6 MB THE NEW YORK TIMES, SUNDAY, AUGUST 9, 2020Street Scene
DEAR DIARY:
It was fall 2018 and I had just
gotten off the train at the end of a
long day.
I walked up the station stairs,
not really paying attention, and
was on the sidewalk wishing I
had my umbrella when the guy
in front of me suddenly stopped
to stare at a guy on the other
side of the street.
The guy in front of me called a
name, and the other guy turned.
What happened next was like
something out of a movie: The
guy across the street sprinted
over and flung himself at the guy
in front of me. They clung to each
other like magnets before kissing
in the pouring rain.
A few people standing nearby
who were also watching the
scene unfold actually clapped
before dispersing.
I saw the same guys again in
January. They were holding
hands. I noticed that one of them
had a sparkly ring on his left
hand. The other one was holding
a small dog on a leash.
JAI MOHANA Wedding Gift
DEAR DIARY:
It was summer 1955. I was work-
ing at an advertising agency on
Park Avenue after having gradu-
ated from college in June.
I was to get married in August,
and my college roommate, who
would be my best man, was also
working in the city.
We met for lunch one day, and
he presented me with a wedding
gift in a large box from Black,
Starr & Gorham, a prominent
Fifth Avenue jewelry store
known today, and for much of its
history, as Black, Starr & Frost.
I was living with my parents in
Forest Hills, Queens, at the time,
and I decided I should leavework early because I would be
carrying the present home on the
subway and wanted to avoid the
rush hour crowds.
When I got to the station, it
was packed, even though it was
only midafternoon. When the
train pulled in, I did what I
thought was smart and lifted the
box over my head and pushed
my way in.
The subways were not air-
conditioned then, and they relied
instead on overhead fans to cool
the cars. I could see that there
was an inch of thick, greasy dirt
on the fan blades in the car I was
on.
My box hit the fan, and that
greasy dirt flew all over my
fellow passengers’ faces and
clothes. The blades also left a
huge slice in the box.
I got off at the next stop to
avoid more contact with the car
full of irate passengers and
waited for a less congested sub-
way to complete my trip home.
The sterling silver bowl inside
the box was unscathed, and as
my wife and I celebrate our 65th
anniversary this year, it is still
with us.
BOB O’SUCHHer Favorite Place
DEAR DIARY:
I had just taken, and passed, the
most difficult exam of my life.
I walked outside, hailed a cab
in front of Madison Square Gar-
den and told the driver my desti-
nation: the New York Botanical
Garden. It was my favorite place
in the city, and I wanted to bask
in its beauty.
As we drove to the Bronx, I
called my parents excitedly to
tell them the good news.
When we got to the garden, I
asked how much the fare was.
The driver replied that he had
heard me calling my parents and
the ride was on him. He said he
was proud of me. His nephew
had just passed his medical
boards, too, he said.
REBECCA MOELLMERWrapped Up
DEAR DIARY:
The day my father turned 75, I
flew down to Miami and met his
neighbor as previously arranged.
In the hallway on their floor,
the neighbor wrapped me in the
gift paper I had brought along
and stuck a glossy red bow in the
middle of my forehead. Then I
waddled to my parents’ door and
rang the bell.
My father opened the door onthe second ring.
“Happy birthday, Dad!” I cried
out.
He backed away quickly, per-
haps in shock, though I saw tears
in his eyes.
“Annette,” he called to my
mother, shaking his head.
“You’re not going to believe this.
It’s the New York City daughter
here for dinner!”
JANE SESKINRainy Day
DEAR DIARY:
My wife and I live in a small
town in Texas, and our daughter
has been living in New York
since she started college 10 years
ago.
On one of our trips to the city
to visit her, we left the East Vil-
lage shop where she was work-
ing at the time, and were walking
to the Astor Place subway sta-
tion when a hard rain suddenly
began to fall.
We huddled under an awning,
and I ran into a small newsstandto buy an umbrella that I as-
sumed would be ridiculously
expensive.
The clerk could see my wife
waiting outside. He asked how
many umbrellas I wanted.
“Just one,” I said. “We only
have to go two blocks.”
“That’ll be $5,” he said.
That was much less than I had
expected.
“OK,” I said, “I’ll take two.”
He looked at me.
“Oh,” he said. “One per block?”
CLYDE NEALObservations for this column may
be sent to Metropolitan Diary at
[email protected] or to The New
York Times, 620 Eighth Avenue, New
York, N.Y., 10018. Please include your
name, mailing address and daytime
telephone number. Submissions
become the property of The Times
and cannot be returned. They may be
edited, and may be republished and
adapted in all media.
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