Business

‘Shortly later, Fernando was back for another assignment’


Dear Diary:

I often play Latin music at home in my apartment in Inwood. Once, after he heard La India coming from my stereo while he was at my place fixing the lights, Fernando, who mainly speaks Spanish, asked if I could speak.

“Solamente un poco,” I said.

He nodded.

A short time later, Fernando returned with another assignment. This time, my pianist was there and started playing “Che gelida manina” from La Bohème.

Fernando began to sing along. In Italy.

– Tom Beckett


Dear Diary:

One sunny day in 1994, my friend Rachel and I had half a day at school, and she suggested we go to Brighton Beach.

As a Queens girl, I’m used to Far Rockaway, but I wanted to try something new. Our friend Crystal and I went on a long road trip on the slow F-road.

Once we got there, we rolled out our towels and set up our boom box, switching between Hot 97, Kiss FM, and WBLS. We pose sassy in bathing suits, overexposure photography will be developed at Fotomat in an era long before selfies and social media posts.

The beach was almost empty, except for one man. He was lying on his stomach, pulling his pants down. In a moment of teenage audacity, I told him the back of his car was exposed.

“I have a rash!” he speaks in stressed English. Obviously, the sun is a cure-all and he’s not going to pull his pants up. Needless to say, we avoided looking in his direction for the rest of the afternoon.

Nearly 30 years later, as summer approaches, I still haven’t forgotten that man or his rash. And that’s my Brighton Beach memoir!

– Alyson Myers


Dear Diary:

It’s 2 a.m., and I’m racing up the subway stairs to catch F back to Manhattan.

When I reached the platform, the train doors closed and the train started to move away. The digital message board says the next message will arrive in 20 minutes.

I went to a bench and sat down. As I waited for the train, a boy happily ran up the stairs to the platform. He flashed a very bright smile while staring across the tracks at the other platform.

A girl there beamed at him. They started playing rock-paper-scissors. They didn’t say a word. They played about six rounds, laughing and giggling at the end of each round.

The train in the opposite direction rushed straight into the station, cutting the boy and girl in half. Seconds later, she appeared in the carriage window, smiling again and waving goodbye.

The young man waved back when he saw the train going far away.

– Pamela Ingebrigtson


Dear Diary:

I moved into my new apartment in Brooklyn and I lived alone for the first time when the summer started. I worried about being alone, but I told myself it was an important step, that I had finally become a real adult.

The first night I was there, I found myself living across the street from a basketball court, where people gathered to play music and talk. So great! I thought. I will get to know the community.

Every night during the summer, the gatherings continue. I open the window and let the sound into my studio, the hum of the neighborhood comforting me against the loneliness of being home alone.

As the weeks passed, the music gradually got louder. Sometimes, I lean my head out the window and wave my hand, asking the people playing it if they could turn it down, a little bit, please.

Usually this works, but sometimes it doesn’t. The music seems to be the loudest on weeknights. This is getting a little less pleasant, I thought to myself one October night.

Then, on a Tuesday night after midnight, the music across the street was so loud that my window vibrated. I decided I had to call in a noise complaint. Feeling shy, I dialed 311. A man named Ron answered.

I whispered and apologized profusely for what I was about to say. I don’t want the party to be closed, but maybe people could turn it down a bit?

Ron asked for my address. When I gave it to him, he gasped.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” he said. “I live right next to you.”

I burst out laughing, stunned by the coincidence, and delighted to finally meet a neighbor.

“And don’t worry about calling,” he added. “I get complaints about these people every night.”

– Camille Jacobson


Dear Diary:

I walked into a pharmacy on Amsterdam Avenue to buy a vending machine. Somehow, I ended up at the register with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food that was frozen like ice.

I was about to eat my hastily bought while crouching around the corner, so I asked the cashier for a plastic spoon.

“Sorry,” he said. “We don’t have any.”

The security guard disagreed.

“We definitely do!” she said, pointing to a jar of spoons. “Get two,” she added, “in case one of them breaks.”

Good call.

– Daniel Simon

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Illustrated by Agnes Lee






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