in the City” was the big song that year, and this was going to be ours.
After settling in, we were hungry. We searched the kitchen to see whether anything edible had been left behind. All we found was a greasy bottle of oil, a half-full bag of flour and a few onions. My sister had a eureka moment.
“Let’s make onion rings!” she said.
— Carrie Klein
Captive Audience
Dear Diary:
I was riding the 6 train uptown from 96th Street to 125th Street late one night. At one point as we rattled through a tunnel, the train slowed and then stopped. The lights flickered, plunging the car into darkness for a few heart-stopping moments.
A crackle over the speakers broke the silence. Instead of the usual garbled announcement, though, we heard scuffling.
“Get off!” a voice yelled before a second, louder voice boomed over the speakers.
I and the other passengers broke the unspoken subway rule of ignoring strange train antics. We exchanged glances, our shared concern clear on our faces.
Before we had time to process what was happening, the loud voice on the intercom started to rap — full verses, no hesitation.
“Some people,” one woman muttered to a friend, “are really dedicated to dropping their mixtape.”
— Deena Mousa
Late Night Ride
Dear Diary:
I was 26 and back in the city after having left for college several years earlier. I was staying with my parents in Peter Cooper Village while looking for a place of my own.
One night, I was coming home from a bar in the East 30s at about 2 a.m. It was cold out, and I was in heels. My feet were killing me.
I heard a voice calling out, asking whether I wanted a ride. It was a sanitation truck driver. He was idling while his co-worker picked up some trash.
I hesitated briefly before jumping in. A minute later, the co-worker, surprised to find me there, jumped in as well.
The driver and I chatted as the truck made its stops down Second Avenue. He told me about dropping out of college to take the sanitation job, and I told him how happy I was to be back in my hometown.
When the truck stopped at 20th Street, I hopped out and said goodbye. A few weeks later, I found an apartment in Brooklyn.
— Kinsey Dinan
Back in Town
Dear Diary:
It was just before Thanksgiving, and I was finally back in the city after being away for several years.
My first morning in town, I was out for a run when I paused at a crosswalk to wait for the light to change. I was not back in full jaywalking mode yet.
As I stood there, a woman walked up and grabbed me by the arm.
“Join me,” she said. “They never kill two.”
— Heike Endemann
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