Up Early

Dear Diary:

I get up early because I have a long commute to work from my Brooklyn neighborhood. On one pre-dawn October morning, I arrived at my car just as a sanitation truck pulled up alongside it.

I opened the door, got in and slumped down in the seat, resigned to the fact that I was going to be stuck behind the truck while it finished its collections along the rest of the block.

As I sat there, the truck’s driver looked down from his cab and, without words or gestures, put the vehicle in reverse and allowed me to slip out of my spot ahead of him.

Off I went.

— Jonathan Struthers

Frigid Morning

Dear Diary:

It was a particularly frigid morning, with temperatures in the teens and a wind chill that made it feel even colder.

I was in the process of getting a Citi Bike out of a dock at East 39th Street and Lexington Avenue when I heard a woman who was passing by mumble something. It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me.

“Excuse me, sir,” she repeated.

I looked up from the bike to meet the eyes of a short, older woman in a puffy black coat. Her oversize, fur-lined hood was sitting limply against her shoulders.

“Would you mind lifting my hood up over my head?” she asked. “I can’t reach it when I’m all bundled like this.”

I set the bike down.

“Of course!” I said.

I lifted the hood gently over her head until she was fully cocooned.

“Thank you,” she said as she shuffled away.

“Stay warm,” I said as I pulled away from the bike dock.

“I’m trying!” she replied from beneath her layers.

— Yossi Hoffman

Punching Bag

Dear Diary:

“Hey kid, could you show me how to do that?”

Pausing to catch my breath, I leaned against the heavy punching bag at the West Side Y.M.C.A.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

Standing in the doorway was a man with white hair who appeared to be in his 50s.

“Can you teach me to punch the bag?”

I hesitated before answering.

“C’mon, kid,” he said. “I’ll throw you a few bones.”

The apparently quizzical look on my face prompted an explanation.

“I’ll give you a few bucks.”

I agreed, but I told him that just because I could do it didn’t mean I could teach it. I then proceeded to show him a few rudimentary boxing skills.

He told me he knew some guys who had opened a gym on the Upper West Side. They were looking for a boxing fitness instructor.

“You’d be great,” he said.

“Do they pay in bones or cash?” I asked.

I had no intention of following through. After all, I was busy being an unemployed actor.

But a few weeks later, while walking up Amsterdam Avenue, I noticed a sign on a building at the corner of West 76th Street: Equinox. It was the gym this fellow had been telling me about.

Out of curiosity and with no expectations, I walked in and was hired. I went on to a successful, 25-year career in the fitness industry.

I never did go back to the West Side Y.M.C.A. to thank that fellow.

I wish I had.

— Paul Frediani

Great Sound

Dear Diary:

I was running late to get from my apartment on West 12th Street to meet with my poetry editor on East 12th Street and Avenue A, so I grabbed a cab.

The driver had his radio tuned to WQXR. I told him I loved classical music and asked whether he played an instrument.

He pulled over to the curb, turned off the radio and sang a beautiful aria for me right there in the cab.

The acoustics were wonderful.

He casually mentioned that he sang with the Metropolitan Opera, and then we continued on to my East Village destination.

— Florence Kindel

Sandwich Search

Dear Diary:

When I was a senior in high school, I worked at a kosher cheese store on the Lower East Side. There were many kosher restaurants in the neighborhood in those days.

Fifty years later, on a business trip to the city, I set out to see if I could find any of them.

I got hungrier as my search continued, but I couldn’t find any of the old places or anything else that appealed to me.

Finally, I stumbled on a pickle store. Hoping it also sold sandwiches, I scanned the huge blackboard that listed all of the offerings.

“Can I help you?” a man who was helping another customer called from the back of the shop.

“I actually was hoping for a pastrami sandwich,” I said.

“Do you want it on rye?” the man asked.

“That would be great,” I answered excitedly.

He pointed toward the sign and shook his head.

“This is a pickle store,” he said.

— David Siegel

Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email [email protected] or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.

Illustrations by Agnes Lee

Submit Your Metropolitan Diary

Your story must be connected to New York City and no longer than 300 words. An editor will contact you if your submission is being considered for publication.

Source: Read Full Article