It's the beginning to the work week. Friday can seem eons away. However, I always looked forward to the Metro section of The New York Times. Mondays featured the Metropolitan Diary, full of little vignettes about New York life: idiosyncratic stories describing funny happenings that would only happen in the big city. It brought an instant smile to my face, and I hope these selections do the same for you!
Dear Diary,
The finder of
my wallet on Feb. 28 would not take a reward, so I wrote to his young son...
Dear Max,
I wanted to
tell you why we met, because your humble father would probably think his act of
kindness was not worth of boasting.
But seeing the love that surrounds you, I think you deserve to know a
little about your father, Paul.
We were fellow
travelers on the subway, separated by moments. As I sped along, your father stopped long enough to find my
wallet. He went a lot further than
most people. He took the time to
find its rightful owner. Searching
a stack of cards and numbers, he found my place of business and contacted me. In a city of millions, your father
became singularly important. It is
what each of us should strive to do—perform a kind act for each other.
Your father
was willing to make sure a lost wallet made it home. Just think about what he would do to make sure that you,
someone whom he loves immeasurably, will always make it home safely, too. So search the heavens, but look around
you for your angels. --John Poulos
Dear Diary,
It is 8:30 A.M. on a Friday at 80
Center Street, office of the County Clerk. After years of disregarding
summonses to jury duty, I appeared today before the judge as requested and
state my case. I'm a steadily working opera
singer and when not working need to be available for any auditions.
"The fine for such
negligence," the judge said, "will be $250 or" - pause - "you
can sing for me."
I sang Carmen's
"Habanera." Everyone applauded, he smiled, reduced the fine to $10,
and I have a date for jury duty in September.
Submitted by Eugenia Wiltshire, a
scene at a shop on Columbus Avenue:
A mother was browsing wine displays
when her son, who appeared to be about 6, said rather earnestly, "Wine is
not for children."
The mother looked down at her son,
smiled and said just as earnestly: "Yes, sweetheart, you're right. It's
for people who have children."
Everyone within earshot laughed and
nodded in agreement.
Dear Diary:
Walking along Fifth Avenue on my
way to Central Park, I spotted a homeless man begging for food in what seemed
like a fit of sorrow and agony. Usually impervious to such displays, I was moved by his shocking sense of desperation and decided to buy him a pretzel
from a nearby vendor. Instead of taking the pretzel, he
looked at me sideways, took a drag from his cigarette and said, "No
thanks, hon; I'm not supposed to have salt." --Elizabeth Weinfield
Dear Diary:
I was shopping at a men’s store
in the Flatiron district. Of course I had
procrastinated, and my brother's birthday was the next day. I turned to a well-dressed man next to me and asked if he thought the
tie I was holding would be too wild. Without hesitation, he confirmed that it would. Then he offered one.
"Yuck," I said. Then I showed him another. "Nope," was his reply. We played this game for a while until he
finally said, "This is the tie you want," as he pointed to the one he
was wearing. "Exactly!" I said. Then he confessed that he was a necktie designer
named Lee Allison, visiting from Chicago. He called his studio to see if he had another in stock
– he did. Given my last-minute predicament, he offered to pay for overnight
shipping to New York and gave me the name of his assistant, whom I could call
directly to expedite the order. I was saved. Back at my office, I visited his website, just to make sure
he was for real. And sure enough he was not only legit, he had the most amazing
ties with the funniest stories for each one. My brother loved it, as much as the story that came with it.
--Ruth Rama-Witt
Dear Diary:
Ordering stamps online. 10 days after
placing my order, I found in my mailbox a pink slip notifying me that there was
a package being held for meat the post office. The sender: the United States
Postal Service's Stamp Fulfillment Center. What? I needed to stand on line at
the post office to claim my order for stamps that I placed online so that I
would not have to stand on line at the post office? The final indignity was
that the postal clerk would not release the package until I produced proof of identity.
Dear Diary,
Visiting an editor at Random
House, I stepped into a crowded elevator and found myself pressed close to the
control panel.
"Has everyone got their
floors?" I asked.
After a moment's silence, a young
female voice from the rear said, "His or her."
"I beg your pardon?" I
said.
"His or her. It's 'Has
everyone got his or her floors?' Your pronouns don't agree."
"And shouldn't it be 'his or
her floor', not 'floors'?" a young man piped up.
"Each of us gets off at only one floor."
"Each of us gets off at only one floor."
"And wouldn't it be better to
say 'Does everybody have?' rather than 'Has everybody got?'" a third voice
chimed in.
I stood corrected—and red
faced. But I was glad to know that good grammar is alive and well.
Dear Diary,
A few days ago, I was standing at the corner of 44th
and Broadway, waiting to cross the street with several dozen other people. A woman, dressed in an extremely tight,
revealing outfit and prostitute platform shoes, stepped up on the curb. She turned and smiled at the
businessman next to her and said, “Hi, Bill!”
The man,
shocked, replied, “I don’t know you!”
The crowd began to snicker.
“Bill, it’s
me,” she said, though the man looked away, “It’s me, Claire!”
The crowd
waited to see if he would recognize her.
He took another step away, but then, looking more closely, he broke into
a broad smile and gave her a big hug.
“I’m on my way
to work as an extra in the movie that’s shooting in Times Square!” she
exclaimed.
The audience
broke into laughter as the light changed, and people went on their way. --Scott Reiss
Dear Diary,
My
brother-in-law advised us to use a particular brand of tire on our car. I called the company’s 800 number, gave
our ZIP code and was informed that the tires were available at a service
station right off the Barbecue Expressway. I said that there was no road by that name in my area and
asked for the exact address. It was the
B.Q.E. --Helen Yrisarry
Dear Diary,
After running
some errands on a recent sunny afternoon, I walked back toward my bike, which was
locked to a lamppost at 82nd Street and Broadway. To my startlement, I came upon a man with
a wrench busy at my back wheel.
The following exchange ensued:
Me: “What are
you doing?”
Thief: “Is
this your bike?”
Me: “Yes, it
is.”
Thief: “Great
timing!”
The man broke
into a cheerful grin and reached out eagerly for a handshake. We shook.
Thief: “Have a
good one!”
Me: “Thanks!”
Another
selling point for new businesses: even our thieves are polite. --Evan Lowy
Dear Diary,
Betsy, our
suburb-raised daughter living in the city, yearned for a car. She begged her brother, Maury, to give
her his old one. He did, but his
car had a stick shift, and our daughter had driven only automatics. After a brief lesson, she drove it off
to the city. Our happy new
car owner was driving jerkily down Second Avenue when a police car pulled her
over.
Betsy pleaded
her case: this was her first time driving a stick shift.
To her
astonishment, the cop gave her driving tips.
Two stoplights
later, lights flashing, a police car again pulled up alongside her. It was the same cop.
“You’re doing
better,” he said.
Big
smile. Daughter greatly relieved. --Majorie Pastel Martin
Dear Diary,
When a friend
asked where we were moving to, I replied, “New York.”
“New York?” he asked, “That’s Letterman,
right?”
Right—as
opposed to that other city, which is Leno. --Daniel H. Wild
Dear Diary:
We three
businessmen were engaged in friendly conversation. Trying to decide where to dine, I asked the bellman whether
we should find a neighborhood restaurant or go to the one in the hotel. He paused for a few moments, as he
contemplated his answer and then said, “Well…if I told you it was excellent, I
would be wrong.” --Joe Fenton
Dear Diary:
My subway at 34th
Street was delayed and I had time to notice a violinist on the platform. He was playing The Lark Ascending. With his eyes closed, he was playing this for love. As my train arrived, I put a few dollars into his violin case
and took a seat on the train. I
had thought my donation had not been noticed by the musician, but then he got
onto the train and began to serenade me.
For about 30 seconds, he continued his masterly performance until the
familiar beep announced that the doors were closing. As he continued playing, my soloist then expertly danced
through the doors onto the platform to a round of applause and smiles from the
entire car, and we were on our way—others back to their lives and I into my
reverie. --Paul Mc Devitt
Dear Diary,
After teaching
a long summer session class at Hunter College, I got on the train to return
home. It was extremely hot and
crowded, and everyone was stoically quiet. As I passed the time reading through my students’ quiz
answers, a 20-something man sitting next to me said, “Pardon me, but what are
your students reading about? It
must be very interesting.”
I was a little
shocked that someone would admit to reading over a shoulder—something I’m often
surreptitiously guilty of. “They
read a section from Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones,” I said, “in which the
author proves the existence of love.”
“That sounds
exactly like something I should be reading,” he charmingly replied, “Do you
have an extra copy?” --Carrie Shanafelt
Dear Diary,
My husband and
I were driving through lower Manhattan searching for the entrance to the
Brooklyn Bridge. After some wrong
turns, we were relieved to see the flashing lights of a patrol car parked on a
corner. Two police officers were
talking to the driver of what appeared to be a stalled van. We stopped and I rolled down my window
to ask if they could give us directions.
“Can’t you see
I’m in the middle of something right now?” was the response, “I don’t have
time.”
“OK, thanks a
lot,” I said, grumbling to my husband, “Does that surprise me?”
As we turned
right and traveled halfway up the block, the police car suddenly pulled up
beside us.
The officer
who had just sent us on our way said: “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you back
there. Turn left at this corner, go
three blocks, turn right and you’ll see the entrance to the bridge.”
“Thank you so
much,” we called and drove on.
At the light,
the car pulled up beside us again, and the officer came to my window.
“Lady, I’m
really sorry about what happened back there,” he said, “I was busy, and I want
to apologize again. My partner and
I are headed toward the bridge.
Just follow our car.”
He hopped back in his car, turned the flashing lights and siren on, and we had a police escort to the Brooklyn Bridge. --Anne Whetsell
He hopped back in his car, turned the flashing lights and siren on, and we had a police escort to the Brooklyn Bridge. --Anne Whetsell
Dear Diary,
I arrived at
the North Bergen Park and Ride just as the bus to Manhattan was pulling
away. Fortunately, it was slow
exiting the parking lot, and as I ran to catch up, the driver stopped and
opened the door.
“Thank you,” I
said as I handed him my ticket, “The angels are smiling at you, sir.”
Without
missing a beat, he replied, “I wondered what that was.” --Janice M. Cauwels
Dear Diary,
I was standing
on a corner at 51st St. and Second Ave., laden down with three
bags. A police officer was
directing badly congested traffic by the United Nations. He saw me and asked if I needed a taxi. When I replied “yes”, he hailed a cab,
opened the door for me, and as he closed the door, he said to the driver, “Now
please hurry.” --Audrey Rosenman
Dear Diary,
After completing
the NYC Marathon on Sunday, we desperately tried to hail a cab to our
hotel, to no avail. A kind woman
instructed us to take the No. 104 bus.
However, as we tried to board, a most unfriendly bus driver informed us
that a MetroCard or change was required.
Unfortunately, we had only a $20 bill, which he flatly refused.
The other
passengers began chanting, “Let them on, let them on!”
When that had
no effect on the driver, the passengers began passing forward their MetroCards
and quarters until our fares were paid.
We offered our
$20 to the passengers, but no one would accept it. Then our hearts were further warmed as the rest of the
people on the bus began cheering and congratulating us for finishing the race.
New York, not
only do you put on a first-rate marathon, but as far as our group from Atlanta
is concerned, your generosity and kindness also ranks No. 1. Thank you, New York!
--Renee and Searie Videlefsky, Mark Friedman, and Sherwin
Krug
Dear Diary,
I knew prices
were getting out of control when I saw the following sign in the window of a
bakery in Brooklyn:
Special
Bread crumbs
3 for $1
Dear Diary,
Outside a
bagel store on 77th St., Karen Zipern spotted a sign, intended to
promote its product line, that significantly missed the mark. The sign read:
Bagels
Bialies
Baked
Goo
old Cuts
Pastries
Coffee
Dear Diary,
On Christmas
Eve, my friend and I were in a cab traveling to the parking lot to pick up our
car. Our driver, with a beard and
a thick Eastern European accent, was very friendly and chatted with us during
the drive. I remarked to him that
I was enjoying the music he was listening to. When we arrived at our destination, I received one of my favorite
gifts of the season. He popped out
the CD and gave it to me.
--Eileen Kaufman
Dear Diary,
Gale-force
winds gently rocked the MTA train stranded at Mamaroneck station in Westchester
County. No ETA for us. I am sure to be late for my meeting in
Manhattan. Now, Mamaroneck is not
exactly a station where taxis line up to pick up passengers. It is a kiss-and-ride stop. Taking my chances, I head
outside—keeping the umbrella from inverting. Near the train station, I see a car waiting for traffic to
clear. The driver lowers his
window and asks me, “Are you going to Manhattan? Do you want a ride?”
I get in with profuse gratitude. “There’s another guy.
Should we ask him?” says the driver. The guy squeezes in. He's visiting from Tennessee. He can’t thank us enough. The driver jokes, “Now, don’t go back and say New Yorkers are not
nice.” We laugh like old
friends.
--Amitabha Sen
Dear Diary,
Recently, I
entered my local subway stop. As I
passed through the turnstile, I noticed a man with long arms “strumming” the
iron fence by the token booth as if they were part of a giant harp. With his head thrown back in rapture,
he was passionately engaged in music that only he could hear. At first, I thought, “Just another
subway eccentric.” But the more I
watched, the more convinced I became that there was a lesson there, that all of
us must—regardless of circumstances—find and create joy wherever we can and
with whatever we have. --Bo Weston
Dear Diary,
As I was
gazing through my store window, a mounted police officer rode up, examined the
lone parked car on the block, hesitated, rode up a few paces, then
returned. He wrote a note, clearly
not a summons, and placed it under the windshield wiper and moved on.
Curious, I
left the store and saw a Fire Department parking permit on the car’s dashboard
and examined the note, which read: “You really should get your car inspected.
After all, you guys make more money than we do.” --Stephen Masullo
Dear Diary,
As I rode the
No. 104 bus eastbound along 42nd Street, the bus stopped mid-block,
just past Times Square, next to a group of teenage girls who were laughing,
talking and enjoying the Sunday afternoon. The driver tapped the horn lightly several times, then
finally opened the door and called out, “Pauline!”
One of the
girls looked over, disengaged herself from the group and replied, “Yes, Daddy?”
“Does your
mother know where you are?” he asked.
“Yes, Daddy,”
she said.
The driver
gave a satisfied nod of the head, closed the door and drove on. --Mary Lou Woods
Dear Diary,
My husband and
I were going out to Douglaston, Queens to visit friends for dinner. He had to take a Long Island Railroad
train, and when he was even later than we had expected, he had this tale to
tell. He had been so
engrossed in his book that he missed his stop and went to the end of the line
at Port Washington. After
sheepishly confessing that to the conductor, he was allowed to use his original
ticket to take a westbound train back to Douglaston, at no additional fare. The conductor wrote a special code on the reverse side of
his ticket for the westbound train’s conductor to understand the situation. It was not
until his stop that my husband took a look at the special code: “ID-IOT.”
--Susan J. Behrens
Dear Diary,
We were on a
crowded bus leaving Lincoln Center when this exchange took place to the
amusement of the post-opera crowd.
Driver: Would everyone please move to the back.
Passenger: There’s no room in the back.
Driver: There’s always room in the back. Please move back.
Same Passenger: We can’t move. There’s no space in the back.
Driver: There are people waiting to get on. Please move to the back.
Same Passenger: I told you, there’s no room in the back.
Driver: May I please hear from someone else?
Dear Diary,
It’s not the Chrysler and not the Time
Warner.
It’s the vegetable stand on Third and
the corner.
Makes my heart beat with spring afresh;
The vegetable man’s back from
Bangladesh.
--Peggy Keilus
Dear Diary,
As I made my
way out of Grand Central Terminal on a Monday morning, the crowd gathering at 42
Street and Lexington was a sure sign that a heavy rain had descended upon
Midtown. “How much for an
umbrella?” I asked the overwhelmed vendor. “Four dollars,” he replied. “I only have $2,” I said somewhat hesitantly, “Can I pay you
back after work?” The vendor
scowled, “Don’t try to bargain in front of the other customers.” I was out of luck, or so I
thought. As I looked away in
search of the nearest shelter outside, my soggy newspaper over my head, the
vendor called out, “You can pay me back.”
I thanked him, handed him my money and promised I’d be back. “Yeah, O.K..” he said, sounding
dubious.
That evening,
I returned to the newsstand. The
vendor was still at work and he saw the $2 in my hand. “You came back,” he exclaimed, looking
directly at me. “For that, I will
take just $1,” plucking one from my hand.
“Thanks for helping me out this morning,” I said. “Thanks for coming back,” he
answered. As I made my way to catch
the train home, I wished I could have stayed in Manhattan a little longer that
night. --Paul Klenk
Dear Diary,
Our corner
coffee cart has a new sign, offering, in addition to the usual bagels, buttered
rolls and apple turnovers, SCORN for $1.25. (I assume he meant scone). Does anyone else remember the
days when scorn was routinely dispensed in this city for free? --Jeffrey Kindley
Dear Diary,
I was walking on Fifth Ave recently. I
noticed a huge garbage truck full of flowers that were being taken out of the
planters along the sidewalks.
Behind the garbage truck was another truck full of fresh tulips to
replace the old ones. I asked the
workmen if I could have some of the old flowers, and the man on top of the
truck responded by scourging the truck for blossoms that hadn’t wilted
yet. I thanked them and continued
home with an armful of perfect, hand-selected, long-stem yellow tulips. Only in New York can you get a bouquet
of flowers from a garbage truck. --Kartrina Damkoehler
Dear Diary,
My mom and I
spent a few hours shopping for a prom dress at Saks Fifth Avenue. As we boarded the elevator to leave, we
encountered a huge, fancy baby carriage.
I peeked in and heard the faint cries of two newborns. I asked the well-dressed man holding
the carriage how old the babies were.
“Thirty-six days,” he answered, in a very proper English accent. As the doors opened, the Englishman
said, “Sorry about the crying.
They do so much better at Bergdorf’s.” --Stefanie Horowitz
Dear Diary,
On a beautiful
recent Saturday morning, just inside Central Park, I witnessed this
interchange:
Dog walker to the
group: What are you looking at?
Excited watchers:
A raccoon!
Dog walker, smiling:
Oh, are you raccoon watchers?
Group: No, no,
we’re bird watchers.
Dog walker:
Exactly. Please get back to work.
--Timothy Gunn
Dear Diary,
One day I
crossed Avenue of the Americas in the Village and waved my hand for a
taxi. A man approaching from
across the street saw me and promptly stuck his hand in the air and waved at me
energetically. Amused, I changed
my signal into a wave and saluted him back before again trying to catch a
cabby’s eye. The fellow crossed
the street and made a detour to slap my out-stretched hand with a high-five,
before he continued wordlessly up the street. I climbed into a taxi.
It was a silent New York greeting between strangers who happened to
share a sense of the absurd. --Tom Geyer
Dear Diary,
I was in a cab
stopped at the long red light on Central Park West by the Museum of Natural
History. Suddenly, I realized my
cabdriver was speaking loudly. I
thought he was talking to me, but he was trying to get the attention of the guy
in the truck next to us who had his Spanish radio tuned in to the World
Cup. The guy in the truck spoke
little English, but it was good enough for my cabdriver to discover the score. Talk about New York as a melting pot
and the World Cup being the spoon that stirs it together! --Frank Cohen
Dear Diary,
Recently,
emerging from a crowded No. 6 uptown train, I was among those who surged upward
from the tracks to street level.
As we went up, two guys—maybe in their early 20s—tried to make their way
down, hugging one side of the staircase and simply muscling their way through
as best they could. One pleaded to
the crowd, “Come on, people, you all have to move to your right, please, to
your right! That’s how traffic
moves in North America.” --Fred
Bayly
Dear Diary,
I was trying
to see when the next bus was due at 20th St. and 9th Ave,
but the box holding the schedule had slipped down its pole, and I was having a
hard time bending down to read it.
Suddenly, a young man appeared, reached down and lifted the box to my
eye level. After a few moments, he
politely asked if I had gotten the information I wanted. As I thanked him, he gently set the box
back down and dashed away. It’s funny
that New Yorkers get such a bad rap for being rude. I’m greeted with politeness every day. --Miriam Sarzin
Dear Diary,
I got off the
M66 cross-town bus at Lexington Ave, and headed toward Third, the same route as
the bus, as I heard three sharp toots from its horn. Passengers were frantically waving at me, mouthing things I
couldn’t hear. Puzzled, I checked
my purse. The bus kept moving
while people continued gesturing.
We arrived simultaneously at the next corner when the bus doors opened
and a gentleman leapt out, handing me a gold button from my new blazer. The passengers cheered, and I accepted
the button as if it were a prize.
I smiled, bowed deeply and blew a kiss to my fellow travelers.
--Marlene Lamm Spigner
Dear Diary,
Seen in a cleaner/tailor’s
shop window on East 72nd St.: “If you are unemployed and need your
suit pressed for an interview, we will do it for free.” Aren’t New Yorkers nice! --Al Surkis
Dear Diary,
On my way to
work one morning, I stopped by the neighborhood fruit and vegetable stand to
buy some summer figs. They looked
amazing! I impulsively stopped a
passer-by and asked her to take a picture of me and the stall vendor. The passer-by was tickled, and the
vendor was thrilled—he immediately struck a dramatic pose next to me, holding a
grocery bag wide open. Another
customer at the stand jumped in to join our poses, grabbing and holding a bunch
of spinach to drop into the bag.
We all burst into laughter.
I walked away looking forward to the photo that captured four New
Yorkers of different ages, sexes and races, stopping in their busy morning to
indulge in a moment of silliness together. --John Boyer
Dear Diary,
I had just
returned from a week of vacation at the beach and went to my local Food
Emporium to do some shopping. At
the checkout, I unloaded my cart and pushed it through to where the bagger was
standing, and just then realized my mistake. In New York City, the cart never goes past the cashier,
because you don’t use it to bring bags out of the store! As I turned to pull the cart back out,
and I assumed, annoy the customers waiting in line, I instead found the woman
behind me smiling and standing aside to let me through.
She said with
sympathy, “You’ve been in the country, haven’t you?” --Erica Falk
Dear Diary,
It was a
beautiful Sunday, so I went to sit by the pool in Central Park. I was relaxing and taking in the sun
when I glanced a few benches down, where an unremarkable man with a large bag
had just taken a seat. Then I saw
a squirrel climbing up the far side of a low fence behind him. It got to the top of the fence, reached
out, and tapped the man on the shoulder.
The man turned
around, said, “Oh, I didn’t see you!” and then took a snack out of his bag and
gave it to the squirrel, who took it, climbed back down his side of the fence,
held it in his paws, and ate it delicately.
The man looked
up to see me staring. “I didn’t
see him,” he said to me, apologetically, “That’s why he had to tap me on the
shoulder.”
Just another day in
Central Park! --Sarah Lawsky
Dear Diary,
Our usually
quiet building had a visitor yesterday.
I arrived home at 10:45pm to find the doorman with a tennis racket in
hand along with two police officers.
A possum was clinging for dear life to the palm tree and Venetian blind cords
in the corner of the lobby. No one
was sure exactly how he got there, and he certainly didn’t want to be
there. I couldn’t tell who was
more frightened, the doorman or the possum. My husband decided to take a closer look with the doorman
and—by now—three police officers.
Around 11:15, Emergency Services arrived with a pole to grab the animal
and take him outside. The E.M.S.
worker addressed the possum as Buddy and tried to collect him. Buddy must have been eyeing his exit,
because he suddenly fell to the ground and scrambled out the front door, back to Central Park. E.M.S. and New York’s finest left, too,
and life returned to normal. --Karen Sing
Dear Diary,
Scene: I am
looking for a parking space on the south side of the street, so alternate-side
parking will let me keep my car there.
No luck. I park on the
north side.
Act 1: I see a
couple in an amorous embrace in front of my apartment on the south side,
leaning on a car, saying goodbye to each other. The guy with keys in hand. The gal with love in her eyes. I approach.
“Excuse me,
are you going to get out of this spot?” I ask.
“Yes,” both
respond in unison with some surprise.
“Would you
mind continuing to say goodbye while I go get my car parked two blocks away on
the wrong side of the street so I can pull into your spot?” I ask.
“No problem.”
I am amazed,
and I’m off.
Act 2: I
run. I drive. I hit all four red lights. I get to “the spot.” They are still in an embrace, keys
still in hand, love still in her eyes.
They see me. They say goodbye
to each other. They wave to
me. He leaves. I pull in. --Howard I. Berrent
This sign appeared in a new cheese shop on Smith Street in
Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn: “Unattended children will be given an espresso and a
free puppy.” -- Susan Behrens
Dear Diary,
Going into the
New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue one rainy afternoon, I stopped at the
security desk for a bag check and overheard this conversation:
Guard: “I’m sorry, sir. You can’t bring that in here.”
Man (with delicious hot pretzel covered in mustard): “I’ll
be done with it in a minute.”
Guard: “Not here you won’t. Please take it outside.”
Man: “Come on, it’s raining outside. I’ll eat it right here.”
Man: “Come on, it’s raining outside. I’ll eat it right here.”
Guard: “No, I'm sorry.”
The man
cheered up with a brainstorm. He
got into the revolving door and went around and around, eating the pretzel, in
neither the library nor the rain. --Tom Huntington
Dear Diary,
I was riding
the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.
It happened to be my birthday, but I was dressed casually and not doing
anything suggesting a special occasion.
A panhandler entered the car, shaking a paper cup dejectedly. He made his way through without
receiving any contributions. When
he got to me, I fished out a dollar and put it in his cup. He jumped with delight. “God bless you,” he said three
times. He then paused, looked me
right in the eye and added, “And happy birthday.”
--Daniel Robbins
Dear Diary,
I am a great
fan of the city’s street musicians, and one day while nearing the Citigroup Building, I was pleased to hear a fine
baritone just finishing a Puccini aria.
With his electric keyboard, he started the familiar bars of César
Franck’s Panis Angelicus. In my years as a professional singer, I
have sung this beloved piece enough to feel, as some singers do, “I own this
one!” So, I stood beside him. He seemed a
little surprised, but we exchanged smiles and launched into the song. In the second half, the melody
interweaves and overlaps, and our voices blended with instant camaraderie. We finished the piece to
applause, and I thanked him. He
bowed and smiled. “Next time, I
raise it to your key, B flat!”
I went on my way, taking with me the
memory of a wonderful musical Manhattan moment…which I have shared with
you. I look forward to an encore. --Jane Lawliss Murphy
Dear Diary,
Late Sunday
night, I hurriedly walked to my favorite coffee shop on Irving Place. Suddenly, a man down the way started
trying to get my attention. Alone
and nervous, I debated whether or not to cross the street. He noticed my apprehension and started
flailing his arms, a cellphone in his hand. He rushed over and put the phone to my ear. The three bags of Chinese food he was
trying to deliver sat near the entrance to a building and I realized he could
not speak English and door’s buzzer was broken. I said, “Hello” into the cellphone and explained, “Your food
is downstairs and the buzzer is broken.”
The man thanked me and hurried down.
The deliveryman smiled and thanked me, too. --Dana Waits
Dear Diary,
On a recent
visit to our hometown, my boyfriend and I took a cab to 23rd Street near
7th Ave. As we reached
the destination, the cab driver happened to stop right in front of an annoyed
police officer about to step off the curb. Without missing a beat, the policeman opened the cab door
for us and quickly forgot his annoyance as he said with a smile, “Welcome to
Chelsea.” --David Goodman
Dear Diary,
As I was
walking past the 123rd Precinct station house, a large man stepped
out and proceeded to sneeze loudly three times. A police officer idling in front of his patrol car got on
his car’s bullhorn and, in that familiar ear-splitting, cracked tone, uttered,
“BLESS YOU”, much to the amusement of the sneezer and others within earshot. --Jordan Pfister
Dear Diary,
While walking
past the Madison Ave Baptist Church, I noticed a message on the outdoor
bulletin sign: “Lord give me patience…and make it snappy.”
Dear Diary,
While waiting
for a light to change in Midtown, a bike messenger came up beside me and asked,
“Am I going in the direction of Fifth Ave and everything else?” I said yes to Fifth Ave, but certainly
no to “everything else.” He
thanked me and biked off. I
couldn’t help but wonder what “everything else” was. I’d hate to be missing it. --Elizabeth Kadin
Dear Diary,
I was
approaching my favorite corner market when I saw a homeless woman standing near
the rows of fresh fruit outside.
As I got near, I asked, “Would you like something from the stand?” She looked up in surprise and thought for
a moment before saying, “Those look like very good grapes. I would love some of those.” I bought them, and the vendor placed
them in a bag for her. She held
them and then looked at me and said, “You know, there are a lot of grapes in
this bag. Won’t you share them
with me?” I was touched by her
offer. And so, I sat in the middle
of Manhattan, sharing grapes with this very generous woman. --Mark Sheffield
Dear Diary,
A friend of
mine, a transplanted New Yorker visiting from Swaziland, braved New York City
traffic in her parent’s car to visit me in Greenwich Village. Walking to the meeting place, I spotted
a perfect parking place with no meter.
I called her cellphone and urged her to get there soon: I would save it
for her.
One driver
neared. Seeing me standing in the
space, he shook his head, irritated, but kept driving. But, a second, rolled down his window
and rudely instructed me to get out of the spot. I told him my friend would arrive in seconds, but to no
avail. To the driver of the
Harley-Davidson who was waiting behind him to edge past, I shrugged and said
with defeat, “I guess this guy isn’t from New York and he doesn’t know that we
save spots for each other.”
With that, and
to my surprise, the leather-clad Harley rider maneuvered between me and the
car. He sat there, looking
threatening, and glared down the car driver, who had no choice but to keep
moving on. My new Harley
protector stayed and held the spot until my friend arrived within a minute or
so. It was a sweet moment of
triumph. --Susan Banki
Dear Diary,
I was on my
way home from a great double feature at Film Forum. On the F train to Brooklyn, there was a young guy strumming
a guitar. A girl and her boyfriend
got on at West Fourth Street, and she whispered something to the guitar
guy. He nodded and softly began
playing the Gloria Gaynor song, I Will
Survive. The girl started to
sing. A couple of us standing near started
humming along, and people looked up from their reading. A few girls started singing, a couple
of guys joined in, and then some others and more and more. Within a moment, everyone in the entire
car was singing I Will Survive at
full-throat volume in the subway. When we reached the end, everyone clapped and cheered and
hooted and hollered. A fabulous
New York hootenanny. --Amy Hausmann
Dear Diary,
An empty city bus inched its way up alongside our car, and
after seeing our Virginia plates, the driver figured we were tourists who were
hopelessly lost. He looked down
and asked in a heavy, wonderful-to-hear accent, “Ya lawst?” I told him we were looking for a
different way to the bridge, and he said, “Follow me.”
Off we went,
following his bus through city streets, turn after turn, block after block,
totally at his mercy. After 15
minutes of this meandering, we saw it—the Verrazano! With a wave of his hand, he made a right, and we made a left
and zipped right onto the bridge! --Liz Fineo
Dear Diary,
Overheard last
month while navigating through the evening rush-hour crowd outside Pennsylvania
Station:
Woman to companion: “Oh, the circus is in town!”
Companion: “This is New
York. The circus is always in town.”
Dear Diary,
Several days
ago, I fell into a pothole while crossing Broadway at 57th St. Blood trickled down my nose; my phone,
wallet and contents of my purse lay scattered around me on the street. In the middle distance, I could sense
buses, cars and trucks moving toward me.
Immediately, as if they had been traffic cops in another life, passersby
began to direct traffic away from me.
Two women stopped, offered tissues, helped me to my feet and asked how I
was doing. A gaggle of pedestrians
picked up my scattered possessions and put them in my bag for me. Everybody was happy that I was ok. Just as quickly as they had all
arrived, these New Yorkers scattered, across the street and around the
corners. Reflecting upon the
events of that afternoon, I would like to post here that the term “New York’s
finest” can be very easily broadened to include the average resident of our
city walking down the street on any given day! --Cynthia Czelder
Dear Diary,
While waiting
to pick up my dog, Lulu, at NYC Veterinary Specialists, I overheard two young
men talking to the receptionist.
It was obvious by the look on her face that she wasn’t quite sure what
they were saying. The mystery
was solved when one of the men, in a loud voice, announced: “We’re here to pick
up Sherman, and yes, Sherman has two daddies.” --Cecille Seewald
Dear Diary,
Coming home
from work one recent evening, waiting at the Fifth Ave. station for the E
train, I saw a group of adults looking at the map and the signs, with obvious
bewilderment. As I usually do in
such situations, I asked if they knew where they were, and being told No,
explained how best to get to Shea Stadium, their destination. We got onto the same train, and so I
gave them a bit of an explanation about New York City and the train ride, and
we talked about baseball. As they
neared their stop, one of the men offered me two extra tickets to that night’s
game, because the seats were great and he would have an unforgettable
experience. After thinking about
it (and finding out that my son was able to join me), we went to Shea, arriving
in the seventh inning—well in time to see, from close up, the Mets pull out a
win in extra innings. It does pay
to be nice to people! --Susan Grant
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