‘I Dropped My Left Earbud Onto the Subway Platform at Times Square’

Image

Get in Line

Dear Diary:

I dropped my left earbud onto the subway platform at Times Square. It bounced twice, and then fell onto the tracks.

I didn’t want to buy a replacement if I didn’t have to, so I went to the man in the token booth upstairs.

I’m mortified to even tell you this, I said, but my earbud is on the uptown Q track.

You are the 16th person today, he said, dialing his phone. Come back in a half-hour.

When I did, there it was.

— Ian McKnight

Image

Benched

Dear Diary:

I was in the habit of taking walks in Carl Schurz Park on early summer mornings, when the sun cast a lovely orange glow over the quiet East River esplanade.

My walk was identical every day. What also became routine was seeing the same older man sitting on the same bench each morning. He held a flat tweed cap in his hands, always gazing wistfully out onto the water.

One morning, I decided to talk to him.

“Hello,” I said, approaching the bench where he was sitting.

He looked up.

“How do you do?” he said.

“I don’t mean to bother you, but I see you here every day,” I said.

“Is that right?” he said.

“And if you don’t mind me asking, I was curious why you sat on this same bench?”

He turned away with a deep sigh.

“My wife and I used to sit on this bench together for 51 years,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, feeling badly. “I’m sorry.”

“And for some bizarre reason she likes to sit over there now,” he said, gesturing toward a woman 20 feet to the left of us.

— Samuel Willinger

Image

The Boxer

Dear Diary:

It was 1981, and I was working at an office building in Lower Manhattan.

After 5 p.m., the door from the lobby onto Broadway was closed, and we would have to leave through the Irish pub to the rear of the building. This happened quite often.

Depending on the day of the week and the general mood, some of us would stay for a drink or two before going home. The bartenders got to know us.

In those days, I lived in Bergen County with my family and our young boxer, Sis. At some point, I mentioned Sis to Brian, one of the bartenders. He told me that he loved boxers and had them growing up but that he hadn’t seen one in years.

One Friday, I heard that Brian was going to be working a rare Saturday shift the next afternoon.

I packed 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 out of the car. Brian was thrilled. He was petting and hugging Sis with tears in his eyes.

Suddenly, he stood up, went inside, returned having changed out of his work clothes, locked up, and we took Sis for a walk.

— Michael Kolleczek

Image

In the Air

Dear Diary:

I was walking along West End Avenue early on a November weekend.

The crisp morning sunlight was reflecting off the apartment building facades and shining on the trees’ red leaves. The sky was a spotless deep blue, and even though the air was cold, or perhaps because of that, the day seemed full of energy.

At one point, a doorman walked out of a building directly 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, probably a tenant of the building, approached the entrance at a slow, deliberate pace. She had her eyes aimed down two steps in front of where her feet were. She did not seem to have caught the energy in the autumn air.

The doorman spotted her, smiled and waved.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Turbo mode!”

“Whaddya mean?” she shouted back, not changing her pace one bit. “This is turbo mode!”

— Matei Ciocarlie

Image

The Producer

Dear Diary:

It happened during the 1970s. I was heading east on 57th Street toward Carnegie Hall, where I was supposed 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 that I was a fan of his and of his films.

He thanked me.

I asked whether he was doing anything.

He looked at me and smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m waiting for a bus.”

— Boris Kinberg

Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.

Illustrations by Agnes Lee