All Dressed Up
Dear Diary:
It was Halloween, and my boyfriend and I were decked out in torn denim, flannel and cheap wigs as Wayne and Garth in “Wayne’s World.”
We caught a downtown train to a friend’s party. At 14th Street, we peered through the windows and across the platform, admiring everyone’s costumes.
My boyfriend spotted a group of women wearing 18th-century robes à la Française.
I caught one woman’s eye and gave her two thumbs up.
She smiled and made a heart with her hands.
Then our train pulled out of the station, and we continued on downtown.
— Angie Monger
Cake Check
Dear Diary:
My girlfriend and I stopped at a bakery on our way to the movies in Cobble Hill on a summer night. We wanted chocolate cake.
Cake in hand, we stepped into the theater’s lobby and handed the attendant our tickets. He eyed my wax paper bag suspiciously.
“What’s that?” he asked.
I told him.
He frowned.
“You can eat it on the sidewalk, or you can leave it here,” he said. “But you can’t bring it in.”
I said I’d leave it there.
He reached under a table and pulled out a large cardboard box. Inside were stacks of takeout containers filled with leftovers.
He tagged my slice of cake, perched it in the box and handed me a purple stub that warned, in a bold font, “We are not responsible for anything left overnight.”
After the credits rolled, we joined our place in line to claim our cake. The movie was bad, but at least the night ended with dessert.
— Brendan Holman
His Tab
Dear Diary:
On a rainy summer Sunday in 1964, my cousin and I went for afternoon tea at the Plaza’s Palm Court. It was the perfect way to spend a gloomy Sunday.
We chatted for so long that it suddenly became time for dinner.
“Let’s get dinner at the Edwardian Room,” I said.
It was longtime favorite of my father’s, and my family ate there often.
When the check came, my cousin and I realized we didn’t have enough cash to cover it.
I asked the waiter breezily to put it on my father’s account, despite having no idea whether my father had one.
“With pleasure,” the waiter replied, fortunately for me.
— Susan Werbe
Staten Island Sundays
Dear Diary:
Every couple of Sundays, my mother, father, sister and I would leave Astoria for Staten Island to visit my uncle Alvaro.
We did not own a car, so we’d catch the RR train at Steinway Street, ride it to Whitehall Street in Lower Manhattan and then hurry to the Staten Island Ferry. More often than not, we would watch a ferry pull away without us.
Eventually, we would make it across the harbor and begin the next leg of the journey on the Staten Island Rapid Transit. I can still hear the distinctive chime of those train doors closing.
We would ride deep into Staten Island, get off at Dongan Hills and walk another 15 minutes or so to my uncle’s house.
Getting there always felt exciting because we knew we were in for a day of laughter and great food. Subway, ferry, another train and then a long walk — it seemed as though Staten Island were a distant land and we had crossed half the world to reach it.
After dinner and a full Sunday with my uncle, we repeated the entire expedition in reverse. By then, the adventure had worn off.
My sister and I usually fell asleep on the RR on the way back to Astoria, and our parents would wake us up when we got to Steinway Street for the sleepy walk home.
Looking back, it amazes me that my parents made that trip month after month, just so we could spend Sunday afternoon with family.
— Juan Carlos Matiz
Large Pie
Dear Diary:
My brother and I took a trip to the city after I graduated from high school. During our visit, we went to an Italian joint that sold Neapolitan-style pizzas.
As we sat there waiting to be served, we could hear people arguing nonstop back and forth in the kitchen, and the occasional pan crashing or banging.
Finally, a man in a flour-covered apron with an angry look on his face appeared at our table.
Because we had no way to keep leftovers, we asked what we thought was a reasonable question: What is the size of your large pizza?
The man’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets, and then he rolled them as he let out a frustrated sigh and put his hand on his hip.
“Look,” he said, “if you’re hungry, you order the large. If you’re not that hungry, get the medium.”
— Joseph D’Angelo
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