Fetch coffee
Dear Diary:
It was 2015, and I was an intern at a literary agency with offices near Union Square. My duties included reading manuscripts and giving my boss his morning coffee.
His request was unpredictable. One day it was a cappuccino with soy milk, the next day it was a latte with almond milk. A full week with an almond cappuccino, followed by a few days with a soy latte. In a short amount of time, two soy cappuccinos pour into a large mug, then back to the almond latte.
I became a regular at a nearby cafe, where the bartenders quickly got to know my face but, of course, never managed to master my order.
“Today’s Almond Capp?” a server would expect to ask a few days after I placed my order exactly the same.
No, I will answer apologetically. Soy latte.
One morning, when I was checking out, the manager looked at me.
“Okay, I have to ask,” he said. “How do you decide what you want every day?”
“Oh, this is for my boss,” I said. “I don’t know how he makes the decision.”
I laughed, but the manager looked worried.
“You have to get him coffee?” he asks. “Does he let you take anything for himself?”
I pause. I never thought of asking.
Back in the office, I handed my boss a drink and walked across the lobby to my desk. As I began my day’s reading, I carefully sipped the large cup of tea the manager had made for me, for free.
– Drew Zagami
Moreover
Dear Diary:
When I was pregnant with my first child, I took the subway to Midtown every day from my home in Brooklyn. I think I was offered a seat about half the time.
One day, I boarded the train after work and there was no seat left. I was ready to stand the rest of the way home.
The conductor accidentally poked his head out of the car. Seeing me, she stepped outside and announced in a loud, clear voice to the whole car that the train wouldn’t move until someone invited her to sit.
Immediately, there was a commotion and people standing so I could get comfortable for the ride home to Brooklyn.
Thank you for that conductor.
– Samantha Fong
Bus Q60
Dear Diary:
An elderly woman boarded the Q60 bus at one of the stops along Queens Avenue. She was dragging a plum suitcase and a striped tote bag on her back.
“I’m going to Florida,” she announced to no one in particular as she walked down the aisle. “Alone! I don’t care. I hate the cold here. I’ll deal with the humidity.”
I thought it was a bit odd that she talked in mid-July about how cold New York can be. In any case, I think she found a seat.
“Florida – that’s where I’m going,” I heard her say emphatically from the back of the bus.
I was sitting in one of the single chairs near the window. Two other elderly women were standing near me, telling the fact that a friend’s dog had been put down. They pursed their lips and shook their heads shyly.
Another elderly woman sitting near the driver raised her right arm overhead and waved. I couldn’t tell if she was saying hello or goodbye or if she needed help.
– Robin Eisgrau
Wrong address
Dear Diary:
It was one of those June evenings when it was still light at almost 9pm
Back at my West Village apartment complex, I unlocked the front door and nearly bumped into a neighbor standing in the doorway with a package in hand.
We exchanged hellos, and he told me the package was delivered to our building by mistake. He brought it out, and I saw that the address was close to ours but with a few different numbers.
“I’ll go over there, ring the bell and let it go,” my neighbor said.
“Why not catch the delivery man next time they arrive and return them?” I ask.
My neighbor hesitated.
“Or do it tomorrow,” I suggested. “It’s late.”
He hesitated again.
“The outside is beautiful,” he said. “I can walk a bit, and whoever this has to come can really appreciate.”
This time, I hesitated.
“Who knows,” my neighbor continued. “It can make their night. Or mine.”
– Doug Sylver
Brooklyn stop sign
Dear Diary:
After a fun 4th of July barbecue with friends, my fiancé and I were driving home to Brooklyn when we arrived behind a truck being towed at a stop sign.
We waited almost half a minute, but the truck still didn’t move. It was late at night and we had to drive the puppy out, so my fiancé honked once.
The car didn’t budge.
We honked the horn again.
Still nothing.
By now, we were very impatient. We drove around the truck, cautiously pulling over to the driver’s stop sign.
Looking inside the car, we see a man with his eyes closed. He was playing the flute vigorously.
– Michael Druckman
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