On the old block, another Thursday at the bodega and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.
This Is My Block
Dear Diary:
This is my block, 17th Street between Second and Third. I own it.
I’m not a real estate tycoon. I was born here. While the doctor and the cabdriver argued about whose car to take, out I came, on a snowy sidewalk, under the shadow of the Third Avenue El.
Back then, New York was a series of small towns strung together. On our block, my friends and I knew every neighbor, and they knew us.
We played in the street all day until dark. I recognize every crack in the sidewalk, every stoop where we gossiped, every pole we climbed and every fire hydrant we jumped over. (It does seem as if the fire hydrants have shrunk over the years.)
Now, when I come back to this block, something happens.
I suppose on the outside, I look like an older woman. On the inside, while I’m here, it’s magic. I become that young kid again. The aches and pains disappear. I can run and I can skip. When I walk home, the feeling stays with me the whole way. It happens every time.
Yessiree, I own this block.
Or perhaps it owns me.
— Talara Ruth
‘What’s Going On?’
Dear Diary:
It was a mundane Thursday that was melting into all the other look-alike workdays.
I went to the bodega to get my morning coffee as usual.
“What’s going on?” I asked the guy there.
“Nothing,” he said. “But what’s yet to come is incredible.”
— Julia Lansford
Storage Solution
Dear Diary:
I was in New York for a whirlwind visit. I saw an old friend and then stayed overnight with my brother. My plan for the next day was to take in a photography exhibit at the Met and then catch a 3 p.m. train back to Boston.
Arriving at the museum, I was intercepted on the steps by a security guard. He told me that I could come in, but my overnight bag could not.
I was determined not to miss this particular exhibit. Seeking inspiration for a solution to my predicament, I walked around the block a few times and had a second breakfast at a deli.
Then it came to me: I decided to ask a doorman at an apartment building in the neighborhood if he would watch my suitcase for a few hours while I was at the museum.
Taking a chance, I selected a small building where the doorman looked reasonably friendly and I explained my plight to him.
He said he had no place to store bags, but then he paused and took a long look at me while continuing to consider my request.
I must have passed muster, because he said he would hold my suitcase in his car, which was parked just across the street.
In a leap of faith, I handed him the suitcase, and a tip, and off I went.
A few hours later, I returned to the building to find that “my” doorman was nowhere to be seen.
Not to worry. The man who was now on duty had his co-worker’s keys and he retrieved my bag from the car.
— Phil Nachman
Here Comes Help
Dear Diary:
My daughter had recently graduated from college and was about to start her first job in Manhattan. She and three friends had rented an apartment on the Upper East Side and were moving in on a steamy September afternoon.
After buying an inexpensive dresser at the City Opera Thrift Shop, we arrived back on East 81st Street only to realize there was no way we were going to be able to carry the rather large, and heavy, piece of furniture up to the third floor.
We had the dresser halfway in and halfway out of the back of the car when a young man rode by on a bike.
“Looks like you could use some help.” he said, stopping and locking his bike to a post without waiting for a reply.
He lifted the end of the dresser that was sticking out of the car and began to push. Then he saw the expression on my face.
“It’s going in the car, right?” he said.
— Lauren Kaduc
Quick Stop
Dear Diary:
Nate and I had just finished a business meeting in New Rochelle and we had a couple of hours to kill before catching our flight home. We decided to take the rental car for a spin around Manhattan.
At one point during our drive, Nate decided he wanted a soda. He parked in front of a small grocery and ran inside.
When he got to the register, he found himself behind an older woman with a basket full of groceries. Indicating that he had just the one item, he asked whether it would be all right if he jumped ahead of her.
She looked him up and down, considering the idea for a second.
“No,” she said.
— Douglas Gibboney
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
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