The D.M.V.
Dear Diary:
I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles office on 31st Street to get an “enhanced” driver’s license. I was prepared for a long wait and surly interactions.
I was called to have my photo taken. A man snapped it before I knew what was happening and told me to have a seat.
I was then summoned to a different desk where my paperwork was being processed. The woman there looked at her screen.
“Whoa!” she said. “What happened with your photo? Come with me.”
She stood up, led me to the photo-taking area, glared at the man who had taken my picture and told the woman sitting next to him to retake it.
The second woman pointed to where I should look and counted “3-2-1” so that I was ready.
Both women looked at the photo.
“Phew,” one said. “That is much better.”
I left with an entirely different feeling about the D.M.V.
— Carol Paik
Near Union Square
Dear Diary:
On a quick visit to New York recently to see some Broadway shows, my wife and I overheard two women talking on the sidewalk as we passed a Paper Source store on Fifth Avenue near Union Square.
“I hear they have some wonderful papaya in there,” one of the women said enthusiastically.
Her companion briefly appeared perplexed but then recovered.
“It’s papyrus,” she said quietly.
— Paul Pavlis
Fresh Pond Road
Dear Diary:
While waiting for the M train at the Delancey Street-Essex Street station, I noticed a young woman holding a large plant with huge green leaves that looked like the leaves of a banana tree. Each one was as big as a canoe paddle’s blade.
The leaves on about three large stems overwhelmed her and made it awkward to carry the plant. That didn’t stop her from getting on the train when it arrived. New Yorkers are used to transporting all kinds of items — furniture, cakes, instruments, pets — on the subway.
To my surprise, the woman got off at the same stop as me, Fresh Pond Road. After exiting the station, I found myself standing next to her at a corner while waiting to cross the street.
I remarked to her on the size of the plant and asked what type it was. She said it was a Monstera plant.
As I walked ahead of her, she got on the phone with someone who it soon became clear was her mother. The young woman told her mother that she was on her way with an early Mother’s Day gift.
“No, it’s not a puppy,” she joked. “It’s a pony! Can you open the door so you’re ready for me when I arrive?”
I smiled to myself at this exchange, imagining the expression on the mother’s face when she saw the beautiful gift her daughter had brought her after schlepping from Manhattan to Queens on the M.
— Alexander Keblish
Stooping to Conquer
Dear Diary:
I was walking back to my apartment in NoLIta on a Sunday morning in the 1990s after being the on-call resident overnight at Bellevue Hospital.
As I got to my building, I saw three young men sitting on the stoop and blocking the entrance.
They were very courteous and moved out of the way without me saying anything. Still, because I was so tired I was annoyed they were there.
When I got upstairs to my apartment, my boyfriend, who is now my husband, greeted me excitedly.
“Did you see the Beastie Boys outside?” he asked. “They’re recording in our building basement!”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, as if I had actually recognized them. “Totally!”
— Nicole Iovine
Roasted
Dear Diary:
I was living in Queens in the early 1980s. About a block from my apartment, there was a butcher shop that had a small grocery section.
One Sunday morning when I was at the shop waiting to pay for some items, there was a woman who was probably in her 80s in front of me. Among the items she was waiting to pay for was a six-pack of beer.
The young woman at the cash register told the older woman that she could not sell her the beer. In those days, you could not buy beer before noon on Sundays in New York.
The customer was clearly unhappy. The cashier was apologetic but said there was nothing she could do.
From behind the meat counter, the butcher, who owned the shop, asked what was wrong.
The cashier explained.
Pass the six-pack over to me, the butcher said.
He proceeded to wrap the beer in brown butcher’s paper and hand it back to the cashier.
“It’s a roast,” he said.
— Thomas P. Hannon
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