Rush Tickets

Dear Diary:

I was eager to see “The Lehman Trilogy” at the Park Avenue Armory, but I knew the only way to see one of the sold-out performances would be to line up for the rush tickets that went on sale at noon each day.

I arrived at 67th Street and Park Avenue one morning at 7. One person was already there. Person No. 3 arrived at 8:45. The line grew quickly after that.

At around 9 a.m., some armory employees brought out a bench, so at least we could sit. There were rumors that only 20 tickets were available and that each person who was waiting would be limited to two. A box-office employee eventually appeared and said that was not true. She didn’t say what was true.

People kept coming to the front of the line to ask, “What time did you get here?”

“Six o’clock,” my early bird friend would answer.

At one point, a man hurrying up Park Avenue stopped.

“What is this line for?” he asked.

We pointed to the sign that had been put out at 9: “Rush Seats for ‘The Lehman Trilogy.’”

He nodded, apparently took the sign literally and rushed up the steps, only to meander back down.

I don’t know how many people actually got tickets, but the wait was definitely worth all 300 minutes.

— Arlene Mark

Big Black Bag

Dear Diary:

I was taking the subway to my part-time job. There were very few other passengers riding the train.

I noticed a young man get on with a huge black garbage bag stuffed to the breaking point. I didn’t pay him much attention until he started to work furiously at the knot at the top the bag. I wanted to know what was in it.

When he finally spread the bag open at the top, I saw that it was full of Cheerios, which he began to eat.

— Marcy Altimano

Red Light

Dear Diary:

It was a hot, sticky morning last August, and I was sweating.

I thought I could make the light at 35th Street and Seventh Avenue. I eased through the turn just as it changed.

Then, blue lights, the quick burp of a siren. Oh, no. I pulled over and rolled down my window.

“The light was red,” the police officer said.

“Um…,” I replied.

“Where you headed?”

I spoke fast, completely stream of consciousness.

“I’m on my way to Boston,” I said. “But when I packed my tuxedo this morning, I noticed that the pants were missing. I have to stop just down the block and rent a pair, so that at my son’s wedding tomorrow, I won’t be the only person not wearing pants.”

I didn’t admit that I had had plenty of time to discover the problem. My son had been engaged for more than a year.

The officer was quiet, but it definitely looked like he hadn’t heard that one before. He pulled a pamphlet from his pocket and handed it to me, something to do with safe driving.

“Enjoy the wedding,” he said.

— Donovan Moore

Lost Shoes

Dear Diary:

I headed off to my weekly ballroom dancing session. I had my dance shoes in a thin canvas bag on my shoulder.

When I got to the session and took off my coat, there was no bag. When I got home, I searched my apartment, and I even went to the basement to look through the trash and recycling.

One of the building’s custodians saw my distress — they were comfortable shoes! —- and helped with the search. No luck.

I thanked my helper, resigned myself to the loss and went to bed.

The next morning, I headed out again. It was a bright, beautiful day. And there, hanging on a fence, was the bag with my shoes.

— Amabel James

A Little Heartbroken

Dear Diary:

I was visiting New York and had arranged to have drinks with an ex at Columbia. I had broken things off when he moved to New York from California a few years earlier but I was starting to regret it.

A few drinks in, he told me he was seeing someone. We left the bar and walked toward 116th Street holding hands. I started sobbing in the rain outside the subway entrance. He kissed my cheeks sympathetically, and then he went off to work on a group project.

As I sat on the No. 1 train on my way back to my friend’s apartment, I felt my heart break a bit. It really was over.

An older man sitting across from me kindly reassured me, twice, that I would be O.K. He was right. I’m glad he didn’t leave me alone.

— Emily Alpert

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

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