Benched

Published on March 3

Dear Diary:

I was in the habit of taking walks in Carl Schurz Park on early summer mornings, when the sun cast a lovely orange glow over the quiet East River esplanade.

My walk was identical every day. What also became routine was seeing the same older man sitting on the same bench each morning. He held a flat tweed cap in his hands, always gazing wistfully out onto the water.

One morning, I decided to talk to him.

“Hello,” I said, approaching the bench where he was sitting.

He looked up.

“How do you do?” he said.

“I don’t mean to bother you, but I see you here every day,” I said.

“Is that right?” he said.

“And if you don’t mind me asking, I was curious why you sat on this same bench?”

He turned away with a deep sigh.

“My wife and I used to sit on this bench together for 51 years,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, feeling badly. “I’m sorry.”

“And for some bizarre reason she likes to sit over there now,” he said, gesturing toward a woman 20 feet to the left of us.

– Samuel Willinger

Sausage and Peppers

Published on July 14

Dear Diary:

On a summer Sunday when I was living on 56th Street behind Carnegie Hall, I ran the loop in Central Park and then returned home on Sixth Avenue.

A typical summer street fair was being set up on the avenue, and an Italian sausage truck was positioned at 58th Street.

“Great,” I thought. I love Italian sausage sandwiches.

I returned to the truck at about 1 p.m., bought one, took it back to my apartment and thoroughly enjoyed it.

At about 4 p.m., I decided to treat myself to another. When I got to the truck, there was a man ahead of me who had just ordered and was waiting for his sandwich.

I ordered one, and while I waited, the counterman brought the man in front of me his and he began eating.

When my sandwich arrived, it was huge, with easily twice the amount of sausage, peppers and onions as before.

As I started eating, I noticed the other man looking at my sandwich, then at his sandwich, then at mine again. Finally, he looked at the counterman.

“What gives?” he said. “Why’s mine so small?”

“Oh,” the counterman answered without hesitating, “he’s a regular.”

– William L. Clayton

Slightly Worn

Published on Aug. 4

Dear Diary:

Some years ago, I worked in the management office at a clothing store on Madison Avenue. Our policy was that men’s suits could be returned within a specified time limit provided they hadn’t been altered or showed signs of wear like pulled threads or frayed material.

One summer day, a man walked in with a garment bag slung over his arm. He said he wanted to return a suit that had been bought 10 days earlier. He gave the receipt to the cashier, who unzipped the garment bag and called for me to come downstairs.

When I got to the counter, I took the gray pinstriped suit out of the bag and hung it on a hook for inspection. It didn’t appear worn, but it did seem a bit grimy and dirty, almost as though whoever had worn it had been rolling around in a flower bed.

“Did you purchase this suit for yourself?” I asked the man.

“No,” he replied. “A manager in my company purchased the suit. I am the courier.”

“What company do you work for?”

He gave me a business card for a funeral home in the Bronx.

My eyes widened as I conjured up all the possible purposes for which this grimy-looking suit could have been purchased. Realizing we would have to thoroughly clean it before trying to resell it, I told the man that we couldn’t give him a refund but would offer a store credit.

“But it’s only been worn once,” he said.

– Eric W. Stotter

That Was Quick

Published on Dec. 1

Dear Diary:

In May 1978, I and several other Cornell students traveled to Manhattan for interviews with prospective employers. After the interviews, we needed to get back to Port Authority to catch a bus back upstate.

I decided to show off my worldliness by confidently hailing a cab. We piled in, and I directed the driver to take us to Port Authority.

“Port Authority?” he asked.

“Please,” I replied.

He stared at me for a moment, drove the cab about 20 yards and pulled over.

“Here you go!” he announced.

I was thoroughly embarrassed.

“What’s the charge?” I asked meekly.

“Nothing” he said. “It was worth it for the entertainment.”

– George Lutz

East 37th Street

Published on Oct. 13

Dear Diary:

Janet became my best friend in fall 1968. We met in fifth grade at the St. Vincent Ferrer school on East 65th Street. She was a transfer student from a school in Murray Hill that was closing because of low enrollment.

We were both only children. My mother worked outside the home. Janet’s mother did not. So we would take the bus to her home on East 37th Street after school.

It was a magical place for me: a first-floor garden apartment where we could play outside and in Janet’s beautiful bedroom. It felt like a real home.

As we grew up, Janet was on track to become an actress. I vividly recall the day her father took us to a shoot for “The Godfather,” in which Janet had a part.

Janet died of leukemia a few months later, and over the years her friends, including me, made a point of walking by East 37th Street whenever we were in the area.

Fast forward to 2022. I had lived in different parts of New York City over the years and most recently at my mother’s home in Connecticut. I sold the house after my mother died and was able to rent in the city once again.

I looked at many apartments, until one day a certain East 37th Street address came up on my computer. I was shown an amazing, newly renovated, light-filled apartment on the fourth floor in the front of the building.

I had to interview with the apartment’s owner. He listened quietly as I explained my connection to the building. I expected to leave and hear his decision at a later date. That is not what happened.

“Welcome home,” he said immediately.

– Dayna Gerring