Crosstown Check-In
Dear Diary:
As a longtime resident of the Upper West Side, I often take the 86th Street crosstown bus to get to the East Side.
One time not long ago, I was using the ride to catch up on some texts and texted a friend who lives on the Upper East Side.
We exchanged a few messages back and forth, bringing each other up-to-date on various things. When I stood to get off at Third Avenue, lo and behold, the friend I had been texting stood up as well.
— Susan Rubin
Kennedy Buttons
Dear Diary:
On Nov. 5, 1960, Senator John F. Kennedy came to the Bronx.
My cousin Jerry and I were 10 years old and on our way to services at the temple, where we also attended Hebrew school five days a week. On that day, our minds were not on Hebrew or prayer.
We wanted Kennedy buttons.
The streets were packed and noisy, the kind of Bronx chaos that made an ordinary errand feel like history. Somewhere in the excitement, Jerry ran into the street and was hit by a city bus.
The bus had to be emptied. Adults appeared. Plans were made for the bus to take Jerry to the hospital.
I continued on to the temple.
Once there, I found a landline and called my Aunt Shirley.
“Jerry got hit by a bus” was all I told her.
She was frantic. She didn’t drive, so a neighbor had to take her to the hospital.
Jerry recovered with a cast on his broken leg. He also spent the next many years reminding me that, in his hour of need, I had abandoned him for temple.
I am sure I learned many lessons that day: about religion, politics, devotion, public transportation and family responsibility.
But we never did get the buttons.
— Ira D. Cohen
Mugged by a Squirrel
Dear Diary:
One fine spring afternoon, I was mugged by a squirrel.
I was visiting New York from Denver. I had heard about the dangers of the city and about how one had to be on guard.
I had just visited the Empire State Building, and was walking down Fifth Avenue. I stopped at a bench near Madison Square Park to rest my feet and enjoy some sliced apples.
No sooner had I sat down than a gray squirrel leaped up onto my knee. It cocked its head and looked at the apple slice I was holding.
What the heck? I said.
The squirrel started climbing up my chest. Screeching like a child, I dropped the apple and stood up.
The squirrel pounced on the apple and scampered a few steps away.
I too scampered a few steps away, then turned and looked back.
The squirrel seemed to have a “You want a piece of me?” expression on its face.
I shrugged, sighed and walked away. Who in Denver was going to believe I got mugged by a squirrel?
— Chris Marshall
In the East Village
Dear Diary:
In fall 2021, I visited my brother-in-law in the East Village. His husband had died in March. They had lived together in their rent-controlled apartment for over 30 years.
The apartment had not changed much since my last visit, with the exception of the urn that contained his husband’s ashes and was prominently displayed.
We had talked many times about holding a memorial service, but my brother-in-law had said he just could not bear to say a final goodbye.
One day while I was there, an exterminator came to perform the apartment’s semiannual pest-control treatment. He had been providing the service regularly for some time and asked about my brother-in-law’s husband’s whereabouts.
My brother-in-law pointed to the urn and explained what had occurred since the exterminator had last been there.
Visibly moved, the exterminator asked if he could touch the urn.
With my brother-in-law’s permission, he approached the urn, murmured a prayer, kissed two fingers of his right hand and then placed them on the urn.
— June Torrance
Spicy
Dear Diary:
Every Thursday, I get the No. 2 chicken bánh mì at Bánh Mì Saigon.
“Spicy or non-spicy?” the grandfather behind the counter in a backward baseball cap always asks.
I usual say non-spicy, but on this Thursday, I was feeling adventurous.
“Spicy,” I said.
He pumped his fist, spun around and shouted: “AYEEE! SPICYYY!”
Cheers came from the kitchen. People in the long line behind me began cheering too, though I’m not sure any of them knew why.
When I opened my lunch later, I found my bánh mì slathered with spicy mayo, and an extra container of it on the side.
Apparently, once you commit, you commit.
— Maddie Chan
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