Doing Chin-Ups
Dear Diary:
I was doing my regular chin-ups on a scaffolding at Broadway and West 104th Street one afternoon when I was surrounded by four teenage boys.
“Look at the old man!” one of them said. He took out his phone and appeared to be livestreaming me in action as he and his friends pointed at me and laughed.
I was a little nervous as I finished and dropped back onto the sidewalk, but then the boys burst into applause.
“How old are you?” the one who was livestreaming asked.
“66,” I said.
He offered me his fist to bump.
“I hope I’m doing chin-ups when I’m 66,” he said.
— Dan Armstrong
Valentine’s Day
Dear Diary:
It was getting late when I rushed from the L train onto an uptown A that was inexplicably running local. Frustrated, I took a seat.
At 23rd Street, an older man got on, sat down a few feet to my right and opened a shiny, heart-shaped box of Valentine’s Day chocolates.
He began to pick the sweets out of the box, choosing each one with care and eating it slowly, savoring the candy with obvious delight.
A teenage boy of about 16 — gawky, but with the unflappable cool of so many his age — was sitting across from the man with the candy. He eyed the box shyly, glancing at it and then looking away again.
The older man held out the box.
“Want one?” he said.
The teenager demurred politely.
“No, really,” the man said. “Take one.”
The boy picked out what appeared to be a nougat, and then ate it in careful small bites.
“One more?”
The teenager shook his head, his lips twitching slightly.
At 42nd Street, the old man exited the car, the still-open box of chocolates balanced carefully in one hand.
The teenager looked down at his phone. He was smiling.
I was, too.
— Camille Jetta
2 Grackles
Dear Diary:
Two grackles perch
on a branch,
willing to entertain —
we’re all sitting around,
jumpy, fluttering.
They don’t seem hungry,
an odd peck or two at the bark —
nest built, babies fed,
it’s break-time in grackle country.
A sparrow arrives,
apparently a member of the club —
they do not scatter
like they do
at pigeons.
Can they see me
through the glass?
They turn their heads,
turn again, turn,
their beaks a sudden gold
against black feathers.
Checking,
checking,
they measure the sky.
— Marcia B. Loughran
The Afterparty
Dear Diary:
It was the wrap party for a not-so-successful television show I had just spent 60-plus-hour weeks working on for the better part of a year.
The party was at our sound stage in Queens with about 200 crew members who now had to look for new jobs. The open bar was utilized liberally.
Somewhere between the buffet dinner and the sloppy dance party, two costume assistants I hadn’t interacted with much approached a group of us. I knew their names, but I wasn’t quite sure which one was which.
“You guys should come to our afterparty!” one of them, either Nadia or Nathalie, said.
“Meet me outside Bergdorf Goodman at midnight, “ the other one instructed enigmatically before dissolving into the dance floor crowd.
It sounded less like a party invitation than the kind of code used by criminals to pass messages about clandestine meetings to incarcerated mob bosses.
Honestly, either option sounded pretty thrilling, and it didn’t much matter to me which one I was in for.
After all, I had nowhere I needed to be for the foreseeable future.
— Libby M. Gardner
Christmas Break
Dear Diary:
It was December 1966 when a fraternity brother and I ventured out of the Midwest and into New York. We were on our Christmas break from the University of Missouri and we were very excited.
Money was tight for food and lodging, but we had previously sent away for $9 balcony seats for “Mame” and “Man of La Mancha.”
We wanted to appear as urbane as possible, so, in our college blazers, khakis and bright ties, we were the preppiest arrivals at La Guardia Airport on the morning we got to the city.
We walked up to an outdoor information booth, and asked in confident voices for help getting to our destination.
The woman at the booth barely looked up from her crossword puzzle.
“What can I do for you boys today?” she said in a thick Brooklyn accent.
Still wanting to appear as sophisticated as possible, we asked for directions to 224 East 47th Street.
With a slight twinkle in her eye, she motioned toward the bus stop a few yards down the sidewalk and told us which bus to take.
“Be sure to get off at Lexington, and walk about 10 minutes south, boys” she said in a loud voice. “The Y.M.C.A. is on 47th. You can’t miss it.”
— Terry Capps
Read all recent entries and our submissions guidelines. Reach us via email diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter.
Illustrations by Agnes Lee
"diary" - Google News
May 24, 2020 at 02:18PM
https://ift.tt/2ZAEw39
‘I Was a Little Nervous as I Finished and Dropped Back Onto the Sidewalk’ - The New York Times
"diary" - Google News
https://ift.tt/2VTijey
https://ift.tt/2xwebYA
Bagikan Berita Ini
0 Response to "‘I Was a Little Nervous as I Finished and Dropped Back Onto the Sidewalk’ - The New York Times"
Post a Comment