Dear Diary: I was downstairs at the Duane Reade in the Chanin Building one evening after work, making my way to the back exit, a convenient entrance to the subway. The sales floor was abandoned. A lone man wandered out of the grocery aisle in the same direction I was headed. The doors to the subway passage were locked. I had made the trip downstairs for nothing. “Subway’s locked,” I said to the man. “Beer’s locked, too,” he said with a sigh, and then walked off with his little red shopping basket. — Paul Klenk