Squeezed In

Dear Diary:

It was June 2016, and I was on my way to my first 9-to-5 job in Midtown. I boarded a crowded 1 train at 135th and Broadway and then gingerly made my way onto an even more crowded express at 96th Street.

It was clear that no one really wanted to be on the train, but everyone was civil about it. People moved in where they could and put their backpacks on the floor to accommodate others.

The air conditioning was hardly working, and we were all packed like sardines in silence. I held my right hand against the ceiling to balance myself on the way to the next stop, 72nd Street.

When the train pulled in, a large crowd was waiting. Very few people got off, and only a couple of people managed to get on. A well-dressed woman in a leopard-print dress stared into the car from the platform, looking for somewhere she could fit.

“Guys, really?” she said. “Make room for me. Please.”

No response.

“I can clearly see enough space for three to four people in the car,” she said.

As the doors began to close, a voice came from the other end of the car.

“Yeah,” the rider said, “maybe in your house.”

— Josh Schultz

Giovanni

Dear Diary:

I married a woman with flight benefits.
I traveled to N.Y.C. to live like a local.
A museum, an opera, a slice, a haircut.

His name was Giovanni.
His joy, family.
Haircuts, his craft.

He greeted me and asked about family every 10 weeks.
He brimmed smiling when my wife visited.
He took several years to understand where I called home.

He called me Minnesota.
I adopted him as a friend, father and barber.

— Jim Johnson

Scraping By

Dear Diary:

It was the first super-cold morning of winter that year and my little car, parked on the street near my West Village apartment, was all iced up. Having recently moved from Florida, I didn’t have an ice scraper.

I decided to start my car, set the heat and defroster on high, and wipe the ice off the windshield and the other windows with my gloved hands.

As I got out of my car to begin, a woman walked up to the car parked just in front of mine. After starting it up, she got out and began to clean the windows with a big plastic scraper.

“After you’re done, could I borrow your scraper for a few minutes?” I asked.

She stopped her scraping, looked at me, and then looked at my car.

“I’ll scrape it for you,” she said.

“Shouldn’t I scrape yours for you?” I offered. “Then I could scrape mine?”

She gave me a look.

“Get back in your car,” she said.

I did as I was told.

She came over and scraped off every window meticulously. When she was done, she went back and continued to scrape off her car.

I waved a big “thank you” as I pulled out, but I don’t think she saw me.

— Doug Sylver

Self-Portrait as Subway Car

Dear Diary:

Underneath, bleached laces face up in the muck.
A tail rattles past. Wrappers whisper by, splashed
with ketchup and essence of onions. Meanwhile,
a suited man holds luggage in his large left hand.
Meanwhile, a woman’s tongue swishes kanji characters
around her mouth. Meanwhile, a purple pullover puffs
a steel cig. My eyes blink shut, and then my legs screech.
Meanwhile, a pea coat stands alone on the platform.
The brown benches bang on by.
The yellow flecked road dots on by.
Signs swoosh past, as I tumble
from light to dark. Meanwhile, the newlyweds,
making eye contact over bushy heads. She
releases me, sifts through the crowds to find him. He
envelops her, closing his arms over her shifting frame.
I sway, and they sway. I trip, and he catches her. Meanwhile,
a nurse’s eyes are fluttering awake.
Meanwhile, men in matching stitched hats. Women
in matching shirts. Meanwhile, teenagers dressed in matching
desires to fit in. Meanwhile, I stutter
and he catches her again.

— Alixa Brobbey

Cortado

Dear Diary:

When I moved to Park Slope, I lived in an apartment on the third floor of a brownstone. Every Saturday and Sunday, I would walk to the coffee shop around the corner and order a cappuccino and an almond croissant.

After a few years, the woman who was my girlfriend then and is now my wife moved in, and I added a cortado to the order.

Later, we bought a place in Flatbush, and on the morning of our last day in Park Slope, I asked her to go to the coffee shop while I brought down the last boxes.

When she got there, she asked for a cappuccino, a cortado and an almond croissant.

The man behind the counter paused.

“I know that order,” he said. “You’re the cortado!”

— Connor Jennings

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee