Helping Hand
Dear Diary:
I was on a downtown 4 train. It was the middle of a hot afternoon, and the car was not too crowded. An older woman was dealing with a young boy who was having a tantrum. She looked like she could be his grandmother.
The boy was screaming and would not keep still. He kept trying to get off the woman’s lap to lie on the floor, and she was struggling to hold onto him while staying in her seat.
His intense crying was making his nose run all over his face. She pulled a packet of tissues from her bag and tried to take one out, but the boy’s flailing would not let her.
Watching this unfold was a construction worker who appeared to be on his way home, a hard hat and backpack by his feet as he stood next to the woman and boy near the train’s door.
He began to gesticulate in her direction. Without getting a response, he took the tissue packet from woman’s hands, pulled out a few tissues, passed them to her and returned the packet to her bag.
The woman wiped the boy’s nose and held him even tighter. The train stopped, the door opened and the construction worker stepped out.
— Daniella Ben-Arie
Moms’ Night Out
Dear Diary:
I was on a moms’ night out during the daytime because it was the only time our group could get away.
After sitting in a Ridgewood bar exchanging stories about our children, talking about New York City schools and comparing our work schedules, we decided to treat ourselves to ice cream.
After getting some, we were standing on the sidewalk enjoying our pastel-colored treats when my scoop fell on the sidewalk.
My friends urged me to ask for a replacement, but I was embarrassed and just stood there blushing and giggling.
Other people joined the chorus, saying it was a rule at ice cream windows that you get a replacement if your scoop falls. Someone’s dog was eyeing mine as it melted on the pavement.
Finally, a man in a paper hat approached us and asked who had dropped the matcha scoop that was now trickling into a crack in the sidewalk.
It only took about five seconds for him to bring me a new cone. This one had sprinkles.
— Kerry Martin
Dancing in the Street
Dear Diary:
I met Luce on the way to my first swing-dance class just off Herald Square. The crowds, the grime, the traffic — it all melts away with the evening breeze and soft sunlight.
Luce was in the audience at a pop-up jazz performance nearby. There was something in the air that made me crave a dance. So I leaned over to Luce, caught her eye and ask for a dance. She smiled, took my hand and let me give her one slow spin as the band played its final notes.
I learned that like me, she had grown up in the city. And like me, she had spent her youth dancing across the New York streets.
I thanked her for the dance and went on my way, thinking that one day in the future a lovely stranger might ask me to dance, too.
— Madeleine Virginia Gannon
Timing the Lights
Dear Diary:
Out late one night with friends, I decided to skip the subway and take a cab home to my tiny studio apartment on 94th Street just off Central Park West.
As the cabby drove up 10th Avenue, it became clear that he was intent on making every green light as we drove north.
The game continued when we got to Amsterdam Avenue. I enjoyed watching him manage the flow of traffic, hunched over the wheel as he focused on the task.
But when we got to 94th Street, he kept going, oblivious to the turn he had missed. I let him go a few more blocks before speaking up.
“Hey,” I said, “I’m really enjoying your successful game making all the lights, but you’ve passed my street.”
We both laughed, and then he turned off the meter and drove me home.
— Richard Chused
Sliced Ham
Dear Diary:
I was new to New York City. I went to a deli to buy some ham. I wanted just enough for a sandwich, so I asked the counterman for a third of a pound.
“You can’t get a third of a pound,” he snapped. “The minimum order is a quarter of a pound.”
I froze.
Fortunately, a woman who was in line behind me intervened.
“He wants a quarter of a pound and a little bit more,” she said.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the deli man growled.
— Neil Mellen
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