By the East River
Dear Diary:
My wife and I were sitting on a bench overlooking the East River when a tall, burly man walking a Samoyed stopped and began to stare at me.
As he stood there eyeing my commemorative U.S. Army baseball cap, I thought he might be a fellow veteran. Then, with outstretched arms, he beckoned me toward him.
I stood and approached him.
He embraced me in a bear hug.
“You look just like my grandpapa!” he shouted. “And your aftershave even smells like his.”
— Theodore Jerome Cohen
Familiar Frame
Dear Diary:
About 20 years ago, I flew into New York from Houston for a conference followed by several fun days with a friend who worked in the city and lived in Mamaroneck.
One night, we went to a flamenco show on St. Marks Place. The performances were amazing, and long. We had to hustle back to Grand Central to avoid missing the last train.
Passing under a streetlight, I noticed a vintage 1970s bicycle chained to the fence outside a brownstone. The back of the big, padded seat looked familiar, as did the silhouette of the handlebars and, upon a close look, the distinctive double-down tubes.
I called ahead to my friend to wait, and examined the blue-green paint, built-in headlamp and chrome fenders over the big wheels. I gripped the handlebars, straddled the heavy bike and placed my seat and feet into position. Long-dormant muscle memory flooded back.
Finally, I peered at the seat post and confirmed my suspicion: a remnant of a City of Houston bicycle registration decal. It was the Skyrider Deluxe my parents had given me for Hanukkah in 1970.
It had moved from California to Houston and had then most likely been bought by a collector when my mother sold the house. All those years later, my old queen of a bicycle made sure I saw it in Manhattan.
I left a scrap of paper with my scribbled name, a quick story and a plea for the owner to contact me before ever selling.
We did catch the train, and I called my father in Houston.
“I’ll be damned,” is all he said. “I’ll be damned.”
— Rachel Dvoretzky
Page Turners
Dear Diary:
I was headed to work on the 6 train and dead tired after staying up late finishing a book.
A man got on at Grand Central and stood across from me reading a paperback copy of “Empire of the Summer Moon,” a history of the Comanches.
“That book is incredible,” said a second man in the car, adding a recommendation for Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy.
I had to jump in.
“Guys, this is strange,” I said, “but I just finished ‘Comanche Moon’ last night. Have you read ‘Lonesome Dove’?”
“I love Larry McMurtry,” the first man said.
“Wow,” the second said.” We should start a subway book club.”
— Connor Mellas
Duffel Bag Quandary
Dear Diary:
A decade ago, I was on one of my many solo, soul-searching trips to New York in my mid-20s.
Boarding the 1 train one night, I took an open seat close to the door at one end of the car. A moment after I sat down, someone flung a duffel bag onto the train, where it landed at my feet. The bag’s owner ran down the platform.
A millennial child of the Plains and the “see something, say something” era, I knew in my bones that this bag was bad news.
I had a quick decision to make: Do I fling the bag back onto the platform or do I accept the fate this bag brings and allow the doors to close with it and me still inside?
As the announcement came on to stand clear of the closing doors, I realized this was my moment. I was going to save myself. I simply had to.
But as I began to reach for the bag, its owner entered the train breathlessly at the other end of the car. He was a subway performer of course. And after getting to my end of the car, he used his bag at my feet to solicit tips for his show.
As a millennial child of the Plains, I had no cash to give him.
— Greg Loeffler
Alternate Side
Dear Diary:
It was summer 1974. I had just graduated from college and was renting a room in a friend’s apartment on Riverside Drive. I had a car, which I was careful to move for the alternate-side parking rules.
One day, my car was not where I had left it. I called the police to report it stolen.
“What kind of car is it?” the officer asked.
A Renault, I said.
“No one would steal that car,” he said. “It must have been towed.”
He was right.
— Howard Friedman
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