Rush Tickets
Dear Diary:
I went to the Nederlander Theater hoping to get a rush ticket for “Schmigadoon,” although it was 10:20 a.m. and the rush line had opened at 10.
As I approached the box office, I saw a young woman heading the same way. I just knew that she was going to buy the last rush tickets.
I picked up my pace, but she still beat me to the ticket window by maybe 10 seconds. Sure enough, I heard her ask about rush tickets.
“I have two left,” the ticket agent said.
My heart stopped.
“I only need one,” the woman replied.
A miracle!
Seeing my glee, she smiled at me.
“I’ll take that other one,” I said when it was my turn, and then added: “Now she and I will sit together, we’ll end up getting married and what a New York story that will be.”
The agent laughed.
We did sit next to each other, but there were no nuptials.
— Stan Sinberg
Barry
Dear Diary:
I accepted an easy freelance job in summer 1980: lay out and deliver camera-ready button art for a group that was protesting an Army Corps of Engineers project upstate.
On a sweltering summer day, I had a date to meet with the client at her Murray Hill apartment. I arrived on time, was buzzed up and greeted by her partner, Barry, an amiable guy in his 40s.
He apologized for my client’s lateness. An earlier appointment was running longer than expected, he explained.
He offered, and I accepted, a cold drink, and we chatted pleasantly about nothing in particular for the next 15 minutes or so.
The client arrived, we got down to business and I left. We had one more meeting to finalize the artwork.
I billed the client, was paid and thought no more about it until several weeks later when I turned on the news to see Barry, a.k.a. Abbie Hoffman, turning himself in to the F.B.I.
— Elaine Caldwell
Moths
Dear Diary:
In 2024, I arrived back in New York City after six years away. My 19-year-old car was filled with boxes of rugs and textiles and other things I had kept from my old apartment.
I met a friend of a friend who had an entire basement where I could store the rugs while I tried to sell them on Facebook Marketplace.
After a few months, I was relieved to finally sell the biggest rug I had. The relief faded quickly when I got a text from the buyer: “We found a moth.”
I took back the rug and looked through everything in my friend’s basement. It was all infested with moths.
My husband and I drove toward our Bed-Stuy apartment as he spun plans that required garbage bags and mothballs.
After getting the supplies, we were ready to forge ahead, but my foul mood had officially set in.
My husband tried to cheer me up.
“Give me a kiss,” he said.
Grumpily, I obliged.
“And another.”
With a huff, I gave him another kiss.
“One more for good measure.”
Now, with my smile starting to peek through, he got his third kiss.
I started to pull out of our spot when a man who was nearby started to gesture wildly and shout at us.
I looked around confused. Was I about to hit something? What was he saying? We rolled down the window.
“Give us another!” he said with a smile. “One more time for Bed-Stuy!”
— Karen Barnett
St. John the Divine
Dear Diary:
As a tourist in the city years ago, I was taken to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. No one else seemed to be there.
Chairs had replaced many of the pews on the floor of the enormous interior in preparation for a concert. Soft recorded music was playing.
As we walked around the periphery, the recorded music was replaced by beautiful live piano playing.
As we finished our tour and rounded the last corner, we came upon a man in a uniform who was sitting at the piano and playing.
We approached him, and he stopped. I complimented him on his playing.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Thank Mozart!”
He was the piano tuner.
— John May
Mr. October
Dear Diary:
It was a rainy, late-October afternoon in 1961. I was walking down Seventh Avenue after visiting a trade show at the New York Coliseum.
A young man wearing a blue business suit, a white shirt and a tie was standing under the awning outside the Stage Delicatessen.
After passing him, a lightbulb went off in my head. I turned around and approached him.
“You’re Roger Maris,” I said.
“Yes, I am,” he replied. Then he added, quite pleasantly: “Your umbrella is dripping on me.”
— Walter Gray
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