Downtown Manhattan
Dear Diary:
My first job in Manhattan was downtown. The building, on Rector Street, dated to the early 20th century. I had to use my entire body to pry open the heavy brass door. My father could do it with one arm.
A building employee greeted us with a broad smile every day. He wore dark pants, a dark tie, dark shoes, dark socks and a white shirt. We always said hello.
The lobby was narrow and dark. The floor was marble. The ceilings were high. The walls were unadorned. If we looked at the lights, we saw spots. The sound of the click-click-click of my father’s shoes echoed through the lobby.
We tapped an elevator button to go up. The buttons were off-white with the letters U or D in black. We stood quietly as we waited to go up to the 12th floor.
My father and I worked in different departments. When we reached our floor, he turned one way, and I turned the other.
Every morning at 10:30, our work was interrupted by the ring of a bell. It was the signal that the woman with the coffee cart had arrived. She wore a black waitress uniform with a white hat, white apron and white gloves.
We filed into the hallway to buy a cup of tea or a Danish wrapped in plastic or a package of peanut butter crackers.
— Betsy Petrick
Taking Turns
Dear Diary:
I was riding the C train to an evening class at City College. It was rush hour, and I was standing shoulder to shoulder with others in the packed car when the train slowed to a crawl between stations.
It was summer, and the car was steaming hot. The air conditioning was broken, and only a couple of the windows could open all the way.
I was not feeling well after a difficult week and was struggling to stay upright as the wait wore on. After a half-hour or so, I managed to squat on the floor and lower my head.
I soon felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and was then guided to a seat a few feet away that seemed to have been made empty just for me. I expressed my appreciation, though I could not see who was guiding me nor who had sacrificed their seat. The car was too crowded.
After sitting for several minutes, I noticed that a passenger standing near me was at their limit. Feeling my energy somewhat restored, I swapped places with this person.
And so it went for what seemed like an hour or more: People who were sitting in the crowded car traded places with those who were standing, squiggling slowly and almost silently around one another to do so.
— Tracy Raczek
On the Town
Dear Diary:
A talking cat
watches a baby pigeon
on a stone terrace
where a boy rides a unicycle
before his real lesson.
A heart-sword balloon
and then a heart-sword balloon fight …
The crosstown bus arrives.
A teenager asks his mom, is something happening,
there’s so much traffic.
“It’s the Met Gala,” I say,
in that helpful New York way.
This was my day.
— Olivia Loving
The Giant Bunny
Dear Diary:
I was leaving my apartment for a walk on a lazy Sunday. When the elevator arrived, the door opened like a portal to another galaxy.
Standing inside was a small woman dressed in black. She was carrying an enormous black bunny that seemed almost invisible until I noticed its blinking eyes.
“Get in,” the woman said, motioning me toward her.
Not knowing whether the giant bunny was friendly with strangers, I hesitated. Some bunnies can be combative.
The door began to close, and I hit the “open” button instinctively.
“Get in!” the woman shouted.
I stood there at a safe distance between myself and the giant bunny.
“What was the bunny doing outside?” I asked.
“She went out for a walk,” the woman said. “She loves interacting with humans. Are you coming in or not?”
I continued to hesitate.
“Come on,” she said. “You know who she is.”
“I do?”
The woman nodded, clutching the giant bunny, which by now was falling out of her arms.
“What is her name?” I asked.
The galactic portal began to close again. This time, I did not try to stop it. I got a last glimpse of the bunny. It was staring at me intensely.
“Gemma,” I heard the woman say.
— H.S. Go
Seafoam Green
Dear Diary:
I was walking to Grand Central early one summer Saturday. I was wearing seafoam green pants because it was to be a seafoam-green-pants type of day at the beach.
I passed a moving van on the other side of the street where some men were unloading furniture.
“You a doctor?” one of them yelled to me.
“No, sir,” I replied.
He shook his head.
“You’ve got to get some new pants,” he said.
— Geddes Johnson
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
