METROPOLITAN DIARY
Out With the Old
Dear Diary:
It was about 20 years ago, and my in-laws were moving. They offered my wife and me a television that they weren’t going to have room for in their new apartment.
It was fairly new, had a much sharper picture and better sound than our circa-1983 model and was about half as big and heavy.
Once we had taken possession of this svelte new beauty, I did what any self-respecting Brooklynite would do under such circumstances: I brought the old clunker out to the stoop so that someone could take it home and make use of it.
Almost as soon as I closed the door after taking out the TV, the bell rang. I opened the door to find a middle-age man standing there.
“What,” he said incredulously, pointing at the television, “no remote?”
— David Berger
HAHAHAHA!
Quick Change
Dear Diary:
It was summer 2006. I had graduated from college and moved to New York with $1,500 in the bank. A friend and I had a sublet in Astoria. We paid $400 a month apiece for a shared room.
My roommate had an internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I had a part-time job at a Starbucks on the Upper East Side. As cheap as the rent was, I needed to make more money if I was going to stay in the city.
Eventually, I landed an interview with a nonprofit group. To get to the office downtown in time, I had to go straight from work. After my shift was over, I changed into fresh pants in the bathroom, then rushed to the subway.
When a train arrived, I settling into a seat, yanked off the work shirt I had on over a tank top and put on a button shirt and a blazer. Then I tugged off my black sneakers and socks and slipped on a pair of pumps.
As I was shoving my barista clothes into my tote bag, I glanced up to see a middle-age woman looking at me.
“You’re a whole new person,” she said.
I smiled.
And I got the job.
— Caitlin Smith Rimshnick
‘And for Dessert?’
Dear Diary:
I was 23 and hungry and tired after a Sunday of shopping on the Lower East Side when I discovered Ratner’s on Delancey Street. I was shown to a booth, and a bowl of onion rolls and a menu were slapped down on the table.
“What’ll ya have?” the waiter demanded without looking up from his order pad.
“Well, uh … ” I stammered, looking at the unfamiliar menu.
“You’ll have the stuffed cabbage,” he said. “And on the side?” (He still was not looking at me.)
“Um … mashed potatoes?”
“You’ll have the kasha varnishkes,” he said, scribbling on his pad and then hurrying off.
Generous portions of food soon appeared, and I ate it quickly.
The waiter returned.
“So I guess everything was OK,” he concluded as he watched me mop up a last bit of gravy with a piece of roll.
“Absolutely delicious,” I replied.
“Of course,” he said. “And for dessert?”
“Nothing, thanks. I’m so full.”
“You’ll have the Nesselrode pie,” he said, and then disappeared back up the aisle.
— Sherry Friedman
https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/16/nyregion/metropolitan-diary.html