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Out of Serviss

Dear Diary:

I was helping my son move out of a third-floor walk-up in Crown Heights. He had worked it out the night before so that we had a parking space right in front of his building for the U-Haul the morning of the move.

The building had an elevator, but it wasn’t working. The same misspelled sign had been draped across the door for a year: “Out of Serviss.”

Sweating as we finished up that morning, I made my last trip down the building’s worn marble stairs and saw a box truck double-parked next to our U-Haul.

Two workmen in hard hats and harnesses were sitting on the building’s stoop and sipping coffee from thermos cups.

Will you be leaving soon, one asked. We have work in the building.

I nodded and smiled, and then fumbled for the key.

As I pulled out, I saw the name of their company on the side of the truck: Brooklyn Elevator Inc.

— Stephen Howe

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Bryant Park Bird

Dear Diary:

I was sitting and reading in Bryant Park on a Sunday when a sparrow landed on a chair in front of me. It cocked its tiny head and, after showing its gold-flecked feathers, darted off.

Suddenly, a high, clear bird song pierced the air.

Wondering if it could be the sparrow, I scanned the trees but didn’t see any birds.

Just then, a park worker walked by pushing a large bin. His lips were stretched tightly across his teeth and moving almost imperceptibly.

Intrigued, I stood up and glanced over at him as he passed.

He caught my eye and gave me a nod.

I nodded back.

Then the Bird Man of Bryant Park continued on down the path, whistling his song into the trees.

— Leslie Noble

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Triple Wrapped

Dear Diary:

It was some years ago, and I was accompanying my father on a business trip from the Milwaukee suburbs to Manhattan.

While he met with clients at the World Trade Center, I traveled around the city thanks to directions and shopping tips from secretaries at the company.

My heart pounding, I boarded the subway solo. I was only 19, but I tried to show the bravado of a self-confident college student. I knew enough to attach myself to a group of people when getting off the train, scurrying along with the horde until veering off at Century 21.

Later, I stopped at a nondescript restaurant for an egg roll and then made my way back to the Trade Center.

When it was time to go the airport for the flight home, my father said there was one stop we had to make: a bustling deli where he bought two hot pastrami sandwiches on rye. He asked that they be triple wrapped.

Once we had settled into our seats on People’s Express, he bought a beer for himself and a Coke for me. Then he reached down, snapped open the clasps of his leather briefcase and pulled out our sandwiches.

I was hungry but also self-conscious about what the passenger next to me might think.

But after buying a tiny bag of peanuts from the flight attendant, he turned to us.

“Wow,” he said. “Now that’s the way to travel!”

My father was quite smart after all.

— Mary Vraa

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Standpipe Hydrant

Dear Diary:

It was 1980, the summer after my freshman year in college. Ten of us crammed into my parents’ station wagon, and I drove over the George Washington Bridge, down the West Side and to the Village.

When we piled out of the car, the lace on one of my sneakers was loose. I tied it on a standpipe fire hydrant next to where we had parked the car.

We met up with some other friends from Jersey, hit the parks, the sidewalk vendors and a bar or two (the drinking age was 18 then).

Tony left first. We watched him and his girlfriend walk away.

“And that was the last time they saw Tony,” I said for no particular reason.

Eugene told me to shut up.

Later, after saying goodbye to some friends, we walked back to the car.

As we got close to it, my heart sank. My keys weren’t in my pocket. This was definitely going to be one of those long, long days.

But no. Phil gave a shout: The keys were on the standpipe where I had tied my laces.

— Mitchell Rosen

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That Hurts

Dear Diary:

After a night out at the theater, my adult son and I were making our way through Times Square while trying to avoid the usual hawkers and hucksters.

One guy was particularly persistent in trying to persuade us to go to a comedy club. We were waiting for the light, so there was no quick escape.

We tried, politely but firmly, to convince him that he was wasting his time.

By the time the walk sign came on, I was bracing for some colorful invective. Then I heard the ultimate New York insult.

“I hope they raise your rent!” he yelled.

— Ann Brodsky

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee