‘I Turned to See a Woman in Running Gear Walking Toward an Older Man’
Tied Up
Dear Diary:
I was running errands on an unseasonably warm October afternoon. As I approached the crowded corner of 23rd Street and Sixth Avenue, I heard someone calling out in earnest.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” the voice said.
I turned to see a woman in running gear walking toward an older man who was holding a white cane.
“Sir,” the woman said urgently, “your shoelace is untied.”
She paused.
“Would you like me to tie it for you?” she asked.
The man did not hesitate.
“Sure!” he said.
The woman knelt down, tied his shoe and went on her way.
— Meghana Shah
Halloween on the A
Dear Diary:
It was Halloween a few years ago, and I was on an A train traveling from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Most of the passengers in the car were in costumes that included Prince, Elvis, Madonna and a stuffed toy. No one was talking, and everyone seemed to be traveling alone.
At one point, three young men carrying a boom box got on the train and took positions as if getting ready to put on a show that was most likely going to include somersaults.
As soon as the boom box clicked on, all of the costumed passengers jumped up and started to dance. The would-be acrobats clicked off the music.
No, no, sit down, they said. We are trying to make a living here.
Everyone sat back down, laughing. Then the box clicked on again, the costumed passengers jumped up to dance again and the acrobats asked them to sit down again.
The sequence played out three more times before the young men finally gave up and went to another car.
We all kept laughing.
— Carol Williams
Presidential Jam
Dear Diary:
It was 2019, and I was living in a section of Yorkville that was tumbleweed-quiet. If it was a balmy night and I was feeling restless, I’d grab my guitar and head down to Washington Square Park to find a jam session to jump into.
There was a motley crew of regulars: N.Y.U. students always calling the same Dylan tunes, and grizzled hippies always happy to oblige. There was an E.R. doctor who lived nearby and never missed a jam. And more often than not, there was Abraham Lincoln, singing along in black suit and stovepipe hat.
I didn’t want to puncture the myth of this mystical man who looked and dressed like President Lincoln but also knew “Tangled Up in Blue,” so I never asked any questions. I figured he was a Greenwich Village institution and left it at that.
After skipping the sessions for two pandemic winters, I made a beeline for the park on the first warm night of spring and spotted the E.R. doc lounging on a bench.
We fist-bumped hello and caught up on what we had been doing. I told him it was my first night back in a while, and I was looking for familiar faces, one in particular.
“Any idea how Abe is doing?” Not seeing him in the park, I feared the worst.
“Oh, Bill?” the doctor said. “I think he’s in Florida for the winter.”
— Michael Harmon
Fare Competition
Dear Diary:
In 1979, my girlfriend at the time (now my wife of 40 years) moved to New York City to pursue her goal of becoming an actress. She enrolled at HB Studio, and I drove a yellow taxi overnight.
In the wee hours of one Sunday night, I was driving back into Manhattan from Kennedy Airport on a mostly deserted Queens Boulevard when I spotted a fare far down the street holding up her arm.
In my rearview mirror, I noticed another yellow taxi accelerating behind me. Clearly, the driver wanted the fare, too.
I sped up and the other cab did too. We raced toward the fare side-by-side, with my taxi in the right lane. The other cab couldn’t pass, and I soon pulled over triumphantly.
The fare turned out to be a friendly woman.
“You would think I was going to Ithaca,” she said as she got in.
— Billy McLean
To Go
Dear Diary:
On a cold, rainy Friday night in Midtown, clutching an umbrella and with my face stuffed in a scarf such that I was barely able to see, I made my way to where my Chinese takeout was waiting.
As I pushed through the door, it was nearly as dark inside as it was outside, and the music was loud. Slightly disoriented, I gave the host my name.
He soon returned empty-handed.
“What did you order?” he asked.
“Sesame chicken and a roast pork bun,” I said.
“You need to go next door,” he said. “This is an Indian restaurant.”
— Nick Devor
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
