Jimmie Dale Mood
Dear Diary:
I woke up at 6:30 a.m. in a Jimmie Dale Gilmore mood and was soon playing his song “I’m Gonna Love You” on repeat.
Two hours later, still listening to Jimmie through my earbuds, I walked to the Q with a bounce in my step and a twinkle in my eyes.
My joyful mood must have been unmistakable. A handsome younger man boarded the train and stood beside me, flashing a big smile.
A few minutes into the ride, he asked what I was listening to.
I told him.
“You look happy,” he said. “Are you headed to the gym?”
I wondered why he would ask that. Did I look fit? Or like I needed a workout?
Nope. Foot doctor. Achilles tendinitis.
He offered me sympathy, and suggestions.
I asked where he was going.
“To the gym,” he said. “In the city.”
“Wow, that’s a commitment, crossing the river from Brooklyn just to work out,” I said.
“I live in the city,” he said. “I was visiting my parents.”
And then this: “They’re old, in their 60s, so I try to spend time with them weekly.”
Wait. What did he just say?
I politely informed him that I was 64 and would soon be starting Medicare.
He graciously said he never would have guessed.
I had even more bounce in my step as Jimmie and I exited the train and began to limp off toward the foot doctor.
— Susan Jacobs
Familiar Face
Dear Diary:
Walking along 23rd Street, I encountered a man unloading a soda truck at the curb. He looked very familiar.
“I know you,” he said when he saw me.
It was true. I knew him too, but from where? We couldn’t figure it out.
“Are you Alonzo’s father?” I said.
“No,” he replied. “Were you sitting next to me at the Yankees game last week?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a Mets fan. I never go to the Stadium.”
It was clear, to me at least, that we knew each other fairly well and had seen each other relatively recently. But after standing there for probably 10 minutes exchanging ideas about where we had met, we finally shook hands and gave up.
About a week later, I was going through some papers and came across a notice for the jury duty service I had rendered several months ago.
Immediately the soda delivery man’s face popped into my head. He had been the jury foreman.
— Vernon Hamilton
Peanuts
Dear Diary:
I talked to a mailman who was on his route in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, after seeing him feed a peanut in the shell to a squirrel.
I told him I like to do that, too.
“Yeah,” the mailman said, “but he follows me, my whole route, every day.”
He gave the squirrel another peanut and they went on their way.
— John Metcalf
Service Call
Dear Diary:
I called for a repair for my gas oven and was able to arrange a service call for late the next day.
When the technician arrived at my Chelsea apartment, he was very careful to protect the floors. He put paper booties over his shoes while he was in the hall and carried his bulky tool bag into the kitchen rather than rolling it.
He listened patiently to my diagnosis of the problem and to my offers to be helpful.
“I’ve got this,” he said, politely cutting me off and turning away to get to work.
I went into the other room. About 20 minutes later, he called for me and demonstrated that everything was working before putting the stove back together.
When he was done, he called me back again and explained the warranty. Then, as it was the end of the day and his last call, we started to chat.
He pointed to a Rubik’s Cube sitting on my counter and asked whether I minded if he picked it up.
Not at all, I said. I didn’t have a clue about how to do it and had only acquired it to see whether I could figure it out.
“I love these things,” he said. He proceeded to inspect, rotate and twirl the sides over and over while I watched.
“See, I’ve got this side,” he said, “and now I’ve got to get this one.”
It took him about eight minutes to finish.
“That’s beautiful,” I said. “Now teach me.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That would take too long.”
Still, it was a nice bonus to an appliance repair service call.
— Tom Sawyer
Neighborhood Grocery
Dear Diary:
It was 1987. I had just moved to New York from Texas. I loved going to small neighborhood grocery stores in the city. They were so different from the huge suburban ones I was used to.
One day, when I was in Grace’s Marketplace on the Upper East Side, I overheard a customer addressing the man behind the counter.
“Do you have fresh escargot?” the customer said.
“No,” the counterman said. “But we have snails in a can.”
— Kate Marcus
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