‘He Didn’t Know My Name, and I Didn’t Know His’

Image

Shooting Around

Dear Diary:

Most Sundays, I walk to the outdoor basketball courts at Julia Richman High School in Midtown Manhattan. It’s my ritual: 50 shots from the “old man’s foul line,” then a bench break with the paper and a text to my adult grandchildren to report the day’s stats.

One recent Sunday, my favorite hoop was free. As I warmed up, I noticed a man watching from the far sideline. It was a hot day, and he looked out of place in his jeans and sweatshirt.

“Want to take a shot?” I called out, tossing him the ball.

He didn’t move in closer. From an awkward angle and distance, he launched an ungainly, almost archaic two-handed shot. It swished through the hoop without touching the rim.

“Wow,” I said. “Can you do that again?”

He did — three more times. Then he walked to another distant spot and did it again, never saying a word.

We played together but not in a coordinated way. I passed him the ball after my turn; he never passed back.

After my usual 15 minutes was up, I paused.

“I’m going to stop,” I said. “Feel free to keep using the ball.”

He did not respond. I sat and read. At some point, the bouncing stopped. I looked up. My ball was resting under the hoop. The stranger was gone.

Now, when I am at the schoolyard, I glance toward the sideline. Just in case.

— Ernest Brod

Image

86th to 51st

Dear Diary:

I scoot into a seat on the 6 train,
wedged between two zombies,
headphones clapped over heads,
and watch a symphony

orchestrated by two women
graceful conductors of
swooping arcs sweeping broadly
in the tight space around them

long, unadorned fingers
and supple wrists
tell a story punctuated
by soft guttural sounds.

They take turns.

One beats her chest
for emphasis
the other nods vigorously.

One brings her hands together
a solemn prayer
the other tilts her head in repose.

The subway screeches halt wise.
Standing riders grab the metal pole
before stumbling to the whoosh
of the open door.

I almost miss my stop.

— Elise Chadwick

Image

Morning Routine

Dear Diary:

Every morning for two years I walked the same route to work: west from my apartment across 76th Street, south on Park Avenue to 51st and then west to Broadway.

Some days I listened to a book; other days I listened to podcasts. Some days I walked in silence. Every day, no matter what, as I crossed 63rd Street, I could count on passing a man who worked at a co-op building on the corner as he sprayed down the sidewalk.

“Good morning, hon!” he would say. “Have a wonderful day.”

Some days, we exchanged pleasantries about the weather. Other days, we wished each other a good weekend. He didn’t know my name, and I didn’t know his.

Then one day on my walk, someone else was spraying down the sidewalk.

“Vacation,” I thought, until I didn’t see him the next week or the week after that.

My routine changed too. I left my job and no longer walked the same route every morning. I felt sad not to have seen my sidewalk friend one last time to wish him well.

A few months later, I was on my way home and decided to get off the bus at 52nd Street and walk the rest of the way.

It was about 5 p.m., and the streets were full of commuters. I walked up Park Avenue with my head down. I was crossing 58th Street, beginning to regret my decision to walk, when I heard a familiar voice: “Hey, hon! Have a good afternoon.”

I looked up and there he was, smiling. We both kept walking in the crowd. Then I turned around.

“Thank you,” I said. “You too!”

— Stephanie Michas

Image

Hometown Habit

Dear Diary:

I was living and working in Okinawa some years ago when I traveled to Tokyo to meet my college-age son for a long weekend there.

We were exploring a fashionable neighborhood one morning and had joined a small group of local residents who were waiting at an intersection to cross the street.

The signal to walk had not come on, but the traffic was light, and I was itching to cross without waiting for the light telling me that I could.

Then I spied a well-dressed, middle-age Japanese woman on the other side of the intersection. She appeared to be gauging the traffic as well. When she dipped her toe out into the street, I took it as a sign and started across myself.

As we passed in the middle of the street, she nodded to me.

“I’m from New York,” she said.

— Marsha Mose

Image

Which Way to Go?

Dear Diary:

I was on an eastbound 23rd Street crosstown bus when the driver got on the public address system.

“Anybody know where Gramercy is?” he asked.