New routines
Dear Diary:
I was on the phone with a friend while walking around SoHo for a weekend last fall. We were about to meet for breakfast and I warned her that I had just rolled out of bed.
During the pandemic, I had gotten into the habit of waking up early in the morning to walk my dog without showering or changing.
“I didn’t even brush my teeth,” I told my friend.
Just as I said it, a woman walked past me.
“Don’t worry,” she shouted, “neither do I!”
We high-fives and went our separate ways.
— Allison Abrams
March 2020
Dear Diary:
I was working in a coffee shop in Midtown near Grand Central Terminal in early March 2020. One day near the end of the morning rush, I turned from the counter to perform some basic tasks that had been neglected in the chaos.
When I turned around, I saw it: a single N95 mask, wrapped in plastic, on top of the cake pan.
I asked a man who was waiting for the cappuccino he ordered if it was his.
He shook his head. So did the other people in line.
Whoever left it was gone or didn’t want to be identified – a stranger who, in the midst of panic and confusion, saw me and chose to help.
— Grace Brunson
on the platform
Dear Diary:
It was September and I was in New York for the first time since the start of the pandemic.
I waited on the subway platform, masked and nervous. The local arrived and I got in. One stop, two, still nervous.
When the train arrived at the third stop, a well-dressed man who had been seated to my right got out and walked across the platform to the express.
I saw that he had left a bag that looked like it could hold his lunch.
I grabbed it.
“Hey!” I shouted.
The man who left the bag didn’t turn around, but a tall man in overalls standing on the platform did. He saw the bag and motioned for me to give it to him.
I handed it over as the doors began to close on me. The man in overalls ran to the express.
“Blue suit!” he screamed.
My train pulled away and I watched him hand the man his lunch bag as the doors of the express closed.
—Michael Sardo
Back on the Show
Dear Diary:
Olivia and I met in New York University. After we left in 2019, we both moved back two years later and were promptly given tickets to see Straight to Hell, a Clash cover band who is one of our favorites, play their annual Joe Strummer birthday tribute show at the Knitting Factory.
As usual, the show was on towards the end of the summer, when the New York weather begins to change from sweltering to mild.
The band and the vibes were the same as always: loud, punchy and fun. But there were some differences, such as vaccination checks. There was also less moshing than usual.
The people in the crowd were also the same. Since Olivia and I had been coming for years, I recognized some of the faces: regulars and avid Clash fans. I had never spoken to any of them. I wondered if they recognized me too.
The band’s set was diverse, deep-seated favorites laced with energetic sing-alongs and crowd pleasers.
“It’s great to have live music again,” the lead singer said at one point.
There was cheering and then they broke into the next song.
— Jennifer Suzukawa-Tseng
Strangers no more
Dear Diary:
On my way to a doctor’s appointment, I stepped into a large, empty elevator in Midtown.
As the doors closed, one woman, then another, ran for the elevator. I held the doors and the three of us, masked and standing five feet apart, nodded at each other.
There was a mirror in the elevator. I turned and looked at my reflection.
“Oh god,” I blurted out. “My hair is so horrible!” (I hadn’t colored it in 19 months and had only cut it once in that time.)
The woman to my left spoke softly.
“I’m so unhappy,” she said.
The woman to my right came in.
“I need to see a psychiatrist,” she said.
We all started laughing. And when the doors on my floor opened, the three of us, now intimate strangers, said, “Have a nice day!” almost in unison.
— Kathy Talalay