Subway Luck

Dear Diary:

I was on the subway platform at Eighth Street and Broadway heading uptown. I was sitting on a bench near the front of the train.

The train rolled in, and I got on. As the doors closed, I realized I had left my laptop on the bench. I pounded on the door to no avail. I watched the computer sitting there in its little white-and-blue polka dot case as the train began to leave the station.

I managed to call my husband, Peter. Maybe he could get to the platform before someone took the laptop. When I couldn’t reach him, I called a friend who was at my apartment and asked her to tell my husband to try to get to the platform. It was only two blocks from home.

I got off at 14th Street, ran to the downtown side of the station and waited five minutes before an R arrived.

When I got back to Eighth Street, I raced across Broadway, ran onto the uptown platform and looked for the laptop case. It was gone. Everything, every thought in my head, every draft of my latest play, was gone with it.

I called my husband. This time he answered.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“Where are you?”

“On the platform.”

I looked down the platform, and there he was, carrying the case. Some kind person had picked it up and turned it into the station agent.

Whoever you are, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

— Delia Ephron

Hey, Hey

Dear Diary:

On July 15, 1967, my brother drove my best friend and me, two 13-year-old girls, to Forest Hills Stadium to see the Monkees. We rode squeezed into his 1957 TR-3 with the top down.

The show was one of eight that Jimi Hendrix opened for the band, but we went to see them, and Davy Jones, my idol, in particular.

The next morning, Sunday, we and about 20 other fans waited outside the Waldorf Astoria, where the band was staying. Jimi Hendrix emerged from the hotel first. He signed autographs as he walked to a cab. Then I caught a glimpse of Micky Dolenz and Michael Nesmith.

Davy Jones came out next and got into a cab alone. As it drove off, I ran after it up the empty avenue. Out of breath, I caught up to it at a red light.

Davy was sitting in the rear seat with the window open. We looked at each other. I didn’t know what to say. One word came out: “Shake.”

I stuck my hand through the window, and Davy Jones shook it. The light turned green, and the taxi drove off, leaving me with the indelible memory of his hand in mine and the look of his beautiful eyes.

— Dinah Wells

Wedding Plans

Dear Diary:

It was a rainy day, and I was heading uptown on a crowded M104 bus.

A woman sitting toward the back was talking loudly on her phone about her upcoming wedding, describing the decorations, the venue, her dress and the guests.

As she got up to get off the bus, a voice shouted from the front: “Are we all invited?”

— Emily T. Dunlap

Ferry Farewell

Dear Diary:

On a February afternoon, I met my cousins at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. Their spouses and several of our very-grown children were there too. I brought Prosecco, a candle, a small speaker to play music, photos and a poem.

We were there to recreate the wedding cruise of my mother, Monica, and my stepfather, Peter. They had gotten married at City Hall in August 1984. She was 61, and he, 71. It was her first marriage, and his fourth.

I was my mother’s witness that day. It was a late-in-life love story, and they were very happy. Peter died in 1996, at 82. My mother died last year. She was 100.

Peter’s ashes had waited a long time, but finally they were mingled with Monica’s. The two of them would ride the ferry a last time and then swirl together in the harbor forever. Cue the candles, bubbly, bagpipes and poems.

Two ferry workers approached us. We knew we were in trouble: Open containers and open flames were not allowed on the ferry.

My cousin’s husband, whispering, told the workers what we were doing and said we would be finished soon.

They walked off, and then returned. They said they had spoken to the captain, and they ushered us to the stern for some privacy. As the cup of ashes flew into the water, the ferry horn sounded two long blasts.

— Caitlin Margaret May

Good Manners

Dear Diary:

I was strolling through Joan of Arc Park on the Upper West Side. An older woman was walking her little dog in front of me.

A young man, evidently in a hurry, passed me and cut right in front of the woman, causing her to stop short.

“Sorry,” the young man said. “Please excuse me.”

The woman nodded and said it was fine.

“I was actually talking to your dog,” the young man said.

— Jim Pavia

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