Thinking of Our Bench

Dear Diary:

I was thinking of our bench in Central Park today,
The one across from the dirt-patch field that seemed to catch each gust of wind.
The one where we said that very sorry goodbye
That floated in the air,
Joining the other goodbyes
On that very bench
In that very park
In this very city.

— Diana Sanchez

The Exterminator

Dear Diary:

I was coming out of the subway elevator with my son in his stroller, when I saw a rat on the platform barely two feet away.

A rat is one of the few things that can truly unnerve me. So there I stood, clinging to the stroller and weighing my options.

A man standing nearby was watching in amusement. He chuckled, smoothed his black mustache, approached the rat calmly and watched it for several seconds.

Then, with a small, graceful jeté of his left black boot, he sent the rat sailing off the platform, through the air and onto the tracks, where it landed safely.

The man looked down, smiled and shrugged. Then he turned toward me, took a small bow, turned again and walked away.

I hurried to squeeze onto the uptown express.

— Melissa Gluck

Parking Shuffle

Dear Diary:

Most Tuesdays, I pull into a spot on Riverside Drive at the corner of 116th Street just before noon. I sit there for a half-hour reading until alternate-side is finished, securing a space that lets me see my car from the vestibule of my apartment when I get upstairs.

On a recent Tuesday, I wasn’t able to pull onto the block until 12:15. There were no empty spaces left when I got there. I drove laps around the neighborhood until I found a spot 10 blocks away.

Later in the day, I was looking out the window and I saw an empty spot. By the time I got my sneakers on, it was gone. Taking a chance, I walked the 10 blocks to my car anyway. After doing more laps, I eventually found a spot on Riverside two blocks from my window.

Crossing the street toward home, a spot ahead of me opened up. It was not only in view of my apartment but would also allow me not to move my car for an extra day.

A couple in a car nearby saw me turn back. They rolled down their window.

“You want that spot?” they said, pointing toward the space I had my sights on.

“Yes,” I said. “Do you?”

They shook their heads.

“Hurry, hurry,” they said before driving away.

I pulled out quickly, but when I got to the space, another car had already pulled in. Despondent, I started to pull away.

The driver of the car that had pulled into the spot rolled down the window and waved. It was the same couple.

“Hurry,” they said before driving away.

— Georgette Culucundis Mallory

Red High Heels

Dear Diary:

A lithe young man in tight jeans got on the A train. He was carrying a boom box and a bag.

He pulled out a pair of sparkling red high heels, put them on and proceeded to fly around the car, twirling on the vertical poles and hanging from the horizontal ones.

He pulled a woman much younger than me into a sensuous dance. As I moved to the beat, I wondered whether she had been waiting there to accompany him.

After she sat down, he turned toward me and held out his hand. We danced together for a few minutes in a kind of semi-ballroom style.

“Take a bow,” he whispered, bending me backward as though I were Ginger Rogers.

I sat back down. What a ride.

— Mary F. Blehl

Family Business

Dear Diary:

I went to see “The Band’s Visit” at the Ethel Barrymore Theater with my cousin, Carolyn.

We were ordering a cocktail before the show started when we noticed a man standing in front of a large framed portrait of Ethel Barrymore. He was posing so as to mirror her profile, and another man was taking his picture.

As Carolyn and I went to our seats, I noticed the two men sitting in the row behind ours. Making my way down the row, I smiled and leaned toward them.

“I saw your profile pose back there in the lobby,” I said to the man who had had his picture taken. “There’s an uncanny resemblance.”

He looked up at me.

“Ethel Barrymore was my great-grandmother,” he whispered.

I took my seat.

“That guy in the lobby having his picture taken?” I said to my cousin. “Ethel Barrymore was his great-grandmother!”

She looked over her shoulder, and then leaned toward me.

“And these are the best seats he could get?” she said.

— Barbara Travers

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

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