‘I Told Myself Not to Judge a Book by Its Cover and Sat Down Next to Him’

Lip Balmed

Dear Diary:

It was rush hour, and I had just boarded a packed E train at Penn Station.

I noticed an empty seat next to an extremely large and intimidating-looking man. He was wearing a weathered motorcycle-type jacket, and his hair was rather wild, matching the expression on his face.

I told myself not to judge a book by its cover and sat down next to him. I did my best not to brush up against him and kept my eyes straight ahead.

After a few moments, I felt my mouth getting dry. I pulled out my ChapStick and applied it to my lips.

A moment later, the giant of a man next to me reached into his pocket and pulled out his own ChapStick.

“I prefer cherry myself,” he said.

— Mitchell Chwatt

Wheel Man

Dear Diary:

I live in the East Village and ride my bike every day to the West Village and then along the Hudson River bike path.

After taking a nine-mile ride, I typically treat myself to lunch at a Thai restaurant on Greenwich Avenue, locking my bike to a pole on Christopher Street in front of a small shop.

As I followed this routine one recent day, the shop’s owner came outside and suggested I lock the bike up differently because it tended to fall toward the bus stop.

He told me he had come out to adjust it on several occasions so that the wheel wouldn’t be damaged by a car or bus. I thanked him and asked if he wanted a coffee.

I guess we’re not as anonymous in New York City as we might think we are.

— Roy Fernandez

Envious

Dear Diary:

I was waiting for the 5 train at Union Square on a sweltering August afternoon. About a car length down the platform from me, a girl in chunky boots, a neon crop top and a pleated skirt was standing with a friend and holding an enormous, juicy hunk of watermelon.

The watermelon was unwrapped, and the girl was taking bites of it as if it were an apple. A watermelon lover myself, I boarded the train when it arrived with a feeling of envy about the girl’s snack and a question in my mind: No napkins?

I rode the train to my stop, Borough Hall. As I got off, I saw the girls again. The watermelon had been eaten down to the rind. I climbed the stairs behind them and watched as they broke the rind in half so they could each savor a last bit of fruit.

I didn’t see a single drop of juice on their hands. And not a napkin in sight.

— Catherine Danaher

Princess Leia for Sale

Dear Diary:

On some Saturdays in the 1990s, during the blissful summer months I had off from school, my father used to take me to the Chelsea Flea Market.

It was just me and him, taking the long trip on the 1 train down from the Bronx, me looking out the window for those few stops that are aboveground, and my father keeping an eye on me.

He bought me some weird, random stuff in those years: a small (blunt) kukri knife with an ornate sheath on one occasion and a couple of ridiculously smooth orbs of white stone on another.

Then there was the rare Princess Leia Organa action figure.

I had been collecting “Star Wars” figures for some time. I would hang them on my wall, each one still in its packaging.

My friends were confused: Why didn’t I open them? But I knew that keeping them in mint condition, in their original packaging, would maintain their value.

That Princess Leia action figure at the flea market was still in its packaging. I had never owned a rare action figure, and I desperately wanted to.

We asked the vendor the price.

“For you?” he said. “Sixty bucks.”

Then he turned to another potential customer and repeated the same stupid joke. Then he did it again. And again.

I loved this routine. Forget the action figure. I was taken by the vendor’s quirky patter. To me, it captured the wink-wink, wiseguy attitude of so many New Yorkers.

My father wound up buying the action figure for me, and I still sometimes say, “For you … ” when asked to name a price for something, although no one knows why.

— Ian Park

Cut to Order

Dear Diary:

I was at the butcher counter at a D’Agostino supermarket on the East Side of Manhattan. I rang the bell on the counter, and the butcher appeared.

“Two veal loin chops, please,” I said. “About 1.5 inches thick and about 15 ounces each.”

“You don’t want a butcher, lady,” he said. “You want a surgeon.”

— Molly Schechter

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee