Hail and Hearty
Dear Diary:
It was a bitter cold day on the Upper East Side. My husband and I were leaving the hospital after his cataract surgery.
There were snowbanks lining the streets, and a nurses’ strike was in full swing, making the corner of 68th Street and York Avenue very chaotic. My husband had a huge eye patch on and was walking a bit unsteadily as I tried unsuccessfully to hail a cab.
Suddenly, I heard a man’s loud voice behind me.
“Hey! Hey!” he shouted.
I didn’t dare turn to see whatever seemed to be angering him.
Then I heard him shout again: “Taxi! Taxi!”
I’ll let him get the next cab, I thought to myself. He didn’t sound like someone to be messed with.
The next thing I knew, a huge construction worker wearing a hard hat and a neon vest was running past us. He ran into the middle of the street, stopping all traffic and approaching a parked cab.
He banged on the window and spoke to the driver. Then he pointed at me.
“This is your cab, lady!” he said. “But stay right there, I’m coming to get you.”
Within seconds, he was at our side and escorting us to the cab.
As he loaded us in, he addressed my husband.
“You’re going to be OK, buddy,” he said reassuringly. “I’m praying for you today.”
— Emily Baker
Race Day
Dear Diary:
I was running cross the Manhattan Bridge when a woman ran past me.
She was a few paces ahead, so I picked up my speed to pass her.
Then she sped up and passed me.
Then I sped up again.
She eventually matched my pace and looked over at me.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
We raced the rest of the way across the bridge.
When we got to the bottom, we high-fived and went our separate ways.
— Hilary McCanse
Slice of Life
Dear Diary:
I was walking back to my hotel from the Flatiron district at about 1 a.m. after a celebratory evening of slightly too much champagne and wine in December 2024.
I desperately wanted a slice of pizza. Having grown up in New Jersey but now living on a small island in the Pacific Northwest, it was a craving that, once sparked, did not let go until satisfied.
Arriving at my hotel, at 50th and Madison, I could only find a truck serving hot pretzels. There was nary a pizza place in sight, and I knew I was most likely out of luck.
Just then I spotted two men walking east carrying a pizza box. I stopped them, explained my quest and asked where they had found their treasure.
They said it was from a place about six blocks away but warned that it was about to close.
One of them clearly noticed my crestfallen look. Without hesitation, he opened the pizza box.
“Here,” he said, “take a slice.”
I paused, but he insisted in the offhand way one might at 1 o’clock in the morning. Moments later, he and his companion walked off as my “thank you” echoed in the cold night air.
I stood there, smiling, stunned and holding a still-hot slice of pepperoni and black olive pizza that was, for many reasons, the best slice I’ve ever had in New York City.
— Samuel C. Blackman
Breakfast to Go
Dear Diary:
Gerard and I ride a quiet early morning A train to Kennedy Airport. I don’t want to leave, but here we are again: West Coast-bound.
Two older women sit across from us. At the far end of the bench sits another woman who is traveling alone.
One of the older women takes out a pack of dried pollock and offers some to her friend. They each take a handful and nosh away in silence.
Gerard takes out his foil-wrapped bagel. He can’t wait to eat until we get to the airport, he says.
The woman at the end of the bench pulls an orange from her bag, and a wide smile of recognition spreads across her face as she looks at each of us.
Wordlessly, she points at the older women, then at Gerard, then at herself, as if to say: “Breakfast time!”
She gets to work peeling her orange with great efficiency. Once she is done, she catches my eye again and leans across the car to hand me half.
“Oh, that’s OK!” I say.
She shakes her head as I try to hand it back and gives me that same smile.
I accept and join in on the subway strangers’ silent snack hour.
— Eliana Gottesman
No Sale
Dear Diary:
I was in the men’s wear department at Macy’s looking at shirts. Two women nearby were doing the same.
After examining some shirts, one of them stopped and put down the one she was holding.
“You know what,” she said, “I don’t even like him.”
The other woman put down the shirt she was holding.
“I don’t like him either,” she said.
Then they both walked away.
— Natalie Kent
Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email [email protected] or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.
Illustrations by Agnes Lee
The post ‘He Didn’t Sound Like Someone to Be Messed With’ appeared first on New York Times.
