‘A Man Sitting Near the Door Lost His Patience and Began to Yell’

Jun 27, 2023

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Metropolitan Diary

Boarding a bus with full hands, a compliment corrected and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.

Dear Diary:

Returning from a trip when I was a poor college student living on the Upper West Side, I decided to take mass transit home from the airport.

Boarding a bus for the last leg of the trip home, which in those days was a two-hour ordeal, I struggled my way on, dragging my suitcase and trombone.

A man sitting near the door lost his patience and began to yell at me for holding up the bus. Embarrassment washed over me as I continued to struggle.

Suddenly, I heard a woman a few seats away yell out in a commanding voice.

“You leave her alone!” she bellowed.

I soon found a seat.

— Julia Kell

Dear Diary:

I was on my way to meet a friend for dinner. I was wearing a loose blouse of a pinkish hue.

When I got on the elevator in my Downtown Brooklyn building, there was a woman there whom I didn’t know but recognized as a fellow tenant.

“That color’s great on you,” she said. “It matches your lipstick.”

“I’m not wearing lipstick,” I said.

“Well,” she replied, “your lips are salmon.”

— June Duffy

Dear Diary:

During an early morning walk in Brooklyn Bridge Park with my daughter Ella, I spotted a blue soccer ball on the sidewalk adjacent to the turf fields on Pier 5.

A quick look around the area did not reveal any players who might have kicked a ball so far out of bounds. Ella asked if we could keep the ball and, after a brief moral dilemma, I picked it up and brought it with us.

When we got home, I cleaned the ball with a wipe in the kitchen sink. When I did, I discovered a name and number in faded marker. I texted the number, explained that we had found the ball and offered to return it.

“Keep it,” the reply text said. “My kids lost that ball seven years ago at that field. They’re all grown up and no longer need it. I hope your daughter enjoys it as much as they did.”

— Brian Price

Dear Diary:

Every summer, I looked forward to swimming at South Beach on Staten Island.

My Aunt Emma packed salami sandwiches, cans of Coke wrapped in aluminum foil and a sleeve of store-bought cookies. When it came time to eat, the sandwiches inevitably had a special crunch thanks to stray grains of sand.

Aunt Emma would throw out the beach blanket, unfold a few chairs, set up the umbrella and slather me with sunscreen.

The waves and undertow in the bay were strong. Why should I worry? I had my intermediate swimming card from the Red Cross, which I had earned as a C.Y.O. day camper.

At 12 years old, I thought I looked great in the fashionable two-piece bathing suit I had recently bought. How I wished a boy would notice me.

Did I listen to my aunt and stay near the shore and in front of the lifeguard stand?

Of course not, and a boy did notice me: The lifeguard jumped in when I was hit by a series of waves and drifted out to deeper water.

— Judith Gropp

Dear Diary:

In winter 2008, I was an aspiring musician living in Inwood after graduating from college, cutting my teeth in the New York City music scene.

One night after a late gig in the East Village, I splurged on a cab ride home with my violin and mandolin in tow.

Contrary to my usual habit, I pocketed the taxi receipt while exiting the cab and then promptly stumbled into bed.

Panic set in the next morning when I realized my mandolin had not made it out of the cab. Frantic, I called 311.

“I left my mandolin in a cab, and I don’t know how to get it back,” I told the nice woman who took my call.

“Sure,” she said. “I can help you with that, but what’s a mandolin?”

Stunned by the question, I explained that it was like a small version of a guitar but with eight strings.

Because I had saved the receipt with the taxi’s medallion number, the woman was able to find the cab company’s telephone number. I called immediately.

“Last night I left mandolin in one of your cabs,” I said. “Can you help me?”

“Maybe, but what’s a mandolin?” the person on the other end of the line asked.

Shocked to hear this question again, I repeated my abbreviated description of the centuries-old instrument. I was transferred to a supervisor, who asked the same question: “What’s a mandolin?”

Eventually, I was given the cabby’s personal cellphone. This time, I was ready with a revised introduction when I reached him.

“I left an instrument in your cab last night,” I explained, “It’s like a small guitar, only with eight strings, and is in a soft black case.”

“Yes, yes,” the cabby said. “I have your mandolin right here. If you give me an address, I will drive her over to you.”

— Daniella Fischetti

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

Your story must be connected to New York City and no longer than 300 words. An editor will contact you if your submission is being considered for publication.

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