Swinging to the Music

Dear Diary:

We were apart for seven months. He was in Alabama, at Fort Rucker, and I was at Columbia. We spent three days together while he was on leave.

The day before he left, we were on the No. 1. In the twitching subway light, a band swung into our car and seasoned the tight air: One musician kneaded a metallic accordion, and another sang.

He smiled — there is a slight gap between his front teeth — and we danced. In the music, the moment felt infinite. I didn’t think about saying goodbye, about the distance from Alabama to New York. I just thought about him, on the No. 1, with me, swinging to the music.

The next day he boarded his train at Penn Station. I walked to Times Square, crying and cold, and I caught the No. 1. After two stops, a band swung into the car: It was the one from the day before. I couldn’t help but smile and swing my hips to the music.

— Emma O’Leary

Discouraging Day

Dear Diary:

I was walking down York Avenue after a discouraging second day at my first job. Feeling overwhelmed, I was holding back tears as I trudged home through the rain.

A few blocks from my apartment, I slowed to a stop in front of a fruit cart. I pretended to scan the contents as I replayed the previous eight hours in my head.

The vendor tried to tempt me with cherries and tangerines, but I was lost in my own thoughts.

I heard a voice whispering from behind me: “Get the grapes.”

I turned to face a woman with gentle features and streaks of gray hair, her body wrapped tightly in a fur coat.

“They’re sweet and delicious,” she said. “And you can put them in your pocket and eat them on your way home.”

So I did. And they were.

— Michael Harmon

Churro Man

Dear Diary:

There is an older man who stands at the corner of Stockholm Street and Knickerbocker Avenue in Brooklyn selling churros every day.

“Two for a dollar,” he says to those who pass by. He keeps the churros in an empty cooler.

It’s the dead of winter, and the winds from the polar vortex are causing branches to tap at my window.

Looking out, I see frozen puddles, and litter lining the curb. An empty chip bag would shatter like glass if it was picked up and dropped.

I take a sip of coffee.

“Oh my God,” I think, “the churro man.”

— Cameron Gleason

Important Announcement

Dear Diary:

I was supposed to meet a friend to pick up a dress she was altering for me. We were going to rendezvous in the middle of the No. 1 subway at West 79th Street. She was coming downtown from Washington Heights on her way to work.

When the train pulled into the station, I looked up and down the platform to find her, but I didn’t see her.

The train operator poked his head out the window. His smile was as bright as the sun.

“Who are you looking for?” he said.

“Jackie,” I said.

He got on the public address system.

“Will Jackie please step out of the door of your car so your friend can find you?” he said.

Jackie stepped out. I saw her, and we hopped back on the train together.

The train operator made another announcement: “Jackie and her friend found each other. That’s good.”

People on the train were laughing and smiling. Jackie gave me the dress and I got off at the next station.

I ran up to the train operator to thank him.

“You see that musician over there?” he said, pointing to a guy on the platform playing a keyboard. He handed me a $5 bill. “Give him this.”

The train began to leave the station.

“How’re you doing my man?” the train operator yelled as he pulled away.

— Claudia Goddard

Hitchin’ a Ride

Dear Diary:

It was raining as I zoomed down the street on my longboard. The station was 11 blocks away, and the train I wanted to catch would be leaving in five minutes. I didn’t like my odds.

Just as my leg began to tire out from pushing, a small sedan turned the corner behind me and began to trail me. I swerved to the side of the street to make space for the car to drive by.

After speeding up, the car slowed down once it came even with me. The window rolled down, and a young guy wearing a Yankees cap poked out his head.

“Where you off to?” he asked as we cruised along parallel to each other.

“L.I.R.R.,” I said between breaths. “Queens Village Station.”

He grinned.

“Grab on.”

I smiled, grabbed onto the window and felt my wheels scream as he picked up speed.

— Zakariah Rizvi

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

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