Incoming

Dear Diary:

I took the subway home to the Upper East Side after having dinner with some friends. I got off at 86th Street.

There is a bank on one of the corners there that is immediately visible when you come up out of the station. As I got to the top step, I noticed a young woman outside the bank who was clearly struggling to use her card to unlock the doors to the A.T.M.s.

An older woman with a cane was coming out of the bank. She opened the door from the inside, and then held it so that the younger woman could come in.

Rather than thanking the older woman, the younger woman began to berate her for letting someone who might not be a customer into the bank.

The older woman smiled.

“You’re not from New York, are you?” she said.

— Wendy Katkin

Ode to Spanish Harlem

Dear Diary:

Your landscape has changed
Glass and steel dominate
You even got a new name
But you’ll always be El Barrio to me
Filled with childhood memories
Of days spent under the blazing sun
Bodega quarter waters to quench our thirst
Spraying down cars with open fire pumps
And summer nights spent on the block
Late-night dips in the pool at Jefferson Park
Catching flicks at the Cosmo
Hot fritters from the cuchifrito spot
Children of the ghetto, stoop life
Lifelong lessons learned on your concrete streets
But home is what you’ll always be to me.

— Nori Perez

At Radio City

Dear Diary:

It was 1950. I was 18. So was Rita. We had met in high school. I was attending art school at night at Cooper Union. During the day I was working as an assistant for Maxwell Starr at his private art school on Central Park West in the West 80s.

One of his students, Theresa, worked at the ticket window at Radio City Music Hall. Whenever Rita and I wanted to see a show, Theresa let us in free.

Rita and I planned to get married, and I decided to propose to her at that majestic place. We went to a show and, afterward, we went downstairs to the lounge and found a quiet corner.

I retrieved a ring from my pocket. It was a modest ring. It had belonged to my grandmother, whose family immigrated to America from Poland in the early 1900s. My mother had given it to me for this purpose.

I presented the ring to Rita and asked her to marry me. She was thrilled, especially in that glorious setting. Later, we returned to our families’ apartments, a 15-minute walk apart in Borough Park, Brooklyn.

Rita went to her mother’s bedroom and found her asleep. She woke her up and excitedly announced the proposal, showing her the ring.

“For that you woke me up?” her mother said.

— Irving Bender

Mad Man

Dear Diary:

It was 1986. I was fresh out of college and newly arrived in Manhattan to pursue my dream of becoming an advertising copywriter on Madison Avenue.

I got an entry-level position at Launey, Hachmann & Harris. The job initially involved mostly answering phones and greeting clients getting off the elevator. It didn’t matter. I was thrilled to be starting my career in New York City.

New York was a little rough around the edges then, but the cost of living was still relatively high. I was three months and six paychecks into the job when I realized there was no way I could make ends meet after rent (only $350!) in a shared Upper East Side apartment, student loan payments, food and other necessities.

I’ll never forget summoning the courage to walk into Bob Launey’s office to explain my situation.

He chuckled.

“I wondered how long it was going to take you to figure out you couldn’t live in New York City on that,” he said. “What do you say to another $300 a month?”

— Sean O’Connor

Construction Zone

Dear Diary:

I had lived my whole life in New York until I moved to Madison, Wis., for a job 13 years ago. Several years ago, I began to return twice a year for meetings.

In June, before the latest round of meetings, I visited a friend in New Jersey. We drove into New York to do some tourist things.

We circled the West Side endlessly trying to find a parking spot. Finally, we thought we saw one on a block where there was construction going on.

The parking-regulation signs were obscured by scaffolding, so I jumped out of the car to get a better look.

No parking during construction.

O.K., but it was Sunday, and no work was happening. Plus, cars were parked along the entire block. It seemed fine.

I saw a parking enforcement officer down the street. I caught up to him, and, to my surprise, he followed me back to check whether our spot was O.K.

He looked at the sign, shook his head and proceeded to ticket every car on the block.

— Livia Asher

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

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