Standpipes Deliver
Dear Diary:
I have been to New York City to visit family about 40 times over the past 20 years.
I’ve been to all the popular tourist sites at least once and am now content to walk for miles, spending the day crossing the bridges from Brooklyn to Manhattan while the adults work and the children are at school.
On some visits, I decide on a theme for photos to take as I walk. One year it was doors; another it was buildings I found intriguing.
My favorite subject by far has been standpipes, those systems that supply water to a building in case of fire. Without them, firefighters would have to lug their heavy hoses up flights of stairs manually.
Most people pass these ubiquitous stalwarts without knowing what they are called or what they are used for.
Once, about 15 years ago, when I was not yet a grandmother, I was crouching down in front of a standpipe to get a better angle for my photo.
A young man walking by saw what I was doing.
“That ain’t art, grandma,” he said.
I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
— Anna M. Kealoha
The Soloist
Dear Diary:
On the train in Brooklyn,
a lady stood facing the doors.
She s-l-ow-l-y extended her front leg
in an elegant line
and pressed her toe into the ground
with purpose.
The toe lightly tapped
and tapped again.
The movement caught my eye —
a dancer!
Gemstone-studded ballroom heels
peeked out of her “The Heart of NY” tote.
With front leg extended,
she lightly flicked the leg upward in a tango kick,
silently dancing on the way home.
— Sarah Jung
‘Cupid Shuffle’
Dear Diary:
We had gone to a club in Bushwick on a Sunday evening to hear some R&B. Asian-fusion barbecue was being served on the rooftop. We ate our ribs and cornbread, and watched the sun go down over the Manhattan skyline.
The last D.J. of the night came on. At some point, we heard the “Cupid Shuffle” fade in. Groans arose from the crowd. People cringed and asked one another if the D.J. was seriously playing that song.
Yet when we came to the first “down-down-do-ya-dance,” everyone gamely shuffled to the right. And then to the left. And “now-kicked” in unison. And walked it out.
We completed maybe four 360-degree revolutions doing the dance, a roof full of adults who had grown up hearing this song played in their middle-school gymnasiums.
I left shortly after that. The night had peaked when we all tacitly agreed that this song was too old and lame and silly and that we were all going to do the “Cupid Shuffle” anyway.
— Rebecca Kuo
Toothache
Dear Diary:
My tooth was aching as I got off a packed northbound A train at 175th Street. I joined a river of people flowing at rush hour through the long tunnel that leads to the George Washington Bridge Bus Station.
I was deeply lost in my thoughts when I was overtaken by an immaculately dressed, middle-aged man.
To my astonishment, he stopped, turned and, blocking my way, looked directly into my eyes with an indignant expression.
“May I help you?” I asked.
“You missed a whole passage,” he said in an angry voice.
“What passage?” I said.
“From the ‘Trout Quintet’,” he said. “By Schubert.”
“Was I whistling?” I asked. “I frequently do that unconsciously, usually classical music.”
“I am sort of tone deaf,” I added, trying for some reason to assuage his anger.
“Tone deafness has nothing to do with it,” he said. “You missed a whole passage.”
I tried to ask if he was a musician, but just then my voice was drowned out by someone in the tunnel who started to play an Andean panpipe really loudly.
“I am sorry,” I said apologetically to the man before continuing on. “But I really have to get to my dentist.”
— Bronek Pytowski
In the Bag
Dear Diary:
I was waiting in line to pick up a prescription at a crowded Duane Reade. An older woman who was clearly exhausted left the line to sit down in a nearby chair.
When it was her turn to get her prescription, she stood up, left her belongings on the chair and went to the counter.
While waiting for the pharmacist, she turned and looked at the man who was sitting next to where she had been.
“You know what’s in that bag?” she asked, motioning toward her stuff.
The man shook his head.
“My husband,” she said. “He died last week, and I have his remains in there.”
— Brad Rothschild
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