WFH
Dear Diary:
It was a remote-work day, and I was at home in Greenpoint. While waiting for a call from my supervisor, I decided to take out the trash. I brought my work phone with me in case the call came while I was out.
Opening the chute with a bag of trash in one hand and the phone in the other, I fumbled, and the chute swallowed the phone. I imagined it falling 37 floors with my supervisor on the other end waiting for me to pick up.
I rushed to the lobby and explained the problem to the doorman.
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
Several members of the building’s staff, working together, retrieved the phone from the bottom of the chute, where they found it wedged between trash bags functioning as airbags.
With a grin, one of them handed it to me.
It was ringing.
— Maria Lobato Grabowsky
Of All the Bars
Dear Diary:
I wanted to be the kind of woman who reads her book alone at a bar: confident, sophisticated … performative? Maybe a smidge.
On a snowy evening in February, I went to a wine bar in Crown Heights. I took a high-top by the window, ordered a cozy glass of red and opened “Daisy Jones & the Six.”
The door opened with a swirl of cold air, and in walked my ex-boyfriend. My hand went up in an involuntary wave. Things hadn’t ended well, and we hadn’t spoken in two years.
He was with a woman I immediately clocked as a date, first or second judging by the way they waited near the door for the host.
They didn’t see me, but my heart started racing, my face felt flushed and my confidence was drained. Being at a bar with a book suddenly felt incredibly lame.
My ex and his date sat down, and I switched chairs, so that I was no longer facing them. Pulling down my beanie, I saw my friend Grace hurrying by outside bundled up in a parka.
I waved at her, urging her to come in. She did, plopped down next to me and unwrapped her scarf.
“Grace,” I whispered, “you are required to stay with me until I finish this glass of wine.”
— Brigitte Hackler
Showtime Tips
Dear Diary:
On a quiet Sunday, two young performers entered the A train I was on. Their gymnastics were terrific and inventive, and they had lovely banter.
Most of the riders were politely uninterested, but one guy approached the performers after putting some money in the cap they passed.
He appeared to be asking for pointers on their routine. One of the two demonstrated several times just where he had placed his hands before pulling himself up with his legs straight behind him.
The man tried, tried again and slipped. He couldn’t get his legs off the ground.
The two performers got off at the next stop, and the man who had been talking to them sat down next to me.
“It’s a lot harder than it looks,” he said.
— Marcia Schonzeit
Diana Ross’s Gowns
Dear Diary:
This was some years ago. I attended a charity event, and afterward took a car back to the Sherry-Netherland, where I was staying for the evening.
The driver was chatty. As we crossed town, he mentioned the hotel.
“You know Diana Ross has an entire floor there,” he said. “Whenever she’s in town, I always get a call.”
I was impressed.
“You drive Diana Ross around New York?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” he replied. “They call me to transport her gowns.”
— Eric L. Dicken
Breakfast Special
Dear Diary:
I lived on West 14th Street in the mid-1970s. One weekend morning, I decided to take myself out to breakfast at a diner around the corner on Greenwich Avenue.
As was my custom then, I ordered coffee and scrambled eggs with home fries and sausage.
The waiter was all smiles, and my breakfast was served in short order.
The next weekend, I went to the same place. I took a seat in a booth, and the same waiter approached me.
“Coffee, scrambled eggs, sausage and home fries,” he said.
It was exactly what I wanted to have, again.
Of course, I returned a week later.
No sooner had the waiter spotted me than he said, “It’ll be right out, hon.”
I had arrived.
— Michael Sklaroff
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