Grilling
Dear Diary:
I had a business on 23rd Street across from Madison Square Park in the 1980s. Once a week, I would order a delicious shish kebab from a street vendor on Park Avenue and 22nd Street. We never spoke, but I knew he knew me.
One day, when it was my turn to order, the vendor handed me his fork and asked me to take over because he had run out of tomatoes.
I took the fork, turned to the other customers and started taking and cooking their orders.
One of my clients happened to walk by. We nodded at each other, and he kept walking without stopping to ask what I was doing.
— Janet Scagnelli
The Vet’s Office
Dear Diary:
My usual morning routine when I leave my building is to turn right at the vet’s office on the corner, and then head up the block to the High Street subway station to catch the A or the C.
One morning a while ago as I made my way to the train, I saw a man and woman walking toward me. The man was slightly ahead of the woman and he was grimacing.
I could tell from the woman’s face that she had been crying. As we crossed paths, she caught up to him and wrapped her arm through his.
That’s when I noticed that he was carrying an empty pet carrier.
— Ryan Boyd
An Egregious Epiphany on Cropsey Ave.
Dear Diary:
Lapis Lazooli, a poet and truly,
A man with some dubious talents.
Said to me, last July with a glint in his eye:
“What I’ll tell you will throw you off balance.”
I admit I was leery, ennui-ed, somewhat weary;
Just what was he cooking this time?
“I’ve unlocked the enigma, destigma-ed the stigma;
And for orange I found a real rhyme.”
Now, it’s really no news that New Yorkers schmooze,
We’re verbal and vocal, loquacious.
But in Coney Islond, we will not be conned,
“Gimme a break, that’s fallacious.”
He tugged at his beard — it was worse than I feared —
And he whispered, his voice was a hiss:
“Neither Ogden, nor Parker, nor Stephen Sondheim,
Dared to attempt such a perilous rhyme.
Forget about Seuss ’cause he knew he’d be lost;
Not Wordsworth, not Shelley, not Shakespeare, not Frost;
Not Yeats, not a one in this august mélange,
Would ever endeavor a rhyme for or-anj.
But I — ”
He then cleared his throat trying hard not to gloat,
(I was doing my best not to cringe.)
“The word that’s a rhyme, that’s mundane yet sublime:
Orange — its mate is doorhinge!”
Doorhinge?! Doorhinge?!
Now, I am no yokel, I’m Brooklyn, I’m local,
Won’t ever be tricked, teased nor taken.
“Well, I’ll tell ya, Lapis, that’s nothing but crappis,
You’re messhugah, you’re mad, you’re mistaken!”
“No!
You’ve no ear for whimsy, your knowledge is flimsy,
Van Gogh never could sell his art.
Galileo was hounded, Prometheus grounded.
Here’s the moment, my friend, that we part.”
Lapis Lazooli, a poet and truly,
(Well, actually sort of a hack.)
Said, “Silver is next, I’m not vanquished nor vexed,
And orange you glad I’ll be back.”
— Lou Craft
Dance Floor
Dear Diary:
At 7 p.m. on a Sunday some time ago, I found myself on an open dance floor in Gowanus surrounded by 50- and 60-year-olds. They were all excellent dancers, adults who had been club kids in the golden eras of disco and house music.
I was feeling emotionally gutted from a difficult conversation with a man I was dating. The sadness manifested as a physical heaviness, and I knew I needed dance to shed the weight. In good times and bad, I love Sunday dance parties that span the afternoon and early evening. To dance with abandon, connect with others and make it to bed by 10 is a luxury.
On this Sunday I was lucky to meet Thomas, whose movements had a grace, energy and coolness I did not expect in someone 30 years my senior. He said people called him Quickfoot, and I could see why.
Thomas, in gold chains, do-rag, and fanny pack, stuck with me on the dance floor, and I felt honored when he expressed admiration for how I moved through the space.
“Keep that energy flowing, use it well and you will stay young at heart,” he said as he was leaving.
Toward the end of the night, a man took off his shirt and lay down in the middle of the floor. He passed incense he had found at the DJ booth around his head, across his body and over each limb.
As he excised whatever inner turmoil plagued him, I danced with others in the space around him. We were strangers, yet entwined in the same task: to find joy, shed pain and be cleansed for the week ahead.
— Andrea Silverman
Simple Question
Dear Diary:
I was in New York for a business trip in the early 1970s. I was crossing the street and saw a man coming toward me. I could see that he was wearing a watch.
“Could you please tell me what time it is?” I said.
“No,” he said without hesitating, and then kept on walking.
— Mary Giddens
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