‘ I Heard a Man Behind Me Explaining the Work to His Group’

Artful

Dear Diary:

My trips to the Metropolitan Museum of Art typically include a stop to see Seurat’s Study for “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte,” a precursor to his much larger “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.”

That painting, almost certainly the artist’s best known, has been viewed by countless visitors to the Art Institute of Chicago, and by many others who have seen a certain popular 1980s movie in which the piece has a small, but meaningful, role.

On my most recent visit to the Met, I heard a man behind me explaining the work to his group: And there’s another one at the Art Institute of Chicago that’s three times as big as this one, he said.

I turned around.

“You really know your stuff,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.’”

— James Devitt

Bathtub in the Kitchen

Dear Diary:

Now he’s sleeping the sleep of a dead man,
In a flat on the Lower East Side.
Oh, we tussled and wrestled,
Then we spooned and we nestled.
He’s a master of love, and I’m satisfied.

But I’m leavin’ that boy on 10th Street,
There is something that I cannot ignore.
Much too glaring and numbing,
Has to do with the plumbing.
Turns out it’s an undeniable flaw.

He’s got best-sellers and electronic toys,
He likes clean fun and connubial joys.
Now I don’t care he’s not rich an’—
Still it breaks my heart.
He’s got a bathtub in the kitchen.
(I have to wash my back with a roasting rack.)

What a daunting dilemma,
After scarfing up the lamb vindaloo.
It just isn’t nice ’cause when I scrape off the rice,
Gotta move all the sponges and the Prell shampoo.

Yeah, we like our sushi and our bagels and lox,
Our steaming pizza fresh right outta the box.
All of our dinners are quite bewitchin’
But it tears me up —
He’s got a bathtub in the kitchen.
(Gotta wash my toes with a rinsing hose.)

It doesn’t matter that he’s great in the sack,
I know for sure that I won’t ever be back.
He’s intelligent and kind, but I still have my gripes,
Don’t want bathroom water in the kitchen pipes.

Now, I’m no stranger to heartache,
Trouble has knocked at my door.
But I’ll go it alone and I won’t answer the phone,
Leave his gritty Ajax and his strange décor.

Adios my man, keep your fryin’ pan.
Later for you bachelor and your ladle and your spatula.
You’ve got a bathtub in the kitchen.

— Lou Craft

Sounds of the ’60s

Dear Diary:

I was taking an uptown express to the Upper West Side. A trim, older man with a well-worn accordion got on at 34th Street.

He immediately jumped into a set of ’60s rock classics. Man, he rocked. Among the highlights was his version of the 1966 Rolling Stones hit “Paint It Black.”

As we both prepared to get off at 96th Street, I gave him a nod of approval and put some money in his cup.

He grinned and rushed toward the uptown local that was waiting across the platform.

He said, “96th Street, ‘96 Tears.’”

— Chris Parnagian

Northbound Traffic

Dear Diary:

It was about 10 years ago. I was in the passenger seat of our Toyota, my husband was at the wheel and we were stuck in northbound traffic on the West Side Highway.

It was warm out, and we had the windows down. I had a copy of “Life of Pi,” with its distinctive blue dust jacket and orange spine, on my lap.

I heard a man’s voice that sounded like it was next to me but much higher up. It turned out it was coming from the open window of a cab on a tractor-trailer that was idling next to us.

“Great book,” the voice said.

I looked up and saw the truck’s driver looking down at me. His elbow was resting on the edge of the open window. Beneath it was a copy of “Life of Pi,” open so I could see the dust jacket.

“Great book!” I said.

Slowly, traffic began to move.

— Connie Beckley

What Will You Have?

Dear Diary:

It was lunchtime in Midtown, and the deli counter line snaked its way along a refrigerated unit filled with cheeses, salamis and tomatoes.

It was all new to me, a recent arrival from Ireland. Finally, it was my turn to order.

“Yeah?” the counterman said.

“Do you have whole wheat?” I asked.

The counterman furrowed his brow and nodded.

“Do you have Cheddar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you … ”

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Turning around, I saw a short, older man wearing a pork pie hat and a bow tie and peering at me though his glasses.

“Stop asking questions,” he said. “Tell him what you want.”

— Tommy Weir

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee