Give Him a Hand
Dear Diary:
I got into a cab on a rainy night to go see my child’s nanny in a play on the Lower East Side. I had an umbrella, my bag and a tote with me.
When I got to the theater, I got out of the cab quickly and forgot my tote. Oh, well.
Just before the play started, the driver appeared, walked to the front of the theater and asked whether anyone in the audience had left a tote in his cab.
It’s mine, I shouted.
As I got up to retrieve it, he received a standing ovation.
— Natalie Epstein
Banana Split
Dear Diary:
It was the 1960s, and my piggy bank was filled with nickels, dimes and quarters from my allowance and doing extra chores: hanging clothes on the clothesline outside the window of our second-floor apartment, scrubbing floors, vacuuming and demolishing spider webs.
The multicolored string of balloons over the lunch counter at F.W. Woolworth had caught my eye many times.
My best friend met me there one day, and we participated in a child’s version of gambling: The cost of a three-scoop banana split — one cent or one dollar — was determined by a small piece of white paper inside a balloon.
An aproned, white-uniformed waitress appeared at the counter to record our balloon selections. I changed my mind silently many times before making my choice. Finally, I picked the red balloon; my friend immediately picked the blue.
With great ceremony, the waitress produced a pin from her pocket and popped both balloons with a swift, deft poke.
The paper inside the red balloon indicated a price of $1; the one inside the blue balloon said 1 cent.
Tears welled in my eyes as I chastised myself not to be a sore loser. My friend patted me gently.
“Don’t worry,” she said as we handed the waitress our money. “We are in this together.”
We pooled our remaining money and spent it on the photo booth, wrapping our arms around one another for a photo that remained on my mirrored dresser for many years.
The banana split paled in comparison.
— Judith Gropp
Real Life in Manhattan
Dear Diary:
The woman on 111th Street
Shouted into her cellphone
“That’s not the way
Real life works!” Her tone
Was not philosophical,
But I knew on the spot
That she knew something
About life that I did not.
— Louis Phillips
What a Romantic Thing
Dear Diary:
One lovely day after work last June, I met the guy I had been seeing in Central Park. What a romantic thing, to meet the guy you’ve been seeing in Central Park after work.
We walked and talked. He explained why he had missed my birthday party the weekend before. I had been hurt that night, but as I looked at this handsome man next to me, the one who made me laugh and often made me milkshakes, my hurt turned to confusion.
I took the opportunity to ask some hard-hitting questions about us. The answers fell flat.
We stumbled across the symphony. What a romantic thing, to stumble across the symphony in Central Park with the guy you’ve been seeing.
We plopped down and scanned the crowd, which was mostly older couples. Hands were being held. Lipstick kisses were being planted on cheeks. Heads were resting on familiar shoulders.
I looked at the handsome man next to me — at his hands and cheeks and shoulders — and my confusion turned to understanding.
What a romantic thing, to have your heart slightly broken by the guy you’ve been seeing, after stumbling across the symphony in Central Park after work.
— Lillie Chamberlin
Fresh Loaves of Rye
Dear Diary:
My sister was getting married in a small town in Maine. Both she and the groom were transplants from Brooklyn.
My sister asked that I bring two large, fresh loaves of rye bread as a special treat for the wedding. The day before, I stopped at Lords Bakery at Nostrand and Flatbush Avenues after finishing my classes at Brooklyn College.
I told the woman at the counter that I was buying the bread to bring to my sister’s wedding in Maine the next day.
I asked whether I should get the loaves sliced. The woman said the bread might stay fresher on the long trip if it was unsliced.
It turned out that the groom had asked his brother to bring up two large, fresh loaves of rye. The brother also went to Lords and asked the same woman for two large rye breads, explaining that he would be bringing them to a wedding in Maine the next day.
“Are you pulling my leg?” the woman said. “A lady was in here earlier asking for two rye breads for her sister’s wedding in Maine tomorrow. Am I on ‘Candid Camera?’”
The groom’s brother displayed complete ignorance.
“She got hers unsliced,” the woman said, referring to me. “Maybe you should get yours sliced?”
— Susan Spector
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
