Pretty Boy
Dear Diary:
It was a fall day in Park Slope some years ago. A flash of lime green passed before my eyes and landed on a brownstone’s second-story windowsill. As I climbed the stoop to get a better look, a woman came out of the house.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I pointed to the bird perched on the sill.
“I’m worried,” I said. “It’s a tropical bird and might not make it through the winter.”
She went inside and returned with a shoe box that had seeds in it.
As we tried to catch the bird, a small crowd gathered. The bird eluded us and flew into the vestibule.
“What’s going on?” I heard a man ask. “Because I live here.”
He opened the door. The bird flew out and landed on the wrought iron window bars on the ground floor.
Eye to eye with the bird, I got an idea.
“Pretty boy,” I said in my best singsong voice.
The bird cocked its head, and as it did, I managed to get it into the box.
The crowd dispersed, and I was left with a bird in a box and four cats at home in my small apartment.
I explained to the man who lived in the house about my four cats. I said it probably wasn’t a good idea for me to bring the bird home.
“Well,” he said, “I think I have a cage in the basement.”
I could have kissed him. But I didn’t.
— Patricia A. Nelson
At MoMA
Dear Diary:
The Museum of Modern Art beckoned that late fall day, but it was packed. My favorite pieces were obscured by the crowds.
Stopped in front Matisse’s “Dance” for a quiet moment, I noticed a young man standing slightly behind me. I don’t remember what he said, but we began walking through the gallery together before circling back to the Matisse.
Would I join him in a cup of coffee? he asked.
I nodded.
A wry smile emerged on his otherwise serious face.
“I don’t know if I can find a cup big enough!” he said.
I laughed.
Fifty-two years later, the dance continues.
— JoAnna DeCamp
The Old Hotel
Dear Diary:
For more than 30 years, on dozens of visits to New York City, my wife and I stayed at the Salisbury Hotel on West 57th Street.
Sadly, the Salisbury, which opened in 1929, closed during the coronavirus pandemic — a victim most likely of the boom along what is now called Billionaires’ Row.
When I heard it would be closing, I called and talked to a front-desk employee who had been there more than 15 years. We shared stories about the place’s faded charm, slow elevators, huge suites and modest prices. No room service? So what? You’re in New York!
On our last trip to the city, we stayed at a newer, slicker, pricier hotel. It was fine, but it would never be a home away from home like our beloved Salisbury.
On the final day of our visit, we went to 57th Street to get some pictures of the marquee and boarded-up lobby.
Peering in a dusty window, we saw that the reservations counter was intact but speckled with paint and covered with sawdust and scraps of wood.
A worker in a hard hat was behind the counter. He looked at us quizzically.
I wanted to yell: “Hey, we’ve lost our key! Can you let us in?” but it was too late for that.
We just waved, took a few photos and walked away.
— Chris Tucker
Running Late
Dear Diary:
The lady with butterfly eyelashes is tapping furiously on her phone. The motorman is singing “I’ve been working on the railroad” in a rich basso.
The local mariachis are playing “La Bamba” for the third time, so I give them my last dollar and board the N.
It’s half past Canal Street and a quarter to Union Square. Of course, I’m running late.
— Richard Younger
Long Climb
Dear Diary:
In summer 1980, I moved into my first apartment, a fifth-floor walk-up on Spring Street off West Broadway.
My furniture, a collection of used and found items, included an extremely heavy pullout couch that was going to be my bed.
Three friends and I tried unsuccessfully to maneuver it up the tight turns of the building’s stairway.
Stuck at the second floor, we were about to give up when a woman appeared in a doorway, assessed our situation and called to her husband.
A large man with an impassive expression emerged from the apartment, waived us aside, positioned himself under the sofa, carried it on his back up the remaining three flights and returned to his apartment without saying a word.
Later, I asked his wife to explain how he had done it so easily.
“Oh, that was nothing,” she said. “He’s a Castro Convertible delivery man.”
— Dave Bett
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
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