metropolitan diary

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Fighting Mood

Dear Diary:

Feeling particularly cranky because of the unbearable heat and humidity, I was ready to pick a fight with anybody I encountered on my walk to a drugstore on the Upper West Side.

So I was ready to put my mental fighting gloves on as I approached a building superintendent who was blasting the sidewalk ahead of me with a hose.

Angry thoughts whirled through my head: Why do they have to do this in the middle of the day rather than early in the morning when there is less foot traffic? If I had an expensive pair of shoes on, they would get ruined. (I didn’t, but still …)

Just as I was thinking the super hadn’t noticed me and wasn’t going to bother turning off the hose so I could pass, he abruptly shut the water off and, with a broad smile, bowed deeply.

“See,” he said with his arms outstretched, “I made the sidewalk beautiful just for you!”

— Cathy Bernard

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Times Square Shuttle

Dear Diary:

My 11-year-old daughter and I were taking the shuttle from Grand Central to Times Square on our way to meet other family members for a Mother’s Day picnic in Central Park.

I had been teaching her how to get around Manhattan, where I grew up, and as we sat across from each other she looked up and asked if the shuttle made just one stop. A booming voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Yes, it is just one stop,” the voice said.

My daughter jumped up, and both of us, startled, looked around at the other passengers. They all seemed oblivious.

“Mama, that scared me!” my daughter said.

“Don’t be scared,” the voice boomed again.

I realized we were sitting next to the conductor’s booth and pointed it out to my daughter.

“Have a nice day!” she said to the conductor as we got off at Times Square.

“You have a nice day too, young lady!” the conductor said for the whole train to hear.

— Ariane Maclean Trimuschat

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What’s on Third?

Dear Diary:

I was walking down Third Avenue on a sunny Sunday afternoon with two strangers trailing alongside me. A young woman walking in front of us was talking on her cellphone.

“Meet me at JG Melon on Second” she said.

In unison, the strangers and I corrected her.

“Third,” we said.

The woman turned and looked at us.

“Melon’s on Second,” she said again.

“Third,” we repeated like a chorus.

The woman sighed.

“The people behind me are insisting it’s on Third,” she said. “They don’t know one another, so I think they must be right.”

I hope she enjoyed her burger.

— Michelle F. Johnson

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Zippy Ride

Dear Diary:

It was summer 2014, and I was in my 20s. I was subletting a tiny, windowless bedroom in South Williamsburg.

One August morning, the heat was so oppressive in that little room that I left the shift dress I was wearing unzipped as I got ready for work, intending to zip up right before leaving.

The commute into Manhattan for what was my first real 9-to-5 job included a 20-minute walk to the Bedford Avenue L station. I was always drenched with sweat by the time I got there.

When the train finally pulled in that morning, riders were packed in like sardines. I squeezed my way into a car, and we rumbled off through the tunnel.

“Excuse me,” I heard a man behind me say.

The car was too crowded for me to turn around to face him, but I glanced over my shoulder to see that he was about my age.

“Your dress is unzipped,” he said.

My cheeks, already flushed from the heat, got redder as I blushed in embarrassment. I tried to reach behind me, but I couldn’t grasp the zipper.

“Do you want me to …?” he asked tentatively.

“Oh, yes. If you don’t mind,” I said. “Thank you.”

He zipped me up, and we rode silently the rest of the way into Manhattan.

— Katie Bucaccio

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At the Ballet

Dear Diary:

In fall 1983, the Joffrey Ballet was reviving “Parade,” a brilliant ballet combining the efforts of Satie, Massine, Cocteau and Picasso, at City Center.

As we waited for the program to start, an older woman seated next to me asked if I was excited to see this great work.

Although I know little of dance history, I did my best to explain to her what we were about to see. She smiled, nodded and asked a few questions and then the performance began.

At intermission, she turned to me.

“What do you think?”

I answered enthusiastically, deploying the little knowledge of dance that I possessed.

She was equally enthusiastic but much better informed.

“Well, since we have bonded over dance,” I said, “I should introduce myself. My name is Gary Clinton.”

She smiled and shook my hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gary,” she said. “My name is Agnes de Mille.”

— Gary Clinton

Illustrations by Agnes Lee