‘One Day, for No Particular Reason, I Decided to Wear a Tie’

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Full Freezer

Dear Diary:

I was a single mother living in Brooklyn and working two jobs. Twice a week after work, I put my young daughter in her stroller and headed down the avenue to run errands.

We went to the cleaners, the grocery store, the drugstore and the toy store window before ending at the butcher shop.

One evening, just before closing, the butcher told me he had several lamb chops and two steaks left and no room in his freezer. He offered them to me at a bargain price.

I thanked him but declined. They weren’t in my budget.

He lowered the price.

I hesitated again.

“They’ll go bad otherwise,” he said.

Finally, I agreed. We hadn’t had lamb chops or steak in months.

Walking home, I thought about his three enormous freezers. Were they really full?

I do not remember the lamb chops or the steaks. I do remember the generosity.

— Diane Garofalo

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Life Advice

Dear Diary:

In May 1988, I was a rookie teacher at John F. Kennedy High School in the Bronx.

After a rough first half of the year, I felt as if I had found my footing. Learning was taking place in the classroom, and the kids seemed to like me.

Every morning before my American history class, two young girls, Beatriz Collado and Lisette Rosario, would harass me in a good-natured way. They were deeply concerned with my social life.

One day, for no particular reason, I decided to wear a tie.

Beatriz clapped her hands when she saw me.

“Mr. Wolfson, you’re wearing a tie,” she said. “Do you have a date?”

Before I could answer, Lisette entered the classroom.

“Guess what?” Beatriz said. “Mr. Wolfson has a date.”

“Mr. Wolfson, can we come with you?” Lisette said.

“Oh no,” Beatriz said. “Mr. Wolfson wants to be alone, don’t you Mr. Wolfson?”

In addition to it being my first year as a teacher, I spent an hour and a half commuting each way every day, so I had little free time, and, unfortunately, no date.

I delivered the bad news to the girls.

“If I did have a date, what advice would you give me?” I asked them.

“Whatever you do,” Beatriz said, “don’t be yourself.”

Well, then.

I recently learned that Beatriz earned a teaching degree and had returned to Kennedy to teach social studies, perhaps in the same classroom where she once gave me life advice.

Beatriz, if you read this, I want you to know that I’ve been happily married for over 25 years and that I still remember you nearly 40 years later.

— Ronald Wolfson

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Snapshot

Dear Diary:

The yellow school bus
with black stripes
and flashing lights
stops before a cluster
of children who swarm its steps
except a pair of girls, arm in arm,
who twirl and stop, their ponytails
flopping up and freezing in midair
against the striped backdrop,
their knots of hair plotted there
like notes on a musical staff
as the girls prepare to scale the stairs
and enter the dance of the day.

— Tom Furlong

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Radio City

Dear Diary:

In 1981, I worked as a page at Radio City Music Hall. Sometimes, I was stationed in the lobby to answer patrons’ questions and monitor the lines.

On one such occasion, I noticed a man with a receding hairline standing by himself, surveying the queues leading to the box office.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Who’s appearing here now?” he said.

“Peter Allen and the Rockettes,” I replied, although I really didn’t know who Peter Allen was.

“The line forms on 50th Street,” I added.

He frowned at me, then walked out onto Sixth Avenue.

The next night, I was helping to seat people in the orchestra section. The lights dimmed, the curtain rose and there he was: the man from the lobby with the receding hairline, riding a camel across the stage and singing like he was born to perform at Radio City. Later, he kicked it up with the Rockettes.

After that, I knew exactly who Peter Allen was.

— Maddy Levi

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Close Encounter

Dear Diary:

I was getting on the 4 at Union Square a few years ago. It was rush hour, and the train was packed.

Slipping through the closing doors, I spied my friend Margaret sitting in a choice seat. She was reading and didn’t see me.

I navigated through the crowd to where she was sitting. She didn’t look up, so I sat on her. Yep. I sat right down like she wasn’t there.

It was so funny. She flustered and blustered. Everyone around us was very concerned. I just sat there.

Then I turned around to look at her. It took her a second or two to collect herself, and we both burst out laughing. It took us another moment to realize everyone in the car was having a good laugh too.

I kissed her, wished her a good day and got off at my stop.

— Monique Morgan

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee