Favorite Painting
Dear Diary:
A few years ago, I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and, as is my habit, stopped in to say “hello” to my favorite painting, Velázquez’s “Juan de Pareja.”
My custom is to take a seat on the bench across from Juan, and then together we carry on, silently, having long intense conversations on art, philosophy, aesthetics, even politics.
On this particular occasion, as I entered the gallery, I saw a well-dressed, middle-aged woman sitting on my usual bench and staring at Juan.
I have become used to having Juan all to myself, so I was mildly annoyed. She was probably resting and would walk away in a few minutes, I thought to myself.
I sat down next to the woman, and began one of my typical unhurried conversations with Juan. After about 10 minutes, the woman was still sitting beside me.
Curious, I turned to her.
“A wonderful painting, isn’t it?” I said.
She smiled.
“Yes, it is,” she said, and then continued to stare silently at Juan.
“Do you come to the Met often?” I asked.
“No, I live in Colorado, so I only come here a few times a year when I visit New York,” she answered. “And when I am in New York, I always visit the Met so I can spend time with this painting.”
And with that she stood up, said goodbye and walked away.
— Marc Shanker
Sneak Attack
Dear Diary:
Monroe Street in Brooklyn. The early 1950s. One or two hours of daylight left on a hot summer evening.
Dinner was over, and a bunch of us kids were hanging around near the corner of Ralph Avenue, mostly doing nothing.
Coming our way from Patchen Avenue was a kid on a bike. Nothing special; no one we recognized.
Suddenly, from a stash in his handlebar basket he began pelting us with seriously overripe tomatoes.
None of us escaped the onslaught. And none of us could react before he sped off across the trolley tracks on Ralph Avenue and disappeared.
We never saw him again. But as I stood there covered in rancid tomato slime, I had to admit: “The guy was good.”
— Theodore O’Neill
May ’83
Dear Diary:
It was a late evening in May 1983, and it happened to be the 100th anniversary of the Brooklyn Bridge. I was a trading assistant at Lehman Brothers living in the decidedly unglamorous neighborhood of Park Slope, Brooklyn.
The trains were less reliable then than they are now, and I always had a plan B to get home if there was a problem taking the 2 or 3 at Wall Street.
It was one of those days. Feeling miserable after a long day as a kid on the trading floor, I waited on the platform to get home. The train I was planning to take had just been pulled out of service.
I left the Wall Street station and walked to the Broad Street station to take a different train. One finally came and I was on my way home.
The train trundled up to the Manhattan Bridge, got halfway across and suddenly stopped. We sat there for a few minutes wondering what was going on.
Then the lights went out and we all sighed, thinking the worst. Just then the conductor’s voice came over the.
“It’s showtime, folks!” he said.
We sat on the train in the dark in the middle of the bridge and the East River watching the fireworks celebrating the Brooklyn Bridge for over five minutes from the best seats in the house.
— Peter J. Goldman
Bailey Puddin
Dear Diary:
I was living in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn, and I would walk my Silky Terrier, Bailey Puddin, around the neighborhood.
On my walks, I would often meet an older neighbor, James, as he sat on his front stoop one block over. One day I asked him whether he knew someone who could help me move.
Mary, he said, I will ask around and call you.
A week later, James saw me walking Bailey Puddin and told me he had tried to find me in the phone book and even called directory assistance, but there was no listing for a Mary Puddin.
James, I said, my last name is McLoughlin, not Puddin.
— Mary McLoughlin
Moving In
Dear Diary:
I was in an elevator at a friend’s building. There were two other people in the elevator I didn’t know.
The elevator stopped, and a woman who appeared to be about 30 got on.
“Do you live here?” one of the other passengers asked her.
“Yes,” she replied, explaining that her fiancé lived in 16C. “I just moved in.”
“Oh,” said the other woman, “you’re marrying into a really good building.”
— Martine J. Byer
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
