Gusty Day
Dear Diary:
It was an early evening on a hot, extremely windy summer day, and I was walking headfirst into the humid gusts on my way to eat my takeout dinner on the Battery Park City Esplanade.
I paused while waiting to cross West Street. Across the street from me, a man in athletic clothes was jogging in place on the landscaped median, the wind at his back.
When the light changed, I started to cross. I noticed that the man kept jogging in place rather than resuming his run.
Just then, a man pushing a stroller entered the median, wind at his back as well. Still jogging in place, the runner gracefully extended his hand, which held a baseball hat. The man with the stroller accepted it with thanks.
The wind continued to blow, and the two men continued on in the same direction, the runner sprinting ahead and the man with the stroller gripping the hat tightly.
— Marisa Lorenzo
On the F
Dear Diary:
I was on an F train hurtling toward Jackson Heights.
From behind me I heard a woman ask someone, “What would ever possess you to play the ukulele while making tomato sauce?”
Then, as if to affirm just how unseemly this behavior was, she added, “We are in Queens, New York, not on planet Mars.”
Although I was curious about who was speaking and to whom, I resisted the urge to turn around and look. It seemed best to leave this New York interlude shrouded in mystery.
— Stephen Brewer
Best Advice
Dear Diary:
In the early 1970s, a year out of college, I flew into New York on a late flight.
As the 747 began its descent into J.F.K., I turned to the man next to me.
“Is New York your home?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve lived in the city all my life.”
I asked if he had any advice for a first-time visitor.
He paused and looked me over.
“Listen,” he said, “everything you have ever heard about New York City is true, the good and the bad.”
In a fatherly voice he continued: “My best advice is to stay out of Times Square after dark.”
After getting off the plane, I found an accommodation service at the airport to help me find a hotel.
“It needs to be cheap,” I emphasized to the receptionist.
She told me she had one vacancy that met my criterion. I wrote down the name and phone number.
“Do you still have a vacant room?” I asked the clerk who answered the phone. “Where is it, and how do I get there?”
“Easy,” he said. “We’re right in the middle of Times Square.”
I gulped.
“I’ve been told it’s not safe to be in Times Square late at night,” I said.
“Yeah,” the clerk said. “Look, here’s what you do. Stand up, real big and tall. Shoulders back, chin up. Put a tough swagger in your step and a smirk on your face. Anybody who sees you will think you’re the one who’s going to cause trouble.”
I hung up and looked at my reflection in the darkened window glass. I stood up, pulled my shoulders back and practiced a few tough guy faces. I checked the time.
It was after midnight.
— Thomas Darby
Something Healthy
Dear Diary:
I was visiting my son, who had been dumped by a woman he might have thought he would marry someday. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. Of course I was worried.
I stayed at a hotel a few blocks south of the tiny apartment he shared in Kips Bay and walked back and forth during my stay.
One night, pretty late, I headed out to sit with him through a fresh wave of sorrow. On the way, I stopped at a basement-level store for a snack.
“Do you have an apple, a yogurt, something sort of healthy?” I asked the man behind the counter.
“Figs?” he suggested. “Figs are very healthy.”
He handed me a bag of figs. Then he asked: “Would you like one of these?”
He passed me a samosa from a heated glass case. I felt it would be rude to refuse. He took one as well and spread it with something from a jar.
“Try it with this sauce,” he said.
It was delicious.
We ate the samosas, I paid for the figs and went on my way.
My son is moving from Kips Bay as soon as he can. Too many memories. But I will hold onto mine of the warm samosa with sauce.
— Samantha Sparks
Bag Check
Dear Diary:
Entering the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I was directed to a table to have my bag checked.
The guard reached her stick into the bag and poked around for what seemed an inordinate amount of time.
“Is everything OK?” another guard asked.
“Yeah,” the first guard said. “I like the bag and I’m looking for the label.”
— Angel Zimick
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