METROPOLITAN DIARY

A bittersweet last day of summer, a late-night song in Brooklyn and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.

Astoria Pool

Dear Diary:

It was the last day of summer at the Astoria Pool, and I already regretted not having gone more often. Slipping into the cool water always feels like slipping back in time, and another summer had passed with too few pool days.

I looked up at the Triborough Bridge to my left, the Hell Gate Bridge to my right and the blue sky above — the same view swimmers have been enjoying since 1936, except that today there are more trees.

Some things haven’t changed in all my visits: the Art Deco bathhouse, the wide bleachers (so perfect for sunbathing with a good book), the lifeguards spinning their whistles.

Some things have changed a little: The old-style lampposts now held planters of red geraniums and pale petunias.

Sometimes, change has been dramatic: The diving pool, which once hosted U.S. Olympic trials and sat empty for years, has been filled and tiled over and had people lying on loungers atop it, soaking in the summer’s last rays.

I stayed until the end of the day and watched the sunset, framed by the Triborough, cast gold ripples across the water and the lap swimmers.

A man who had been sitting nearby paused on his way out.

“You look sentimental,” he said.

“I am,” I replied.

“Last day, right?” he said wistfully. Then he smiled. “Have a good winter.”

— Jenna Flannigan

(Brooklyn, 1:10 a.m.)

Dear Diary:

Someone was singing,
and our hearts,
for one decimal
of time, broke open.

Men stepped in-
to windows,
and women, listening.

For there is
for so few
any pleasure —
for even rich men.
For anyone.

I leaned
on a lamppost,
listening and listening.

I did not dare stir
until the singer finished.

— Rolli Anderson

Encounter With a Vampire

Dear Diary:

It was the 1960s, and I was commuting from New Jersey into the city for acting classes and auditions. To earn some money, I took a job selling men’s toiletries at Stern’s department store on 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue.

Besides the mild headaches I got from smelling so much cologne, the job had its perks. So many interesting people would pass by that I never got bored.

One day, a man in a cape came sweeping through the aisles and stopped at my counter. It was the actor Jonathan Frid in his role as Barnabas Collins.

Someone with him asked if I would like to take some publicity pictures with daytime TV’s resident vampire.

Yes, I said immediately.

Mr. Frid bared his fangs. I was told to brandish a bottle of perfume and act scared.

I tried not to laugh. (Some actress!)

One day years later, my acting career long dead and buried, I happened to think of the encounter and to wonder whether copies of the pictures existed.

I called ABC’s publicity department and I soon had a couple of 8x10 glossies of me and the star of “Dark Shadows” in the men’s toiletries department at Stern’s.

— Janet Kolstein

Finding ‘Fischer’

Dear Diary:

I recently retired with a yen to play chess again. I love the game but hadn’t played it in years.

I remembered that Central Park has a lovely chess area perched on a shady hilltop where there is usually someone looking for a game — more often than not either a very strong player or what’s called a “patzer” (someone much weaker).

I went there and was delighted to find it much the same as I recalled. I overheard a man giving an introductory lesson to a young boy. His instructions were clear and concise and peppered with interesting historical tidbits.

When the boy left with his father, I asked the man if he’d like to play.

“Sure,” he said.

I introduced myself, and he said he was “Fischer.”

“As in Bobby?”

“Yes,” he said. “He was my favorite player.”

Expecting to be routed, I was pleasantly surprised to find that our skills were about even. Plus, if one of us blundered in the middle of a close game, the other would offer a mulligan to take the move back.

“Why let one small mistake spoil a good game for both of us?” he said when I thanked him for that courtesy he said.

We meet regularly now. I still don’t know his real name.

— John Jaeger

To Start

Dear Diary:

My wife and I went to a restaurant on Broadway on the Upper West Side. It was a beautiful late-summer night, and we took a table on the street.

A bright-eyed young waitress approached us and asked if we’d like to start with drinks.

My wife ordered a tequila.

The waitress smiled and noted it on her hand-held device.

I ordered a screwdriver.

The waitress stared at me blankly.

It was noisy on Broadway, so I repeated my request: “A screwdriver, please.”

The waitress shrugged.

“OK,” she said, “But can you tell me what you need it for?”

— Ari L. Goldman

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee

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‘Slipping Into the Cool Water Always Feels Like Slipping Back in Time’