Hidden Gem
Dear Diary:
We went to see Jerry Seinfeld at the Beacon Theater, the early show.
Upon getting home across town, my wife noticed that the stone in her sapphire engagement ring was missing. We looked at a picture we had taken in front of the marquee before the show and saw that the stone had been there then.
We called the theater, but all we got was voice mail. So we took an Uber back to the West Side. We retraced the steps we had taken when we left to no avail.
We found a sympathetic security guard and asked whether we could look for the stone near our seats when the late show was over.
He looked at a picture we had of the stone that showed its shape and color and took a look at our digital tickets that showed where our seats were. He said we could not go in until everyone had left but that he could go and begin to look before that.
When the show ended, he went inside and we waited as people started to stream out.
Finally he returned and opened the door slightly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t let you in.”
Before we could respond, he added: “Because I found it! It looked like a piece of candy and was exactly under the seat you had been in.”
— Steven Goldstein
Knicks Spring
Dear Diary:
The sun had finally come out on the last afternoon of the Memorial Day weekend.
We took advantage, setting up our volleyball net in a dry spot between puddles at McCarren Park.
After one particularly hard spike, the ball rolled in front of four men decked out in Knicks gear, presumably on their way to watch the game.
One picked up the ball and threw it back.
“Go Knicks!” he yelled.
“Knicks in four!” I yelled back.
And just like that, everyone around us in the park began to chant: “Knicks in four! Knicks in four!”
— Elliot Warner
Mr. Zhang
Dear Diary:
The owner of my neighborhood Chinese restaurant in Harlem lit up excitedly once when I came in.
He came out from behind the counter, waving his checkbook and a piece of mail. His young children scampered past him into the kitchen.
We took a seat, and he showed me a credit card statement. His name was Mr. Zhang.
He had no English and I had no Chinese. I pointed to the amount due, and he nodded. I filled out a check, including his account number on the memo line, then the payment coupon and his return address on the envelope.
He seemed especially pleased when I reviewed it with him. I offered to help again any time, gave him my phone number and headed home across the street.
When I got out of the elevator on the sixth floor, a new voice mail was waiting. There was no message — just the sound of voices chattering in the background, and the clattering of pots and pans in a noisy kitchen.
— Paul Klenk
Double Take
Dear Diary:
It was winter 2018, and I was rushing across Washington Square Park to meet a friend for drinks.
Cutting through the center of the park, I made eye contact with a man walking toward me. As we passed each other, we both did a double take.
“Julia?” he asked.
I turned around and walked back to meet him there in the center of the park. We were both bundled up: hats, scarves, gloves, big jackets.
I couldn’t quite place him, but he obviously knew who I was — he had called out my name.
We chatted for a few minutes. He said he was so happy to run into me, asked when I had moved back to the city and where was I living and what I was up to that very moment.
Surprised by his level of interest, I scanned his face, trying desperately to figure out who he was. Maybe an acquaintance from high school?
I had just moved back to the East Coast from California, so his questions all made sense, and I answered them readily.
“Wait a second,” he asked after a few minutes of back and forth. “Is your last name …?”
“No,” I said.
“But your name is Julia?”
“Yes.”
“Who did you think I was?”
“I’m not totally sure,” I said sheepishly.
“I don’t think we know each other,” he said.
We parted ways and dove back into the cold, dark, winter night.
— Julia McCarthy
Not So Uniform
Dear Diary:
A nun stood outside our high school, St. Vincent Ferrer on the Upper East Side, every morning to check our uniforms: skirts past the knees, tie in place, beret on head.
She had come to New York from Indiana and found the city to be a strange place.
One morning, just as the bell rang, one of the girls from Queens walked up the street wearing a single loafer.
“Where’s your other shoe?” the sister asked.
“Someone stole it at 59th Street,” the girl replied.
— Monica Coffey
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