The birds look weird
Dear Diary:
I was at a thrift store on the Upper West Side when I saw a set of two unmarked, framed bird drawings.
The drawings are clearly the work of the same artist. They are odd-looking birds with large, open eyes made of coal.
I like one but not the other. The one I like is a single bird that looks like an emu staring to the side.
The other drawing is of two birds that look like dodos. They have the same expressions and are leaning forward, as if staring at the viewer. I just can’t see hanging that drawing on the wall and looking at it every day.
Since they were clearly from the same artist, I found it funny to part ways on set, so I didn’t.
Stopping at the shop a few days later, I was surprised to see that the drawing I liked was still there, but the other one had disappeared. Someone must have seen them, liked the drawing I didn’t draw, and didn’t worry about breaking the scene.
I immediately bought the remaining drawing.
– Michael the mermaid
5 Words; 4 cents
Dear Diary:
In 1964, when I was eight years old, I ventured out of the family apartment in Riverdale almost every day at my mother’s request.
Get off the elevator and go through the door of the stairs, where the milking machine and the cigarette smoker are side by side in the dark, then go through the lobby and out.
One to the right, then to the left, then two blocks and to the right is Mother’s bakery.
Five letters and four coins: Grainless rye bread, thinly sliced. A quarter, a penny, two cents.
My mother said that she couldn’t send my brother because he would eat half a loaf on the way home. For me, only two heels are missing.
– Gerri Ginsburg
Prepare
Dear Diary:
I was walking slowly around Stuy Town, completely immersed in my phone as I prepared for a job interview.
I was so caught up in what I was doing that I almost bumped into an elderly man walking around. He looked at me with disapproval.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m interviewing for my dream job tomorrow and all I can do is prepare.”
He continued, continuing his fast pace. Then he turned his head over his shoulder. He has a smile on his face.
“Put me down as a reference,” he said. “Good luck!”
– Melissa Ertl
West Four Street Courthouse
Dear Diary:
When polite encounters take place, it’s a disaster. Then I staggered through the streets feeling as if everything was going against me.
After making numerous suggestions over the years, I think, the city is making it clear to me once and for all to get out. Maybe it’s finally time to listen.
At one point, I wandered to the basketball courts on West 4th Street. As I was watching the game, a well-dressed man with a crossbody bag approached me.
“People take you for granted,” he said uneasily. “You give and you give, and you get nothing in return. But you are a good person and…”
I don’t remember exactly what the rest of him said because I was trying so hard not to cry.
He pulled out a pad of paper and asked me to come up with – but not tell him – answers to several questions: my favorite number, my wife’s name, her age, favorite color mine, the first name of my enemy.
Then he gave me a neat list of all my responses. I have no interest when it comes to magic tricks, but this guy is a reliable fighter.
He reassured me that my life would be fine and that I would get my dream job by the end of that month. Then he wrote down three numbers: the suggested donation.
I told him I didn’t have that kind of cash.
“There is an ATM near here,” he said.
– Mark Hsu
Brooms and Dusting Brooms
Dear Diary:
I walked out of the apartment complex I just moved into. It was an early September morning, and a light rain fell.
My train was coming, and it wasn’t pouring so I decided not to go back upstairs to get an umbrella, but just go straight to the station.
I passed a man sweeping. He holds a broom in one hand and a duster in the other.
“Hey, ma’am,” he said, speaking so quietly I could barely hear him. I thought he might have talked to me, but as someone who has had a lot of bad interactions with strangers on the street, I thought it best to keep walking.
“Ma’am,” he said again.
I wonder if I may have dropped something. Before I could check my bag, I heard him again, this time a little louder.
“Aunt!”
I comeback. The broom in his hand has been replaced with a clear plastic poncho. He wears a yellow one with a hood. Water droplets are flowing down the front.
“Because of the rain,” he said, holding out his hand.
– Aiza Shahid-Qureshi
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Illustration by Agnes Lee
