Tuxedo Trouble
Dear Diary:
In town for a black-tie wedding at the Plaza, my wife and I spent a leisurely afternoon enjoying an unseasonably warm December day.
When we got back to our room at a nearby hotel, I discovered that I had left my tuxedo shirt at home. I called down to the concierge and explained my situation.
“Hmm,” she said. “Well, you can run out and buy a shirt.”
“But the wedding is in a half-hour,” I replied.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I hope you make it. Good luck.”
Running downstairs in search of a store, I passed through the lobby’s revolving doors and noticed that the bellmen were wearing white shirts.
I went back in.
“Excuse me,” I said to one who looked about my size. His name was Paul. “I’ve got a wedding in 25 minutes and no shirt. Can you help?”
He hesitated.
“What size are you?” he asked.
“Sixteen neck, 32 sleeve,” I said.
He disappeared through a side door and came out minutes later holding a freshly laundered white shirt, on a hanger no less.
I could have kissed him. Instead, I thanked him profusely and handed him $50.
After a late checkout the next morning, I found Paul to return the shirt and get my checked bags.
He asked about the wedding, and I joked that we had looked great together. He began to walk away and then turned back.
“Thanks for showing my shirt a good time last night,” he said.
— Barry Offitzer
Paisley
Dear Diary:
I was waiting for a train at Columbus Circle and wearing my black-and-white paisley printed sneakers when a man sat down next to me.
He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo. It was the wallpaper in his bathroom. It had the same paisley print as my shoes.
— Gwendolyn Evans
New Soles
Dear Diary:
Years back, my cousin recommended me for a job that she thought I was perfect for. I took my interview suit to the cleaners and got my shoes resoled.
On the day of the interview I made my way from the Bronx to Midtown. I hadn’t bothered to check the weather, and by the time I got off at Columbus Circle, it was pouring.
I bought an umbrella at the station, but the wind had turned it inside out before I reached Seventh Avenue, rendering it useless. I walked the rest of the way uncovered.
When I was a block away from the building I was going to, I felt a draft on my right foot. Looking down, I saw that the newly finished sole had separated and was coming off. With every step, it flapped down and dragged against the pavement.
I decided to remove it completely. The only thing separating my toes from the New York City streets now was a thin layer of fabric.
I finally arrived at my destination drenched, walking with a slight limp. I was a complete mess. The lone bright spot was that my portfolio had kept my résumé from getting wet.
I bombed the interview. Sitting in an air-conditioned office with a damp suit on, I could not focus. Feeling every thread of the carpeting against my toes didn’t help. My cousin never mentioned anything, but I can only imagine the feedback she received.
As I climbed the stairs at the subway station near home, the fabric at the bottom of the shoe finally gave way. I walked the three blocks home with my right foot completely exposed.
— Henry Suarez
Duct Tape
Dear Diary:
Let’s say you accidentally drop the key for your bike lock through the sidewalk grate on a Friday afternoon in front of the Japanese market on Smith Street in Cobble Hill.
What are you going to do?
If you call 311, you will be told to ask the property owner to contact the utility company responsible for the grate to try to retrieve the key.
Or you can skip the red tape and go with duct tape instead. And a tape measure.
Wrap the duct tape sticky side out on the tip of the measure’s blade. Lower strategically. Apply slight pressure upon contact. Raise your prize slowly and carefully, inch by inch, like operating an arcade claw machine.
One final step: With key back in hand, celebrate with a high-spirited sidewalk jig.
— Nick Friedman
‘Here, Kitty’
Dear Diary:
My first apartment in New York City was a ground-floor studio in a prewar building on West End Avenue.
I was studying there one afternoon when I saw an older woman peering through the security bars on my window.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” she said.
Noticing me seated at the table near the window, she became startled.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to say hi to your cat. I speak to him every day when I walk by.”
I told her he was taking a nap but that I could take a message.
“Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said.
— Nassim Behi
