‘Desperate, I Stopped a Young Man on a Scooter and Asked for a Lift’

Marble Hill Station

Dear Diary:

I was taking the M100 up Broadway from 187th Street to the Metro-North station at Marble Hill to catch a train to Westchester. I was on the bus because it was the weekend, and the No. 1 train was not running.

There was construction on Broadway, and it slowed the bus down. The driver announced that she would be making a detour at 207th street.

I decided to get off and run to the Metro-North station, which was at least a mile away. I had about eight minutes to make my train.

I started running, but I ran out of steam after a few minutes. Desperate, I stopped a young man on a scooter and asked for a lift.

He was surprised, but I explained that I could stand in front and that I needed to catch the train. To demonstrate, I got on his scooter. He was too nice to say no.

As we scooted north, I caught my breath. We crossed the Broadway Bridge leading to Marble Hill.

“I’m Jennifer,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Joe,” he said.

“Thanks, Joe. You’re a good Samaritan.”

I looked down from the bridge. I did not see a train. A good sign.

Joe took me near the steps that go down to the train station. I thanked him and sprinted to the steps.

I could hear the sound of a train arriving at the platform. I ran down the steps and jumped through the train’s open doors.

I wish I had taken a photo of Joe, but I didn’t have time. Joe, if you see this, thank you so much for helping me catch that train.

— Jennifer Kim

Football Fans

Dear Diary:

I met the woman who became my wife on the F train. She was wearing a University of Washington sweatshirt. I was wearing one too and I decided to try to strike up a conversation.

We were both headed to the same Midtown bar to watch our alma mater play. It turned out the connection between us was deeper than having attended the same college. We had graduated the same year, but it took us both traveling 2,500 miles to meet.

More than 10 years later, we still ride the F train to the same bar to watch the same football games, and neither one of us strikes up conversations with strangers when we do. Once seems like enough.

— Brendan Lazarus

Repaid

Dear Diary:

Five years ago, my partner took me to an Armenian church in Lower Manhattan to explore his ancestry. The priest was very proud that his loyal congregation came from all over the metropolitan area, and my partner left a $100 bill in the donation plate.

From there, we walked to MacDougal Street for a delicious Italian meal and a bottle of wine. The two people seated next to us were from England and California.

My partner, in typical fashion, began to chat with them about how we had recently spent time in England and were returning from a trip to Sonoma County.

Eventually the couple left, and we lingered over our wine. When we got up to pay the bill, we learned that the couple had taken care of it: exactly $100.

— Yvonne Siegel

Laundry Time

Dear Diary:

Years ago, I lived in the East Village, in a walk-up on Sixth Street with an air shaft window above the Bangladeshi restaurants that lined the block.

To do my laundry, I had to schlep to Launderette on Second Avenue. Under the harsh fluorescent lights there, I would see the same man every week, washing his restaurant’s heap of blue cloth napkins.

The man had a patch of thinning hair. He was usually in an undershirt and chewing on a betel pepper. He would give me a red-toothed smile, and I would respond with a head-nod hello. He always looked tired.

Seasons changed. The cost of time on the dryer went up 25 cents. It seemed like new owners had taken over. There was art on the walls.

Then one day, the man with the napkins spoke to me.

“My restaurant is closing,” he said, a bulging laundry sack at his feet.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.

He reached into the sack and dug out a bottle of wine.

“For you,” he said, handing it to me. “My special laundry friend.”

— Ali Pearlman

Wintry Day

Dear Diary:

It was a wintry day, and I was sitting on a park bench in Manhattan when I saw a man in a security guard’s uniform walking toward me decisively.

To my utter surprise, he came up very close to me and leaned down toward me.

I gasped, and he leaped backward.

“My gosh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I almost kissed you. I thought you were my wife!”

His actual wife, who, it turned out, was sitting on a bench across from me, spoke up.