DEAR DIARY:
Clinching the pole on the No. 4 train on a July night while reading “Angela’s Ashes,” I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Did you know it’s the one-year anniversary of Frank McCourt’s death?”
The accent was clearly Irish. Something — perhaps the brogue — compelled me to ask, “Did you know him?”
“He was a good friend of mine,” the man responded. “I knew him for 12 years. He was a great man who would have done anything for anybody.” He then asked how I came to read the book. I told him both my parents had recommended it.
“Oh, are they Irish?” he asked hopefully. American, I responded, not feeling the need to mention that my mom is Syrian and Catholic, my dad Jewish.
He then told me he was on his way to have a few drinks with friends to mark McCourt’s death. As we approached Grand Central, my stop, I said to him, “Please give my regards to everyone, and sorry for your loss.”
He then told me McCourt’s widow would be joining them. “I’m going to tell her I saw someone reading his book on the train tonight,” he said, “and I’m sure it will mean a lot to her.”
I hope it did.
Sam Rogers
Dear Diary:
We were young and in love, waiting with our arms around each other in the crowded Astor Place subway station. A train pulled in, and as my boyfriend forged ahead, I grabbed onto what I thought was the back of his trench coat and followed.
Still hanging on to the trench coat, I plopped down next to him. I took his arm and rested my head on his shoulder. Looking up, I was astonished to see my actual boyfriend sitting across the aisle, laughing.
I leapt up. “You can stay here if you want to,” said the trench-coated stranger I was cuddling.
Joanne Dolinar
Dear Diary:
I was attending a group-show gallery opening in Chelsea, when I noticed a small Jack Russell terrier in the middle of several people who were talking, drinks in hand.
I began to see the dog was moving about, situating himself in the middle of different groups of people. Occasionally he barked and scampered around, capturing the other gallery patrons’ attention.
At some point it struck me that the dog was in the gallery by himself. I reached down and looked at the tag around its neck. On it was written, “Don’t Mess With Me, I Know My Way Home.” On the other side of the tag was a Yankees logo.
Later that evening, I saw the dog in another gallery, and I felt that perhaps he was going to various openings and was networking.
Stephanie Brody-Lederman
Dear Diary:
Place: Sidewalk, Park Slope, Brooklyn.
Item: Box of used books containing hardcover and paperback copies.
Sign on side of box: “Vintage Kindle.”
Jim Anderson
Dear Diary:
Having moved to New York from the Maine coast last summer, backtracking E. B. White’s course, I occasionally find myself, in weaker moments, overwhelmed by the bustle of the city’s busy sidewalks.
Such was the case on a recent Friday afternoon as I walked down Mercer Street in SoHo on my way to meet a friend for dinner. I’m from the woods. Why did I think I could be a New Yorker? I wondered, as strangers bumped into me and glared.
As I approached two women, apparently tourists, inspecting a map and blocking my path, I slowed, not considering how my contemplative mood might have looked to others. One of the women, noticing me, pulled her friend off to the side and warned her urgently: “Sheila! A New Yorker!”
Maybe I’ll make it here after all.
Andrew Shuttleworth
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