Date at the Rainbow Room

Dear Diary:

In 1958 the woman who would become my wife and I both lived at Trinity House, a coed residence for college graduates on Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn Heights.

She worked in Midtown, and I worked on Broadway near Bowling Green in Lower Manhattan. We decided to meet for a drink near her office one Friday night after work. But where? We chose the Rainbow Room and arranged to meet outside under the marquee at 30 Rockefeller Plaza.

There are, of course, two nearly identical entrances to 30 Rockefeller Plaza, one on 49th Street and one on 50th. I did not know that at the time, and neither did she.

Predictably, each of us picked a different entrance, and a half-hour later each of us had pretty much given up on the idea of any more dates with “that one.”

But we both decided to check the elevator bank inside to see if we had the rendezvous wrong.

As luck, or fate, would have it, we checked at the same time, and then took the elevator up to enjoy 75 cent martinis and the best view in Manhattan.

— James Waples

Which Way Manhattan?

Dear Diary:

Getting off the E train at 53rd Street and Lexington Avenue one morning, I encountered a woman just stepping onto the platform from the stairs.

“Does this train go to Manhattan?” she asked me.

“You’re already there,” I replied.

— Gerard Farrell

They All Offered

Dear Diary:

On June 13, 2018, eight months pregnant with my first child, I rode the subway four times.

On my way to work at 9:45 a.m., a man on an uptown R closed the mystery novel he was reading and stood up.

“Please take my seat,” he said.

A woman with damp hair made eye contact with me.

“Seat?” she mouthed.

A man with enormous headphones and enormous sweatpants widened his eyes as if to say, “I see you” and began to stand.

I thanked each of them, but declined their offers. I was only going three stops.

There was more of the same on my way to and from a doctor’s appointment later that afternoon: eye contact and gestures from a teenage girl in a school uniform, two men in suits, an older man with a robust mustache and a woman with extravagant nails playing a casino game on her phone.

I declined each offer again. It was just two stops each way.

At 6:45 p.m., I waited on a crowded platform at the 49th Street station, ignoring the humidity and the smells of the subway.

A downtown W arrived and the doors opened. As I shuffled onto the train, I felt a hand on my elbow. A woman in a skirt suit with bags on her lap and earbuds in smiled at me and stood up.

I nodded in appreciation. I was ready to sit.

— Alexis Anzelone Allen

In a Dark Theater

Dear Diary:

I took a personal day and went to the Upper West Side from my home in Brooklyn to see a movie.

I was looking forward to sitting in an empty theater where I could slurp a Diet Coke and nosh loudly on buttery popcorn. Unfortunately, the theater was packed with what felt like every retiree who lived near 68th Street and Columbus Avenue.

I chose a fairly empty row toward the back and settled into a seat.

Midway through the movie, a shadowed figure sat down next to me. Odd, I thought, but perhaps he or she was one of those people who think movies are worth seeing even 45 minutes in.

Two minutes later, the person reached over gently and started to touch my leg.

“Ahh!” I yelped.

“Ahh!” yelped the mystery person. He was an older man, maybe 80 or so, wearing large glasses.

“You’re not Bertha,” he said, jolting upright.

“Sit down,” a voice behind us yelled. “I’m watching here!”

It was Bertha. The older man made his way back to the seat next to her, and I returned to my snacks.

— Ani Schroeter

Good-ish Samaritan

Dear Diary:

It was a typical summer morning in Brighton Beach. I was crossing Ocean Parkway. There was an island in the middle.

I had crossed the street there without incident maybe 1,000 times since moving to the area seven years ago. This time, I swear, the curb rose up to trip me. I went flying, skinning my knee pretty badly when I hit the ground.

There were people around, but only one asked whether I was O.K. I assured her I was fine and asked her to hold my coffee while I tied my shoe.

After I had dusted myself off, the woman asked me again if I was O.K. I said I was, I thanked her and we parted ways.

She was still holding my coffee when she walked off.

— Tracey Braverman

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

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