Marathon Day
Dear Diary:
I could hardly believe I was about to run the New York City Marathon. It was 2011, and I had come to the city from Wisconsin, where I was living then.
As we waited to cross the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, the loudspeakers began to blast Frank Sinatra’s version of “New York, New York.” Tears filled my eyes.
Then the starting gun went off. The race was on. Hours later, after 26.2 miles, I crossed the finish line in Central Park. It was dark and cold, and the crowds had thinned.
It took forever to shuffle through the finish chute and out of the park. There were no cabs anywhere; the streets were still closed for blocks.
I walked and walked, shivering and starving, my post-race euphoria fading fast. Out of pure desperation, I ducked into TGI Fridays on Fifth Avenue. Wrapped in my silver space blanket with my medal around my neck, I must have looked ridiculous.
The bartender looked up.
“Did you just run the marathon?”
I nodded.
“Hey, everyone,” he called out. “This lady just ran the New York City Marathon!”
The whole bar cheered.
The bartender grinned.
“Beer’s on the house,” he said.
Just like that, I wasn’t cold anymore.
— Joan Kappes
Chilly Greeting
Dear Diary:
It was late October during my first year in New York City, and it was already getting chilly.
I was walking the few blocks from my apartment to the No. 1 train stop on Christopher Street. I had on a jacket, a baseball hat and some light gloves. I felt like I was overdressed, but, in addition to the chill, there was a light drizzle in the air, and I disliked getting my hands wet.
Many other people — men and women; young and old — were dressed lightly. No hats or gloves, and some with no jackets at all.
As I crossed Seventh Avenue South toward the subway entrance, I saw a man walking toward me. He had on a large woolen hat, a knee-length tweed coat and gloves.
When he noticed how I was dressed, he broke into a big smile.
“Sure is getting cold early this year, isn’t it?” he said.
— Doug Sylver
Alisha and Coco
Dear Diary:
After a particularly tipsy night celebrating my boyfriend’s birthday, my friends and I stood outside a wine bar on Jones Street and passing around a last cigarette.
That’s when she walked by, all bones and charisma, dragging behind her a dog with the same disposition.
“Nice to see young people smoking cigarettes on stoops again,” she said in a gravelly voice. “Used to be normal.”
We laughed.
She didn’t keep walking.
We asked if we could pet the dog.
“Sure,” she said. “His name is Coco.”
She told us that her name was Alisha, and that she had moved to the city in the 1970s.
“I had a place near Times Square,” she said. “Hundred eighty a month. Paid extra for a hot plate and a fridge.”
She lit a cigarette of her own as she spoke. She told us she was a makeup artist.
“I worked on a lot of faces,” she said.
She looked at us for a second, not quite smiling. Her eyes wandered past us, as if she remembered that she had something better to do.
“Don’t let the city eat you,” she said before turning and walking away, Coco clattering along beside her.
The street was quiet again, wet with rain from earlier. We stood there a little while longer, not saying much, until the cigarette was gone.
— David Reyes-Mastroianni
Party of One
Dear Diary:
I had just been laid off from my job at a venerable New York publishing company. It was my second layoff in less than two years. I decided to brush myself off and go for a long lunch at an Italian place in the West Village.
It was nice out, so I asked for an outdoor table for one. The hostess walked me outside and said I would have to be seated communally at a table for four with two people who were in the middle of a meal.
I refused and opted to sit inside at the bar, but I must have said loudly that I had just been laid off from my job.
After settling in, I enjoyed a leisurely lunch, with an appetizer, aperitif, wine, risotto and dessert. I figured it would be my last splash for a while before I started the slog looking for a new job.
When I asked for the check, the server said that “my friends from outside” had taken care of it, including the tip.
I was stunned and delighted. I hope “my friends from outside” read this and know that their kindness meant so much to me on an otherwise depressing day. Thank you.
— Tracy Forzaglia
One Way to Say It
Dear Diary:
I was on the No. 1 train when I heard a man talking to two tourist friends.
“It’s not Green-wich Village,” he said. “It’s Gren-wich Village.”
— Ivy Winters Mansky
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