‘I dropped my left earbud on the Times Square subway platform’
Get in line
Dear Diary:
I dropped my left earbud on the subway platform in Times Square. It bounced twice and then fell onto the rails.
I didn’t want to buy a replacement if I didn’t have to, so I went to the guy in the coin booth upstairs.
I’m ashamed to even tell you this, I said, but my earbud is on the uptown Q track.
You’re the sixteenth person today, he said, dialing his phone. Come back in half an hour.
When I did, there it was.
– Ian McKnight
On the couch
Dear Diary:
I was in the habit of taking walks in Carl Schurz Park on early summer mornings, when the sun cast a beautiful orange glow over the quiet East River promenade.
My walk was identical every day. What also became routine was seeing the same older man sitting on the same couch every morning. He held a flat tweed cap in his hands and always stared wistfully at the water.
One morning I decided to talk to him.
“Hi,” I said, walking over to the couch where he was sitting.
He looked up.
“How are you?” he said.
“I don’t mean to bother you, but I see you here every day,” I said.
“Is that correct?” he said.
“And if you don’t mind me asking, I was wondering why you were sitting on the same bench?”
He turned away with a deep sigh.
“My wife and I sat on this bench together for 51 years,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, with a bad feeling. “I’m sorry.”
“And for some bizarre reason she likes to sit there now,” he said, gesturing to a woman twenty feet away to our left.
—Samuel Willinger
The boxer
Dear Diary:
It was 1981 and I was working in an office building in Lower Manhattan.
After 5pm the door from the lobby to Broadway closed and we had to leave through the Irish pub to the back of the building. This happened very often.
Depending on the day of the week and the general mood, some of us stayed for a few drinks before heading home. The bartenders got to know us.
At the time, I was living in Bergen County with my family and our young boxer sister. At one point I mentioned Sis to Brian, one of the bartenders. He told me he loved boxers and had them growing up, but he hadn’t seen one in years.
One Friday I heard that Brian would be working a rare Saturday shift the next afternoon.
I put Sis in our car and drove to Manhattan, parked in front of the pub and went inside to tell Brian I had a surprise for him.
The place was empty, so he came outside with me and I let Sis get out of the car. Brian was thrilled. He stroked and hugged sister with tears in his eyes.
Suddenly he got up, went inside, came back after taking off his work clothes, locked himself up and we went for a walk with sister.
– Michael Kolleczek
In the air
Dear Diary:
I was walking along West End Avenue early one weekend in November.
The fresh morning sunlight reflected off the facades of the apartments and shone on the red leaves of the trees. The sky was a pristine deep blue and even though the air was cold, or perhaps because of it, the day seemed full of energy.
At one point a doorman walked out of a building right in front of me. He seemed to have a spring in his step, humming a light tune to himself as he waltzed to the curb.
As he surveyed the block, an older woman, likely a tenant of the building, approached the entrance at a slow, deliberate pace. Her eyes were two steps down, in front of her feet. It seemed she hadn’t caught the energy in the autumn air.
The doorman saw her, smiled and waved.
“Come on!” he screamed. “Turbo mode!”
‘What do you mean?’ she shouted back, without changing her pace one bit. “This is turbo mode!”
– Matei Ciocarlie
The producer
Dear Diary:
It happened in the 1970s. I drove east on 57th Street toward Carnegie Hall, where I had to play drums for a jazz dance class.
As I approached Seventh Avenue, I saw a familiar person standing at the bus stop. It was Zero Mostel.
I walked up to him and said I was a fan of him and his films.
He thanked me.
I asked if he did anything.
He looked at me and smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m waiting for a bus.”
– Boris Kinberg
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee