‘We Walked in Silence for Two Blocks Until He Stopped’

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Barber Shop

Dear Diary:

I was visiting my mother on Long Island a few years ago when I decided to go to the Ideal Barber Shop near the intersection of Union Turnpike and Little Neck Parkway in Queens.

I had gotten my hair cut there every few weeks when I was a boy. Back then, I had paid in cash, so I instinctively checked my wallet before entering the shop.

Once inside, I saw on the right side of the shop a familiar long row of chairs for waiting customers, a mix of teenage boys wanting the latest buzz cuts and older men wanting the same haircut they have always gotten.

I was happy to see Frank, one of the founders, at chair No. 1, still cutting away with his own full shock of hair slicked back as usual.

“Want a haircut?” he asked, signaling for me to sit in his chair.

“You used to cut my hair as a kid,” I said.

He smiled. We were both looking straight at the large mirror, but I don’t think he recognized me. We chit-chatted about how quickly children grow up, and about his adult sons. Frank said he regretted not having had a daughter.

In terse directives, he orchestrated the shop’s rhythms: seating customers, answering the phone, collecting payments.

When it was time to pay, Frank swatted away my cash-filled hand.

“Get out of here,” he said.

— Kamal Bharucha

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Hot Coffee

Dear Diary:

I was taking the Q train downtown on an unexpectedly warm September day. Many people had apparently neglected to check the forecast, and I was surrounded by people in coats and puffer jackets.

At the first stop after I got on, a man wearing a light jacket and holding a hot cup of coffee boarded the train and sat next to me. He spent the next few seconds struggling to take his jacket off with the coffee in his hand before putting the cup on the seat.

I watched nervously, expecting the cup to tip over and spill on me once the train began to move again.

My face must have betrayed what I was thinking, because the man looked at me, picked up the coffee and, without saying a word, handed it to me.

I held it until he got his jacket off, and then handed it back. We rode downtown in silence.

— Mariana Paez

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Singular Focus

Dear Diary:

It was a Wednesday morning in August when an older man and woman got on a downtown No. 3 together at 96th Street.

The woman was heading to 14th Street for an appointment with her eye doctor. The man, who would customarily catch the uptown No. 1 to go to work in Harlem, hopped on the downtown No. 3 with her instead.

“What are you doing?” she asked, happily surprised to have his company a little longer.

“Honey,” he said with a smile, “like the Pequod and Captain Ahab searching for the white whale, I’m roving the city looking for a working MetroCard machine.”

— Steven Flax

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Pouring

Dear Diary:

I was in the city for a short visit and was walking near Midtown Manhattan when the skies suddenly opened up. Within seconds, I was drenched.

A middle-aged man standing a few feet from me popped open his umbrella and walked over.

“Come,” he said simply.

Grateful for the shelter, I fell into step beside him. We walked in silence for two blocks until he stopped in front of a souvenir stand.

Only then did I notice the rack of umbrellas. He gestured for me to go inside, then turned and disappeared into the rain.

“Thank you!” I called after him.

— Karima Sauma

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Scent of a Carrot

Dear Diary:

When I was single, I lived in a studio apartment on Third Avenue between 14th Street and 23rd Street. My life centered on my job as a buyer at Bloomingdale’s and evenings spent with friends at bars and restaurants.

In 1978, I met the man who would become my husband at Club Med. He lived in Chappaqua and worked in Tarrytown. After deciding to move in together, we bought a co-op on 70th Street off West End Avenue.

I started to cook and, naturally did my shopping on the Upper West Side. One of my big discoveries was Fairway on Broadway near 74th Street. The produce selection was overwhelming. I never knew there was such choice in fruits and vegetables.

As I walked around the store one day, I noticed a woman picking up several different types of carrots and smelling each bunch carefully.

This seemed rather odd, and I asked politely why she was smelling the carrots.

“Honey,” she replied, “if they don’t smell like carrots, they sure ain’t going to taste like carrots!”

— Eileen Tichauer

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee