The City Between Us

Crosstown: After Everything I’ve Done For You: The Absurd War Over a West Village Apartment

Darcy and Cole land their dream rent-controlled apartment, a cramped West Village jewel, perfect for unraveling emotionally and Instagramming desperation. But their peace evaporates when Tristan and Juan arrive, a queer couple with a militant Pekingese named AOC and a lease claim tangled in the mysteries of Omar, the elusive realtor-landlord hybrid who might hold every key in Lower Manhattan.

What starts as a housing dispute spirals into a hostage-art installation, a guerrilla war zone, and a sharp allegory for displacement, gentrification, and territorial conflict. Omar’s line—“He calls me the squatter, I call him the occupier, but the truth is, we both have keys”—cracks open the entire metaphor: this is about more than real estate. It’s the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in 600 square feet.

Michael Arturo’s absurdist satire doesn’t just riff on queerness, urban survival, or rent hikes. It drills down into who owns the story of a place, who gets to belong, and what happens when peace is just a truce you can’t trust.

The characters fight over bathroom schedules and brunch spots while wrestling with centuries of history, identity, and power. The final punchline? A co-op vote—proof that gentrification is the slowest war of all.

No neat endings here. Just the uneasy truce of coexistence, a warning against erasing agents of conflict, and a militant Pekingese ready to enforce order.

Subscribe to Crosstown for the full breakdown of this dense, funny, and profoundly uncomfortable satire. Because sometimes the hardest thing isn’t choosing a side — it’s giving up the story that made you who you are.

“After Everything I’ve Done For You” concludes tomorrow, Friday.

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

A lavender cloud of incense drifted diagonally across the exposed brick like something summoned during a séance for unresolved trauma.

Juan twirled in a slow circle, palms out, barefoot on the hardwood. “It’s amazing what a room does without negative energy clogging up the chakra ducts.”

Tristan was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Darcy and Cole, who were still zip-tied and gagged like failed escape artists.

“I miss him,” Tristan murmured, staring wistfully at the sealed fireplace.

“Who? Omar?” Juan asked.

“There was something about him. A gravitas. Like he’d seen things. Real things. Pain.”

Juan nodded solemnly. “And fear. Like a man who once had to flee in the middle of the night with just his passport and a moka pot.”

“Exactly,” Tristan whispered. “His eyes said I have been broken, and yet I remain whole.”

“Not sexual,” Juan clarified, raising a finger.

“No, no. Paternal. Surrogate daddy-ish.”

“Absolutely. Though—if you two were to run off …”

“Run off?” Tristan said, baffled, “Why are you even going there?”

“I saw the way you were leering at him, Tristan!”

“Juan,” Tristan gently chided, “this is you—projecting again.”

“Oh, is that who this is? Or maybe this is just someone who is not ready to lose someone else to some sweaty Palestinian, Tris-tan! Okay? I know he’s f*****g gorgeous and earthy, but you don’t have to leer at him like you’re not getting it at home.”

“I was not leering!” Tristan protested.

“You were leering like you wanted to smoke his ass!” Juan snapped back.

Darcy suddenly let out a gagged, wet grunt. AOC barked.

“Is there something you’d like to add, Darcy? I’m sure Cole has something on his mind as well.” Juan said, quite perturbed.

Tristan leaned back on his hands. “What do we do with them? I mean, the energy has shifted. We can’t just let them go. That’s practically gentrification.”

Juan sat beside him, pulling AOC into his lap. “Let’s spitball.”

AOC growled low, like a tiny espresso machine warming up.

“Art installation?” Juan offered. “Something like a ‘Cisgenders—Not Okay’ display.”

Tristan tilted his head. “Hmmm, maybe. What about mixed media? We could wrap them in newspapers. The Times for Cole because he clearly loathes himself. Daily Mail for her—she vibrates like someone raised on sidebar content.”

Darcy squirmed and hissed behind her gag.

“Ooh, she’s passionate,” Juan noted. “What about a performance piece? They scream their microaggressions live on the hour. Tip jar for reparations!”

Tristan twirled a palo santo stick between his fingers. “Mmm, too edgy.”

Cole raised one brow—just one. He was too tired to raise two.

Juan paced the living room like a militant choreographer, arms gesturing with wild precision. “Okay. Here’s a thought experiment-slash-practical strategy: we offer them as hostages to Omar as leverage.”

Tristan’s head whipped around. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You know,” Juan said, too casually, “he uses them to negotiate with the landlord. The Israeli guy. Full building occupancy in exchange for the straight couple.”

“If only they were worth the karma, Juan.” Tristan pointed directly at his own heart. “I have boundaries.”

They stood in a stalemate of principle and delusion. AOC broke the silence with a soft, approving growl.

Juan nodded. “AOC votes for un-gagging.”

Juan knelt behind Cole and ripped the pillowcase strip from his mouth with the flourish of a magician. Cole gasped. Not for air—he’d been breathing fine—but for dignity.

Darcy followed a moment later, coughing like someone being reborn through a dust storm.

“You absolute lunatics,” she spat.

“Hello to you too, sage demon,” Tristan said flatly.

“You can’t just keep people!” she screamed. “This is kidnapping!”

Juan blinked. “Oh honey, it’s not kidnapping. It’s curation.”

Cole licked his lips. “This is illegal. Even in New York.”

“Is it, though?” Tristan said. “Have you read your lease?”

“You stole our apartment! We don’t have a lease!” Darcy shrieked.

“Exactly,” Juan said, as if she’d just solved a riddle.

Cole leaned forward. “Okay. Okay. Can we just... talk like normal people?”

“Like a throuple?” Tristan asked, eyes narrowing.

Cole opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Tristan leaned in. “Do you know what that moment felt like? Being objectified as sex objects?”

Juan chimed in. “It felt like someone reached inside our bodies and pulled our souls out through our a*****e chakras!”

Darcy blinked. “That’s not even a thing.”

“Oh it is,” Juan said. “Ask my chiropractor.”

Cole spoke slowly. “It was a joke. I make jokes. I’m a writer.”

“Oh! Oh!” Tristan snapped, clapping his hands like a game show buzzer had gone off. “A writer! That explains the crippling emotional vacancy and disregard for social cues.”

“Writers are allowed to be a little insane,” Darcy said. “It’s—occupational.”

“Cole’s not insane,” Juan replied. “Cole’s disrespectful. There’s a difference. Insane makes great art. Disrespectful makes two gay men feel like fleshlamps in some twisted straight-gay-trouple sex romp!”

Darcy tried. “We were just—trying to fit in.”

“You tried too hard,” Tristan hissed.

Juan stood, cracked his neck. “Well, time for the list.”

Cole looked to Darcy. “There’s a list?”

Juan unrolled the list like a royal scroll.

Cole looked up toward the ceiling.

Darcy muttered, “How bad could it be?”

“The following,” Tristan announced, “is a list of our terms.”

Cole groaned from the floor. “Why is it always a list with you people?”

Tristan didn’t look at him. “You people? Because order, Cole. It’s how we survived Catholic school, retail jobs, and 2016.”

Juan clicked a remote. Satie's Gymnopédie No.1 began to echo through the Sonos speaker. AOC circled the perimeter like a velvet-rope bouncer.

“Item One,” Tristan began, voice low and ceremonial. “1600 hours of sensitivity training for Cole and an apology for the ‘throuple’ comment—via interpretive dance. No verbal language. Movement only.”

Cole squinted. “Wait. But—how interpretive?”

“We’re open to styles,” Juan said generously. “Just not jazz. Too colonial.”

“Item Two,” Tristan went on, “Darcy must renounce the title ‘Positive Lifestyle Architect’ and all derivative branding.”

Darcy's mouth opened like a wound. “You can’t unbrand me!”

“Oh, honey, it’s for your own good,” Tristan said gently. “Do you even have the slightest notion of how pretentious ‘Positive Lifestyle Architect’ sounds?”

“Item Three,” Juan said, flipping the parchment like a wedding officiant, “You will pack what remains of your dignity and accept ceremonial exile to Brooklyn.”

Cole exhaled. “I knew that was coming.”

“You’ll be placed in Crown Heights,” Juan said. “East side. Above a vintage apothecary that specializes in fermented oat tonics and dog treats made of moss.”

Darcy gasped. “We’re being banished?”

Tristan rolled up the parchment with a neat little snap. “We prefer the term transitioned.”

“I have clients,” Darcy said, grasping for leverage. “I have an audience.”

Cole turned to Darcy. “We can do this, Darce. I’ve heard good things about Crown Heights.”

Darcy stared at him. “Have you lost your mind? I AM NOT F*****G MOVING TO BROOKLYN!”

AOC barked once.

Then again—sharper, sharper still.

Everyone froze.

There was a whistle—faint, high-pitched—and then:

BOOM.

The floor trembled. A concussive shock rolled through the walls like angry bass from an underground party no one had been invited to. A decorative sconce fell dramatically as if fainting from the news.

Smoke puffed from the windowsill.

“Did someone just shell the building?!” Tristan asked, eyes wild, clutching the crown of succulents sliding off his head.

“I thought that was a gas line,” Juan whimpered.

“It was not a gas line,” Darcy snapped. “I’ve lived through at least two controlled burns in Malibu and that had artillery overtones.”

Then, rattatatatatat. Machine gun fire. From outside. And very, very close.

“We’re under attack! Untie us!” Darcy and Cole yelled to Tristan and Juan.

Everyone ducked—except AOC, who calmly walked to the door and sat, proud and serene, like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life.

A moment later, the front door burst open.

OMAR.

Face covered in sweat and soot. Bleeding lightly from the bicep. Still in his sweatpants, trench coat flapping open like a cape. He looked like an exhausted freedom fighter who moonlighted as a motivational speaker.

“I told you,” he wheezed, clutching the doorframe. “I told you I would go to war for you.”

“Omar!” Tristan screamed.

Juan fainted on a pouf.

Darcy ran to Omar. “You’ve been shot!”

“I’ve been merely grazed,” Omar corrected, holding up his arm. “I am not afraid to die for my beliefs!”

Cole blinked. “What is going on here? Who the hell is shooting at us?”

Omar looked up, eyes wild with purpose. His voice dropped into something reverent, vaguely haunted.

“My cousin. The landlord.”

Silence.

“The Israeli landlord?” Tristan asked cautiously.

Omar hesitated. “Technically, I’m more Israeli than he is. In spirit, not in passport. Well, we share a grandmother. Sort of. It's complicated. She’s more of a symbolic grandmother. By marriage. Through trauma.”

Juan looked horrified. “So you’re family?”

“He’s not my cousin cousin,” Omar clarified. “He’s… my brother. But not of blood. More spiritual. Like… next-gen Cain and Abel.”

Darcy squinted. “So you’re on the same side but also trying to kill each other?”

“Exactly,” Omar said, relieved someone understood. “But only when negotiations fail. Which they have. Repeatedly.”

Another explosion rattled the fire escape—a ceramic “Live Laugh Love” tile shattered in the kitchen.

“He believes this building is his divine inheritance,” Omar continued, brushing drywall off his shoulder. “But I was here first. ‘No, you weren’t,’ he says, which is partly true. ‘You are realtor,’ he says, ‘I am landlord.’ Back and forth. It’s a long story.”

Cole slumped to the floor. “So we’re at war with your spiritual cousin. Over shared ancestral square footage that neither of you technically owns?”

“Close enough,” Omar said. “But it’s not personal. It’s generational. And we both love a good war.”

“I knew it,” Tristan whispered. “I knew that sealed fireplace was hiding trauma.”

Darcy stepped forward, shaking with adrenaline and decades of repressed privilege. “What do we do?”

“There are weapons in the hallway,” Omar said briskly. “A duffel with everything you need. Pistols, walkie-talkies, artisanal throwing knives, one beret.”

“A beret?” Juan groaned from the floor. “I can’t fight in a beret. I’ll look like a radical mime.”

“Arm yourselves,” Omar said. “If you want to stay, you must take a stand.”

Darcy stepped forward like Joan of Arc with a yoga mat. “I’ll fight.”

Cole turned to her. “Are you insane?”

“You heard him,” she said. “If we want to stay … we gotta fight! I never told you this, Cole, but I adjusted my personality in five separate interviews to secure this apartment for us. I’m not gonna just give up now!”

“Darcy, I am not cut out to fight a war over a rent-controlled apartment.”

“You’re a writer, Cole,” she said, grabbing a pistol from the duffel Omar shoved through the door. “And writers survive everything. Hemingway had shrapnel in his ass and still managed to be insufferable.”

Another burst of gunfire. A window cracked.

Juan sat up slowly, holding AOC. “This is above my chakra pay grade.”

Tristan was in the corner, frantically searching “queer militias” on his phone. “I don’t know if I’m spiritually ready for guerrilla warfare.”

“Ask her,” Juan said suddenly, gripping AOC like she was holding the fate of their lease in her tiny paws. “She always knows what’s right.”

Everyone turned to AOC.

AOC closed her eyes.

Another burst of machine gun fire outside. She opened them.

Then barked once. Short. Sharp.

Omar nodded. “She’s in.”

Darcy turned to Cole. “Are you?”

Cole looked at the pistol. Then the walkie-talkie. Then the cracked ceiling. Then Tristan and Juan and Darcy and the smoking wall where a motivational quote had once been stenciled.

He sighed. “Give me the beret.”

end of part three

© Michael Arturo, 2025

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

The central premise of Michael Arturo’s story “Skyline” revolves around the transformative power of an unexpected relationship. Elliot Van Alen, a privileged architect from a renowned architectural family, is a "has been" whose latest design has been rejected as "derivative." He encounters Solomon, a blind man who experiences and understands the city in a profound, non-visual way. This encounter challenges Elliot's perspective on architecture, success, and his own life, ultimately leading to a new vision for his career and a more meaningful connection to the city and himself.

The narrative fundamentally challenges the idea that expertise and wisdom are solely tied to conventional measures like formal education, professional status, or physical sight. The central premise of a blind man teaching a renowned architect how to truly "see" the city is a direct subversion of these notions. Solomon, despite his lack of sight and privileged status, possesses a profound understanding of the city's soul, history, and the essence of meaningful architecture. This highlights that true innovation and understanding often come from unexpected sources and require a willingness to be open to different perspectives and forms of knowledge.

Solomon, despite his blindness, possesses a deep and intimate understanding of New York through sound, touch, movement, and historical knowledge. He teaches Elliot, who has always relied on sight and traditional architectural principles, to "hear" and "feel" the city. Solomon describes sound as "architecture," with noises "stack[ing] on each other like building blocks, creating these invisible structures throughout the city." He can discern the city's history and layout through these sensory experiences.

Elliot is haunted by the legacy of his grand-uncle, William Van Alen, the architect of the Chrysler Building. The Chrysler Building is presented as a "masterpiece" and a "Cathedral of Commerce," but also a "monument to ambition's quiet erasure," as William never built again after a dispute and faded into obscurity. Elliot is driven by a desire to escape this fate, to "carve his name into the sky" and "change the skyline." Solomon challenges this ego-driven ambition, asking Elliot if he is trying to build something meaningful or just "chasing your grand-uncle's ghost." The race to the sky in the 1920s, particularly the story of the hidden spire of the Chrysler Building unveiled the day before the stock market crash, is used as a metaphor for "pride coming before the fall" and the fleeting nature of dominance.

The walking tour of Manhattan becomes a "master class in how to experience a city." Solomon guides Elliot not just through physical space but through the city's felt reality. He encourages Elliot to listen to the city's "hum" and feel its pulse under his feet, a stark contrast to Elliot's usual view from "penthouse parties from the back of a cab." Solomon highlights buildings that "move with the chaos, not against it," like the Flatiron Building dancing with the wind, and spaces that "give something back," like the High Line and Little Island. The walk forces Elliot to see the city not just through his eyes, but through his senses, challenging his limited perspective shaped by privilege and visual dominance.

The racial and class dynamics inherent in the relationship between the wealthy white architect and the blind Black man who lives on the streets become confrontational when Solomon calls out Elliot's guilt about "using" him, which is described as "real, so necessary," forcing Elliot to confront his own privilege and leading to growth. Solomon's sharp observation about the potential for their collaboration to be labeled as Elliot finding a "magic negro" underscores the societal stereotypes and challenges they face.

Michael Arturo is a writer of short fiction, plays, and essays with a focus on social criticism, political commentary, and satire. His work often explores the intersection of history, identity, and ambition in the modern world. Michael draws inspiration not just from contemporary life but from a personal legacy rooted deep in New York’s architectural history: his great-grandfather was a foreman on the construction of the Chrysler Building. Family lore holds that he was present the day architect William Van Alen’s secret spire was raised—an audacious move that briefly made the Chrysler the tallest building in the world.

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The apartment was tiny, but to Darcy and Cole, it was a kingdom.

Darcy had already picked out the corner by the sealed fireplace for her yoga routines. There, the light pooled golden for thirty minutes before slinking into shadows. She pictured a bamboo mat, maybe a fiddle-leaf fig, maybe an Instagram post tagged #GratitudeFromTheWestVillage.

She would expand her coaching brand, Positive Lifestyle Architect, from this very corner. Manhattan was her launchpad. All she needed was space to breathe.

Cole had humbler ambitions: write something. Anything. He planned to perch at the wobbly kitchen counter, punching out articles, maybe even starting the novel he kept re-editing in his mind. He had a shelf of exactly seven books—one of them a tattered Great Gatsby inscribed by his father: Never let them tell you what success is.

His father had been a failed writer who'd succeeded once. Cole wasn't even that.

The bedroom barely fit their queen-sized bed. The door scraped the mattress when it opened, turning entry into a slow dance of hip-and-pivot. A single grated window caught just enough moonlight to make the claustrophobia seem romantic.

They fell asleep that first night tangled together, breathing in sync for once.

Outside, the trees rustled gently.

Inside, the toilet murmured like a man remembering a war.

They almost believed they were safe.

Then the key turned in the lock.

Cole sat up. “Did you hear that?”

Darcy, half-asleep, swatted him in the chest and rolled over. “If this isn’t life or death, you just destroyed my circadian rhythm.”

“Darcy. Wake up. Someone’s in our apartment.”

“Maybe it’s the building settling.”

“The building is not settling into our apartment.”

A faint breath—slow, deliberate.

Then click. Buzz. The kitchen light flicked on.

Darcy bolted upright. “Is that… a grinder?”

Cole crouched behind the half-unpacked couch. “Are we getting robbed?”

“No one robs with a conical burr grinder. This is either murder or very expensive coffee.”

They peeked around the corner.

Omar.

Omar from After Everything I’ve Done For You Realty. Wearing sweatpants, a button-down shirt, and an expression like this was all deeply inconvenient for him.

Sparks flew from the grinder—a faint smell of scorched metal.

“OMAR?!” they shouted.

“Good evening,” he said calmly, not looking up.

“I apologize for waking you. Small error in paperwork. You must move out by six.”

“Six... A.M.?” Darcy squawked.

“Yes, yes. Very sorry. But new tenants are coming. I am preparing keys.”

“We have a lease,” Cole said.

Omar gave a diplomatic shrug. “New lease has been issued. Unfortunate miscommunication. Opportunity for you. Fresh start!”

He unplugged the grinder with care, smoothing invisible dust off the counter.

“This is old rule,” he explained gently. “Obscure. Subchapter Three, Clause 44B. In case of administrative error, occupancy reverts to—how you say?—best and final offer.”

Darcy’s jaw dropped. “That’s not a thing.”

“In New York,” Omar said with a smile, “everything is a thing.”

Cole stepped forward. “You can’t break into people’s homes at three a.m.”

Omar looked wounded. “My friend. Where I come from? Fifteen people sleep in one room. Sometimes sixteen if cousin visits. Goats too. Very cozy.”

He gestured fondly around the apartment. “This? This is luxury. And what is luxury if not to be shared with others who love it more?”

Darcy, twitching. “You’re evicting us... democratically?”

“Exactly!” Omar beamed. “The people speak. You know—democracy, capitalism, Craigslist.”

Cole raised his phone. “I’m calling the cops.”

Omar shrugged. “Police may come. Maybe they say, ‘Omar, bad man.’ Maybe they say, ‘Omar, practical thinker.’ Police in New York are very philosophical.”

“Cole, do something!” Darcy shrieked.

Cole froze. “You’re the one who helps people live their best lives.”

Darcy grabbed him by the shirt. “You’re the writer! There has to be a short story where this happens. Solve it like one of those little narrative puzzles you like so much!”

“You’re the Positive Lifestyle Architect. Build a solution!”

Darcy turned to Omar, vibrating with rage. “This is disgusting! I cannot believe how you’re behaving! I trusted you!”

Omar looked genuinely disappointed.

“You know,” he said softly, “when I small boy, we all gathered sitting together on the dusty floors to watch American television, dreaming of this life. Of American woman. Beautiful blonde. Eyes as blue as the sky. So confident. So free.”

Darcy blinked.

Omar continued: “Now I see—it is the nightmare. Angry. Yelling. Me first! I am very disillusioned. Like when you meet childhood idols and they smell like vinegar.”

Darcy screamed and lunged at him.

Cole shouted, “Darcy, no!”

Omar calmly sidestepped and unholstered a tiny pink pepper spray canister. Pssst!

Darcy staggered backward into Cole. Both collapsed.

A moment later, duct tape hissed from the kitchen. Before Darcy and Cole knew what was happening, they were tied back-to-back in the living room, blinking through watery eyes.

“Sorry to do this, but you artistic ones are always the most difficult!”

Omar then took a step back to admire his work, nodded approvingly, and turned toward the door.

"Come, please," he called.

The door swung open, and Tristan and Juan paraded in, dragging two massive Louis Vuitton suitcases and the tiny, furious Pekingese.

"AOC, honey, you're home!" Juan trilled.

They followed Omar eagerly into the apartment, clucking over the exposed brick, the "original fixtures,” and the "open concept kitchen.” They barely glanced at Cole and Darcy — who lay squirming, zip-tied on the floor, gagged with strips of their own pillowcases.

Tristan paused briefly, smiling at them.

“Oh my God, you guys!" Tristan chirped. "It's so cool to see familiar faces already. What a small world!"

“Well, here it is! It is not everything I told you!”

“It so is, Omar!”

“I go to war for my clients! After everything I’ve done for you!”

“So—just a heads up,” Juan said, leaning towards Darcy and Cole, “Tristan and I are moving forward with a formal complaint. Legal action, technically. For the unwanted sexual overture made in a public space.”

Darcy and Cole’s eyes widened. Juan offered nothing but a sympathetic smile as if announcing a charity bake sale.

“I mean, we laughed at the time, but trauma’s funny like that—delayed onset. You understand.”

AOC, the Pekingese, patrolled in slow circles around Darcy and Cole, her tiny paws clicking with militaristic precision. She paused every few steps to stare them down, growling softly at the first whimper or sigh as if daring them to blink wrong.

Tristan, now lighting a palo santo stick, chimed in without turning around. “It wasn’t even the suggestion of a throuple. It was the timing. Very aggressive. We were vulnerable. AOC hadn’t even peed yet.”

Juan nodded solemnly. “So yeah, hope you don’t mind. Nothing personal. Just cleansing the energy and also suing you a little.”

He patted Darcy on the knee like a nurse. “And don’t worry—we’ll keep it civil. Like, very civil court.”

“I’m thinking we knock this wall down,” Tristan said, gesturing at a structural column like a cult leader revealing where the portal opens. “Open the whole space up. Something with flow.”

Juan nodded, his arms crossed, the tension in his brow as severe as if the future of democracy hinged on this remodel. “Yes — knock down everything that feels ‘resistant.’ This apartment has emotional blockages.”

“Built-ins over here,” Tristan added, sketching wildly into a Moleskine. “A minimalist altar — something with lines.”

Juan clapped. “Oh my God — lines.”

AOC let out a single bark — high, sharp, judicial.

Juan pointed toward the sealed fireplace. “What if we turned that into a wet bar? Something elegant, but also slutty.”

“I like ‘slutty,’” Tristan said, flipping a page. “We should lean into slutty.”

Darcy let out a muffled grunt from her stool. AOC whipped her head toward her, teeth bared. Cole instinctively leaned forward to shield her — and was met with a guttural snarl from the floor.

“Don’t test her,” Juan warned. “She smells fear and capitalism.”

end of part two

© Michael Arturo, 2025

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

Subject: Review of Michael Arturo's short story "Down Man, 2084"

Summary:

Michael Arturo paints a bleak, dystopian future in New York City in the year 2084, specifically focusing on the district of Lower Manhattan, which has been renamed "Down Man" after repeated tragedies and societal decay. The narrative, which the author attributes influences of Orwell, Bradbury, and Phillip K. Dick, explores themes of technological control, the nature of identity, the power of narratives (both true and manufactured), and the enduring, though often fractured, spirit of rebellion. The central figure is Irides, a genetically engineered musician whose mind chip, designed for control, malfunctions and unlocks the ability to manipulate digital identity through "Chameleon Tech." This technology becomes the catalyst for a brief uprising against the omnipresent surveillance state, "Big Other," but is ultimately subverted and weaponized by the system itself. The stories culminate in Irides' apparent downfall, the potential for his legacy, and the fight for identity to continue through a new character, Aya.

Key Themes and Ideas:

* The Scars of History and the Decay of Society: The story establish a future New York haunted by past tragedies, particularly the September 11th attacks (2001 and 2051). The physical and psychological weight of these events has transformed Lower Manhattan into "Down Man," a place defined by loss, fear, and a fundamental lack of control. It becomes a haven for the marginalized and defiant.

* "New York has always been a city haunted by its ghosts, and its skyline is a living memory of tragedies that shaped the nation."

* "Lower Manhattan...became something else entirely: a monument to loss, fear, and the fragile nature of human control. The survivors left to rebuild in the ashes of another catastrophe gave the district a new name: Down Man."

* "It was more than a geographical marker. It was an elegy. A reminder of the weight of gravity—both physical and historical. The place where men fell, and where hope never fully rose again."

* Technological Control and the Surveillance State ("Big Other"):

* "By 2084, Big Other had transformed the world into a digital feudal state. Every citizen was tracked, categorized, assigned a place in the machine."

* "Big Other watched from every glowing screen, every drone’s unblinking eye."

* "A Sentinel Drone hovered down from the sodium-lit haze, scanning him with the cold precision of an unfeeling algorithm."

* Identity as a Construct and a Weapon:

* "As defined by the state, identity was nothing more than a dataset, a series of coordinates in a shifting digital landscape. It was not real."

* "And what is not real can be rewritten."

* "He developed the first iteration of Chameleon Tech—a protocol that could rewrite a person’s biometric signature in real time."

* The Power of Narrative and the Manufacturing of Truth:

* "Surveillance is not about security. It is about control."

* "And control is not about force. It is about perception."

* "Big Other perfected its greatest weapon for decades—not violence, but the illusion of truth."

* "This was how they dismantled Chameleon. This was how they turned identity against itself."

* "They manufactured a past for Irides. They named him Jabari Okoro—a fabricated criminal, a digital phantom inserted into the system’s records."

* The Subversion and Commodification of Rebellion:

* "Chameleon Technology was dead. Or rather, it had been devoured by the very system it sought to undermine. No longer an open-source tool of liberation, it was now a luxury product, accessible only to the wealthy, the powerful—the ones who had never needed it in the first place."

* "The irony burned. His creation, meant to free the people, had become the ultimate tool of the elite. The very technology that could have saved him now concealed his oppressors."

* The Fragility of Movements and the Internal Threat:

* "Because once the seed of doubt is planted, once the movement begins fighting itself, the battle is already lost."

* "Revolution does not die when the enemy attacks from the outside. It dies when the people start questioning whether they were ever fighting the right war."

* The Enduring Seed of Rebellion and the Continuation of the Fight:

* "They threw down a man. But I’ve found a signal."

* "It was salvage. It was refusal. It was a quiet rebellion against oblivion."

* "But what it failed to erase was the idea. The belief that identity, once freed from control, could not be caged again."

* "Hope, in Down Man, was not something you claimed. It was something you passed, quietly, hand to hand, like contraband."

Most Important Ideas/Facts:

* Down Man as a symbol: Lower Manhattan's transformation into "Down Man" is not just geographical; it represents a psychological state of defeat and marginalization resulting from repeated trauma and systemic control.

* The nature of Irides: Irides is a tragic figure, a product of genetic engineering whose unintended deviation from the norm allows him to challenge the system. His original gift is music, which symbolizes human unpredictability and expression, later replaced by the ability to see and manipulate the "architecture of control."

* Chameleon Tech's double edge: While offering the potential for liberation by disrupting state surveillance, Chameleon Tech's fluidity and mutability ultimately become its greatest weakness when exploited by Big Other.

* The "Jabari Okoro" fabrication: The creation of Jabari Okoro is the key turning point in Big Other's counter-revolution. It demonstrates the system's mastery of narrative manipulation and identity erasure.

* The show-trial and its purpose: Irides' public trial and forced confession serve not as a legal proceeding but as a theatrical demonstration of state power and a warning to potential rebels.

* The betrayal by the "Unseen": Irides' death at the hands of his own followers highlights the success of Big Other's strategy of sowing doubt and turning people against each other.

* Aya's role as a potential successor: Aya's act of retrieving Irides' mind chip suggests that the fight for identity will continue, perhaps in a more technological and less visible form, carrying the "seed" of his rebellion.

* The question of who decides identity: The recurring question, "Who decides what we are? And what happens when we decide for ourselves?" encapsulates the central conflict of the stories.

In conclusion, Michael Arturo's "Down Man, 2084" offers a powerful and cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked technological control, the malleability of identity in a digitally saturated world, and the constant struggle for individual autonomy against overwhelming systemic power.

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Michael Arturo writes contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, and satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

"We just landed our dream apartment," Darcy announced, practically vibrating with joy, to Tristan and Juan—two strangers she and Cole had befriended ten minutes into their first wide-eyed stroll through Abingdon Square.

“One-bedroom. On Bank Street, no less.”

Cole, her Connecticut-bred husband, nodded, his face molded into a stiff rictus.

“Get out!” Juan, leashed to his Pekingese, cried. “A one-bedroom on a tree-lined street? That's like finding a unicorn that already knows how to use a litter box.”

“Oh, you’re funny, Juan!” Darcy bounced.

“On a good day. Most of the time, I’m just manic-y.”

“Who’s your agent?” Tristan demanded. “If you don’t mind.”

“His name is Omar,” Darcy said. “He’s a little eccentric, but OH MY GOD—he is just … THE BEST! I mean, he went to war for us. Risked everything to get us in.”

"Please tell me you have his card. I will pay in blood,” Tristan declared. “I have paid in blood before. Not for housing, but still.”

“We’re dying to move back to the West Village,” Juan added, nearly dropping the Pekingese’s leash. “Brooklyn is just...so Brooklyn now. Everyone there has a kombucha brewery in their bathtub. It’s exhausting.”

“Brooklyn is like a halfway house for people who aren't ready to admit they hate drinking oat milk from a jam jar. Okay?” Tristan quipped.

“We are so f*****g over it!” deadpanned Juan

“Darcy, excuse my prying, but I must know what you do for a living?” Tristan asked.

“Helping people live their best selves—to be quite honest," Darcy said brightly, her voice two octaves too high, the trauma sublimating into some manic presentation energy. “I like to call myself a Positive Lifestyle Architect.”

"God, that is so inspiring," Tristan breathed, clutching his Hermes scarf. “You got it goin’ on, girl. You’re young, blonde, with a sexy husband, and here you are—the Village! You’re ready to set the world on fire, right?”

“I know, it’s just so amazing!”

“You know what they say— ’when the universe opens up for you.’”

Meanwhile, the furious Pekingese spun in furious little circles like a demonic wind-up toy.

“Shush, quiet, AOC! Pappy’s talking!” Juan scolded, clicking his tongue.

Cole blinked. “Wait. Your puppy’s name is AOC?”

Juan straightened, brushing imaginary lint from his shorts. “Fierce, independent, Puerto Rican,” he said, ticking the qualities off on his fingers. “She’s not a Pekingese; she’s a Puerto Ricanese. Look at her — tiny but insane enough to take down an empire.”

AOC bared her tiny teeth and yapped again to underline the point.

Darcy laughed, her earlier nervousness dissolving into a ripple of absurdity. Cole smiled too, a little wearily, still unsure whether he was in the middle of a meet-cute or a hostage situation.

“What do you do, Cole?” Tristan asked, a hint of performance in his smile.

Cole smiled weakly, hands shoved in the pockets of his fraying khakis.

“I’m... uh... not doing anything right now.”

“Oh, I've been there,” Tristan said sympathetically, with a world-weary sigh.

“I’m there right now!” Juan laughed, throwing up jazz hands.

Darcy seized the moment, switching into life coach mode.

“Cole’s a writer.”

“Not really a writer,” Cole mumbled, instantly undermining.

“Yeah, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“YEAH, YOU ARE!” Darcy hissed under her breath, her teeth flashing. “You’re a f*****g writer. Don’t embarrass me!"

“I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m not a writer until I’ve written something worth reading.”

Darcy spun back toward Tristan and Juan with fierce brightness.

“Get this — Cole’s dad? On the New York Times Bestseller list. Twice.”

“Well, once,” Cole corrected weakly. “And even then, it was, you know... back when people still bought books.”

“Just trying to make you sound interesting,” Darcy injected after an awkward silence, filled only by the Pekingese snorting and clicking its nails against the sidewalk.

Tristan, ever the diplomat, broke it with a syrupy grin. “I don’t want to interrupt the fun, but—what was Omar’s contact info again?”

“Oh, you can Google him," Darcy said, casual now, her manic energy shifting like a stage light. "After Everything I’ve Done For You. That’s the name of the agency."

Juan scribbled furiously in his bedazzled notepad: “After Everything I’ve Done For You — Omar — Apartment magician — Risked life and limb.”

Then Darcy leaned forward, dropping her voice to a scandalous stage whisper. “Something you should know: He’s … Palestinian, so he’s been through it all.”

“Ohhh...!” Juan wheezed, fanning himself dramatically with his notepad. “So it’s like that kind of listing.”

“And our landlord is Israeli,” Cole slipped.

Tristan’s eyes widened, intrigued. “Oh, so it’s not just rent-controlled — it’s conflict-controlled.”

“It’s a complicated relationship,” Darcy said, flashing a tense grin. “But they respect each other.”

Juan laughed tightly. “New York’s just feudalism with square footage. You either learn to game it or you end up sleeping in your kombucha tub.”

A moment passed, and AOC, having grown bored of her circle patrol, flopped onto the pavement and began gnawing at a leaf with clinical precision.

“I mean, we shouldn’t even have landlords and realtors,” Juan said suddenly, voice unusually sharp. “It’s such a medieval concept.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “And yet, we’re still asking for Omar’s card.”

Juan shrugged. “Let’s just call him, just for the f**k of it. I said I was exhausted, not radicalized. ”

Cole’s mouth opened, then closed.

“Well,” Tristan said brightly, breaking the tension. “You’re both lovely, and your energy is divine. Manifesting great things for you.”

“Manifesting central air,” Juan added. “And fewer historical allegories in the lease agreement.”

“Yeah, get in touch if you ever want to have a ‘throuple,’” Cole joked.

Tristan and Juan pause — long enough to register discomfort. Then Tristan laughs too hard. Juan bites his lip.

Juan squinted at Cole like he’d grown a second head. “Did you just invite us to a threesome?”

Cole smiled — not smug, just calm, like someone who’d finally figured out how to speak in a foreign dialect.

“Cole,” Tristan says slowly, “that’s either the funniest thing you’ve said or the scariest,” before he and Juan busted out laughing.

“I’ll take either,” Cole shrugs.

Darcy watched him, surprised — not just by the joke but by the fact that, for once, he said something that stuck.

Juan wiped tears from his eyes. “We have to hang out. Seriously. Text us. We’ll set something up. Drinks, dinner, dungeon, whatever!”

They exchanged numbers, air-kissed their goodbyes with exaggerated flair, then strolled off, AOC tottering ahead like a tiny, four-legged prophet; Darcy turned to Cole, her voice low and brittle. “What the f**k was that?”

“What?”

“You joked about a throuple. With them. Cole! I’m like: you don’t joke about things like that with a Gay couple unless you mean it.”

Cole shrugged. “Exactly why it works. Technically, throuples are three—say, one straight man, two gay. And since you’re a woman …”

Darcy shifted her weight, suddenly hyper-aware of her limbs. “I—what are you even talking about?”

Cole stopped, turned to her. Calm. Steady.

“You have to read people, Darce. We walk around here with our cute little apartment story and my sad little khakis—what are we really saying about ourselves? We’re hicks from the sticks, nothing more than fresh meat on the street. No, here’s the signal we want to put out: we may look like virgins, but we’re way open.”

“Open?! Open for what?!”

“Whatever comes our way. You said it yourself — New York is a performance. That was mine.”

“Call us if you ever want to have a throuple!” Darcy mocked Cole.

She stared at him, still trying to catch up. “Thing is, you assume the role of the quiet writer type throughout the conversation—God only knows what you’re thinking! And then when you do speak, it’s like some character you invented putting words in your mouth!”

Darcy let out a startled laugh, then covered her mouth. “Jesus, Cole.”

Cole started walking again, slower now, thoughtful.

Darcy shook her head, still stunned. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good,” Cole said. “Maybe now we’ll survive.”

end of part one

© Michael Arturo, 2025

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

Michael Arturo's "Flatiron" is a challenging yet rewarding work that utilizes a specific architectural landmark to explore universal themes of human perception and memory. By blending historical events with personal myth and employing a distinctly postmodern style, the narrative creates a disorienting but ultimately moving portrait of how individuals construct their reality and grapple with the ghosts of the past. The influence of major literary figures in the absurdist and postmodern traditions is evident throughout, and the work's engagement with concepts like pataphysics adds another layer of intellectual depth. While at times prone to philosophical abstraction, the core narrative effectively conveys a sense of existential uncertainty and the search for meaning in a mediated world.

Timeline of “Flatiron”

* 1902: The construction of the Flatiron Building (originally the Fuller Building) begins in New York City. Alex Alessi's great-grandfather, an Italian immigrant, is involved in its construction.

* 1911: The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire occurs, killing 146 people, mostly women. Alex Alessi's great-grandmother perishes in this fire.

* Over Generations: The stories of the Flatiron Building's construction and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire become intertwined and distorted within Alex Alessi's family history. A myth develops about immigrant workers being buried alive during the Flatiron's construction, possibly due to language barriers and misinterpretation of historical events.

* Sometime in the Past (Pre-narrative): Alex Alessi and the narrator are inseparable friends. The narrator has dreams of opening an art gallery, which Alex considers backing. Jerry Greenberg, an artist, sometimes crashes at Alex's loft. The narrator lurks at Alex's get-togethers and makes a connection with Greenberg. Alex confides in Greenberg that he doesn't want to be overt in depicting loss in his art; the past is inescapable.

* Later in the Past (Pre-narrative): A rift or drift occurs between Alex Alessi and the narrator. Things are said, and they drift apart. Alex achieves early success while the narrator struggles.

* Sometime Before the Narrated Events: Jerry Greenberg starts living in Alex Alessi's loft. He begins to have recurring nightmares about immigrant workers being buried alive beneath the Flatiron, predating his residency in the loft. These nightmares influence his art.

* The Day of the Narrated Events: The narrator, unsure how he arrived, finds himself seeking out his forgotten friend, Alex Alessi, at his loft. Alex is not there, only his name remains on the intercom. Jerry Greenberg answers the door and lets the narrator into the loft.

* Later the Same Day: The narrator spends an indefinite amount of time in Greenberg's loft, observing his chaotic space and extensive collection of paintings of the Flatiron Building. Greenberg discusses his artistic obsession with the Flatiron, questioning its reality and discussing concepts like pataphysics. He also speaks of Alex's disappearance, stating Alex could be anywhere.

* Still Later the Same Day: The narrator shares the story of Alex Alessi's great-grandfather and the intertwined myths of the Flatiron construction and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire with Greenberg. Greenberg reacts strongly, revealing his own recurring nightmares that align with the fabricated story of buried workers. He becomes agitated and shows the narrator a painting depicting buried laborers, claiming it is a representation of his nightmare. He questions who sent the narrator.

* Later the Same Day: The narrator leaves Greenberg's loft, asking Greenberg to call him if Alex reappears.

* Shortly After Leaving Greenberg's Loft: The narrator stands outside, looking up at Greenberg's windows and then at the Flatiron Building. He walks around the Flatiron, attempting to make a full circle but loses count of his steps. Something feels "off" after circling the building.

* Immediately After Walking Around the Flatiron: Drawn back to Greenberg's building, the narrator re-enters.

* Inside the Building's Entrance: The narrator sees Alex Alessi's name on the intercom.

* Interaction with Mr. Borges, the Concierge: The narrator calls Mr. Borges, who addresses him as "Señor Alessi" and welcomes him back, assuming he has returned from a trip to Buenos Aires. The narrator, disoriented, plays along.

* The Elevator Ride: The narrator takes the elevator up to the loft.

* Entering the Loft: The narrator's keys fit the lock, and the loft is just as he left it.

* Looking Out the Window: The narrator looks out at the Flatiron Building, contemplating its ambiguous reality. He reflects on his family history, the intertwining of events, and his past relationship with Greenberg.

* Looking Down at the Street: The narrator sees a figure resembling Greenberg (wearing a smock, counting steps) at the base of the Flatiron before he disappears.

* Realization/Acceptance: The narrator remembers he is home. The text reveals that the narrator is Alex Alessi and that the events described were memories or a merging of perspectives. The entire narrative has been a recursive loop, with the narrator/Alex experiencing his own past and the perspective of someone (possibly a past version of himself or a visitor to his loft) looking for him.

How does the concept of "pataphysics" relate to the character of Jerry Greenberg and the story's themes?

* Pataphysics, defined as the science of imaginary solutions, is explicitly named and embraced by Greenberg. This concept provides a framework for understanding his obsessive art and questioning of the Flatiron's existence. Greenberg embodies the pataphysical practitioner as an inventor, experimentalist, and potentially a delusional con man, all of whom are less concerned with absolute truth than with transforming perception and exploring the architecture of fictions. His art, through its apparent futility in replicating the Flatiron, becomes a pataphysical gesture that reveals the inadequacy of sensory perception and the ambiguity of reality.

How does Flatiron resonate with contemporary cultural concerns?

The story's exploration of disinformation, historical revisionism, and the search for personal truth in a world of collective noise makes it highly relevant today. It speaks to the modern need to assert one's narrative in the face of increasingly mediated and unreal realities. By questioning the authenticity of memory, architecture, and selfhood, the story reflects a society grappling with simulacra and the difficulty of discerning what is real.

What does the ending of Flatiron suggest about the narrator's identity and perception?

The ending suggests a blurring or folding of identities, culminating in the reveal that the narrator might be Alex Alessi. The interaction with "Mr. Borges" and the narrator's recognition of details within the loft reinforce this possibility. This cyclical narrative where memory and selfhood intertwine, coupled with the narrator's final perspective on the Flatiron ("Always there. Never there."), reinforces the story's core themes of subjective reality and the ambiguous nature of identity and perception. The sighting of a figure resembling Greenberg further emphasizes the persistent nature of the story's obsessions and questions.

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

FLATIRON: THE PLAY

CAST:

* SEÑOR BORGES — Concierge of the building, quasi-omniscient, theatrical. Speaks with a rich Buenos Aires accent and the calm joy of someone who knows everything is a little silly.

* JERRY GREENBERG — A painter possessed by the Flatiron. Mostly responds in mutters, existential pronouncements, or from within his canvases.

[AT RISE]

The loft is dim. A warm amber light glows from behind the translucent canvases. The Flatiron Building looms beyond the window, surreal and faintly shimmering. At center: JERRY GREENBERG, lost in his ritual, silhouetted by window light. BORGES enters stage left through an imaginary door, carrying a clipboard and a mug of maté.

BORGES (to audience, cheerfully):Ah! Good evening, mis amigos del teatro. Welcome to the Flatiron Building—or at least its metaphysical doppelgänger. I am Señor Borges, concierge, not philosopher, though… often mistaken. (winks)

Today, I must check in on a tenant. A certain Señor Greenberg. An artist. Possibly immortal. Definitely unstable.

(He tiptoes toward Greenberg, who mutters to himself while painting.)

He paints only the Flatiron. Every day. From every side. Even the ones that don’t exist.

(leans in conspiratorially)

He says he’s proving it exists. I think he’s proving he exists.

(Calls over shoulder, not expecting an answer.)

Señor Greenberg! Are you still lost in your experiment?

GREENBERG (without turning):The Flatiron never casts the same shadow twice.

BORGES (to audience, nodding):Ah yes. He’s lucid. Dangerous. Or as we say in Buenos Aires—“como un mate con cáscara de banana.” A bit off.

But let me tell you something. You’re not here for a wellness check.No, no. You are here because this building… this triangle of illusion…has begun to speak.

(He moves to a canvas, lifts it, peers closely.)

These are not paintings. They are imaginary solutions to questions no one asked.This one? A trench. A collapse. Immigrant ghosts in mourning suits.But it never happened. Or it always did. It depends who remembers. And how they remember.

GREENBERG (softly):It’s not about memory. It’s about geometry.Long side. Short side. Thirteen across.It’s a Pythagorean wound.

BORGES (smiles, sips maté):See? He's a poet trapped in an engineer’s nightmare. Every soul is a duplex—a duplex in a city that keeps remodeling its tenants.

That brings me to … la dualidad. The double. The mirror. The twin.It is the oldest trick in fiction—and the truest one.

You see, people love to pretend they are singular, whole, consistent.But in literature, we know better.

Now, Jorge Luis Borges—my literary cousin, so to speak—He was obsessed with this idea. He even wrote as two people.Sometimes the blind librarian.Sometimes the sly metafictionist.Sometimes the man who knew he didn’t exist outside the page.

In one of his essays, Borges spoke about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—He said, and I quote almost exactly,“It’s a detective story, or rather, it should have been read as one.”Because the trick, you see, isn’t the transformation.The trick is not knowing the two men are the same.That’s what makes it sing!

And yet—every film since insists on casting the same actor for both parts.Why?Because we’re afraid the audience won’t understand.But Borges—my Borges—understood:The reader should not be given that luxury.They should be deceived, surprised, delighted.Only at the end should the fiction twist around and reveal:You were reading the same man all along.

Here, in Flatiron, the same trick plays.The narrator? Alex Alessi? A man looking for himself in the absence of another.Only to realize—he was the ghost he was chasing.He and Greenberg mirror each other. Echoes, distortions,Fragments of the same unsteady identity.

And this is not new, no. English literature is soaked in it.Dorian Gray and his portrait.Hamlet and his father’s ghost.Frankenstein and his monster.Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty—opposites that need each other to make sense.

But the finest doubles are the ones that hide in plain sight.As Borges once said, you'd never suspect if Jekyll had a different actor.And when the truth came—¡Dios mío!It would hit like thunder.

(He moves toward Greenberg, who is mid-painting, oblivious.)

This man paints himself, though he insists it is the Flatiron.And perhaps it is.But the building, like the story,Is merely a stage upon which the self performs itself—again and again—Each time hoping it might be the original.

(Returns to audience, voice softening.)

What if none of us are originals?What if we are all shadows of shadows,Performing personas we mistook for truth?

Borges wrote once,“I do not know which of us has written this page.”And I, your humble concierge,Could say the same.

(Beat. A small smile.)

Now… let us speak of pataphysics.The science of imaginary solutions!A system designed to explain what doesn’t need explaining!A lens of delightful nonsense.

Señor Greenberg here—he is a devout pataphysician.A man who builds meaning from ash. Who thinks truth is a performance art.Inventor? Yes.Experimentalist? Of course.Delusional con man?Only to himself.

GREENBERG (crosses stage in twelve steps, murmuring):One… two… three… the long side is longer in grief than in measurement.

BORGES:He paints it again and again—not to depict—but to divine.Each painting says: “Am I here yet?”Each brushstroke asks: “Was this real or just inherited fiction?”

(A distant wind gusts. The canvases tremble.)

And who am I, you ask?Why, I am the concierge of myth.The one who kept Alex Alessi’s name on the intercom.The archivist of misremembered fires and false construction sites.History is not written by victors—it is whispered by buildings.

(He taps the floor, dead serious for a moment.)

They danced beneath the Flatiron once. In a ballroom built on bones.Do not ask me how I know.Some truths are passed down like rent-controlled leases.

GREENBERG (urgent):There’s music in the walls.I hear it. Every New Year’s Eve.

BORGES:Of course you do. The ghosts never miss a party.

(He strolls upstage, peeking out the window.)

You want to know what this play is?It is not a story.It is a prism.Turn it one way: a myth.Another: a hallucination.Another: a man, lonely, trying to prove the city didn’t forget him.

(Turns back to audience, eyes glinting.)

The most honest art makes no claim to truth.Instead, it reveals the architecture of our fictions.

(Beat. He looks at Greenberg, then shrugs.)

And this building?It’s made of memory, missteps, and metaphor.Steel, maybe. But mostly, longing.

GREENBERG (near a whisper):I don’t paint buildings.I paint belief.The canvas is a wound.

BORGES (warmly):And we—We are its scar tissue.

(He takes a final sip, then sets the mug down on a paint-splattered pedestal.)

Stay long enough, and the Flatiron will speak to you too.But beware—It will tell you exactly what you want to hear…and then vanish like a ghoston the wrong side of a triangle.

(Lights begin to dim. Wind howls one last time.)

BORGES (smiling):Now, if you’ll excuse me—I must return to my post.Somebody must guard the doors…of unreliable realities.

So when you leave this play, remember:The person you think you are?Might just be the actor who got the part.

(He exits slowly, humming an old tango. Greenberg paints in silence. The Flatiron shimmers. Blackout.)

END

© Michael Arturo, 2025

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

In Hell’s Kitchen, Michael Arturo delivers a haunting, elegiac story about memory, guilt, and the corrosive myth of objective truth. Set in a claustrophobic New York apartment stacked with microfilm reels and the detritus of a life once dedicated to facts, the story follows Leonard Greaves, a retired newspaper archivist whose immaculate record-keeping begins to unravel under the weight of one headline that shouldn’t exist.

Arturo’s prose is clean and tightly coiled, like the spring inside a trap. From the first page, we’re drawn into Leonard’s world—a lonely, analog fortress where the past is supposed to stay fixed and knowable. But when he discovers a front page announcing the destruction of the Twin Towers dated 1998—not 2001—the fabric of his reality begins to tear. The story quickly evolves from literary character study to psychological thriller, with undertones of speculative horror and metaphysical dread.

What elevates Hell’s Kitchen beyond a simple tale of memory’s unreliability is its confrontation with personal cowardice and cultural denial. At the heart of Leonard’s collapse is a single night decades ago, when he fled from a moment of intimacy with a trans woman he had mistaken for someone else. That night—and his decision to erase it—becomes the fracture through which all other distortions leak. When a neighbor named Loretta, a trans woman herself, visits during a citywide blackout, she becomes both witness and interrogator, forcing Leonard to face the event he never truly filed.

The story is unflinching in its portrayal of generational disconnects: between what Leonard once considered “truth” and what his lived experience refuses to forget, between the crumbling moral certainty of the past and the unfinished, often uncomfortable humanity of the present. Arturo resists the temptation to make Leonard a simple villain; he’s frail, haunted, sometimes cruel—but also tragic in his belief that the past can be filed neatly if only the labels are correct.

The final pages are chilling. A lost news story about a murdered Mercury Lounge performer—possibly the same woman Leonard once kissed and abandoned—emerges from the archive like a long-suppressed confession. Whether it’s a hallucination, a ghostly intervention, or the system finally correcting itself is never made clear. Arturo isn’t interested in clarity. He’s interested in accountability.

Much like Toni Morrison’s Beloved or the paranoid fictions of Philip K. Dick, Hell’s Kitchen proposes that what we suppress will resurface—and often with a vengeance. In Arturo’s telling, history isn’t a clean record. It’s a haunted medium.

If there’s a flaw in the story, it’s that it pushes the boundaries of believability in its final confrontation. Leonard’s unraveling becomes operatic, even theatrical, as he lashes out at Loretta in an attempt to reclaim a reality that no longer wants him. But even here, Arturo’s instincts are sharp: the drama mirrors Leonard’s crumbling psyche. He’s not just a man afraid of truth—he’s afraid that truth no longer needs him.

Hell’s Kitchen is a work of fiction, but it feels like an autopsy report—on a man, on a profession, and on a city that once believed in the sanctity of the printed word. Arturo understands something too many writers forget: that the most terrifying erasure is not when someone forgets your story, but when they remember it and choose to rewrite it anyway.

Verdict: ★★★★½A taut, unforgettable meditation on memory, denial, and the shifting ground of historical truth. Michael Arturo has written a story that will linger like the faint glow of an old microfilm reel, still spinning in the dark.

His old place was on Ludlow Street on the Lower East Side. Things had changed quite a bit since he’d left, but there were familiar signs that things hadn’t changed much at all.

He didn't know why he had returned—not really. Just that something in the marrow of his bones told him he had to. Then, just as he arrived at the entrance of the old tenement, it dawned on him why: he had forgotten to forward his mail from his former address and figured it was probably time he came back to pick it up.

His name was Isaac or Isaiah. He couldn’t remember which. He was in his early forties, tall but stooped slightly, not from age but from the cumulative gravity of forgotten burdens. His face bore the look of a man who was once sharply handsome but whose features had been worn smooth by years of small regrets, vague triumphs, and emotional erosion.

His hands trembled in his coat pockets as he approached the building on Ludlow Street. He had no key. He could barely remember if he ever had one. But he knew the mailbox was still there. His name—beginning with I—etched into brass or maybe scrawled in fading Sharpie. The mail he’d come to retrieve would remind him who he was.

Inside, the lobby was a ruinous waiting room from a forgotten era. Upholstered chairs slumped under the weight of years with the occasional derelict sprawled, reading The New Yorker from a decade earlier. A single fluorescent bulb flickered above. The air smelled of wet plaster, boiled cabbage, and something unidentifiable but deeply municipal.

And there, guarding the hallway like Cerberus in a windbreaker, stood Dan.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The man who couldn’t remember his name blinked. “Oh. Sorry to intrude on your afternoon. Let me introduce myself.” He went silent, searching his mind frantically.

“Yes? Are you lost?”

“Yeah. Listen, I need your help. I moved out a while ago—used to live here. 4th floor. And I don’t know how it happened, but I never left a forwarding address.”

“You used to live here?”

“It’s been a while.”

“What’s your name?”

“This is going to sound—I don’t know. I’m having a tough time remembering it. I mean, it’ll come to me. I’ve just been walking all day, and the sun gets to ya’. Anyway, I believe … my name starts with an I if that helps.”

Dan folded his arms across his chest. “That’s real specific. Got I.D., Mr. I?”

“Yeah, no, that’s why I’m here. I believe my I.D.—all of my information is …”

“In the mail that you never forwarded.”

“Exactly.”

Dan narrowed his eyes.

The man who couldn’t remember his name paused. “Isaac! Isaiah, maybe. No, my father’s name was Isaiah.”

“Indiana Jones, maybe?”

“Very funny. No, it’s Isaac. Yes. We’re getting somewhere now. Isaac, son of Isaiah. If you can just let me go upstairs. They used to leave the mail by the door.”

“Look, my man, I’ve lived here forever. I don’t remember you. Besides, no one leaves mail by the door. Mail is put into mailboxes.”

“You weren’t here when I lived here.”

“Well, I’m here now.”

“Are you the building manager?”

“No, I’m not the building manager. I’m the acting building manager. Name is Dan. ‘Dan, the acting building manager.’ I volunteer to manage in an unofficial capacity. Understand? That means I’m the one to talk to. There’s no front desk clerk, concierge, or superintendent—we all pitch in. But I’m the one the tenants come to in an emergency. Because I’m responsible. I’m on the weekend neighborhood watch. I had a new security system put in. I’m in constant contact with police. That’s why I can’t let just anyone in here.”

“Well, Dan. Do I look dangerous?”

“There’s something about you that comes across as dangerous, yeah.”

“Listen. It just came to me, I remember there was a buzzer that used to stick on the second floor. Right? Everyone used to complain about it. They used to complain about that and the guy with the parrot in 3C, I think. You’ve heard the parrot squawking at all hours, haven’t you?”

“There’s no buzzer, there’s no parrot. I remember people who live here. You? I don’t remember.”

“This is Ludlow Street, right?”

“Yeah. Ludlow. You would know that if you used to live here.”

A laugh burst from the corner of the room. Isaac turned.

There, perched on one of the slumping chairs, was a figure dressed in a black suit and thin tie. His hair was slicked back in a style two decades too late, and his eyes glimmered with wild amusement.

“The picture of a man lost, alone, and forgotten,” the man said in a crisp, uncanny Rod Serling impression, “He arrives as a stranger, certain he belongs. But time, as it always does, has moved on... and taken the mailman with it.”

Isaac stared. “Who the hell is that?”

Dan sighed. “Him? That’s Joey. He does impersonations. He’s been on a Rod Serling kick of late. Don’t mind him. He’s a character. Buys his suits from a haberdashery on Orchard.”

Joey then lit a cigarette and continued. “Imagine, if you will, a mailbox so deep it echoes—a chasm lined with regrets, overdue notices, and the occasional cry for help—stamped first class."

Isaac grimaced. “Hey! I’m serious. My life’s on hold right now because I screwed up. I don’t mean to inconvenience anyone. I need to retrieve my mail.”

“Nope,” said Dan flatly. “That’s not gonna happen. I could get in trouble with the law if I went through the mail unauthorized. So, I can’t help you. Besides, if mail sits idle, it’s returned to sender.”

“All of the mail?”

“Well, when did you move out?”

“It must have been …ten years ago, maybe.”

“Ten years ago! And you expect your back mail to be here still?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Joey stood, blew a plume of smoke, and slowly approached. “The stranger pleads his case to the gatekeeper, but a decade or more has passed and the gatekeeper holds firm. Perhaps behind that door lies truth. Or perhaps... only junk mail and reminders of a life unpaid.”

“You know, you could really get on someone’s nerves with that! I need to look for my mail! That’s all!” Issac barked, eyes widening.

Dan stepped between them. “That’s enough. You got no ID, no key, and no proof you ever lived here. You’re not getting past this lobby.”

Issac swallowed hard. “Wait—I just remembered. My mother. She lives on the first floor. Apartment 1B.”

Dan tilted his head. “You just remembered? How would you just remember something like that?”

“I’m telling you, my head is in a fog!”

Dan turned to Joey, “He just remembered his mother lives here!”

“I—yeah … she’s … she’s elderly. She’s hard of hearing. German Jewish woman, you know. She escaped the Nazis to come here. She’s lived in that apartment since before I was born.”

“She escaped the Nazis?”

“Yeah, people did that, you know!”

“When was that, like, 70 years ago?”

“Maybe more.”

“And you expect her to be still living here?”

“Why wouldn’t she? She would have written to me if she died.”

“How could she have written to you if she was dead?”

“I mean BEFORE she died.”

“Before she died, she could have written to you she was about to die. But you would have never received the letter since you didn’t have your mail forwarded. Am I right about that?”

“Yes, you’re probably right about that, Dan! Could we just check all the same? She was alive when I moved out. I remember the cabbage soup she made that afternoon!”

Dan shook his head slowly. “Fine, Mr. No-name! One knock. If she doesn’t answer, you’re out. Which apartment is it again?”

“1B. You can smell the cabbage soup from here.”

The three of them—Isaac, Dan, and Joey—moved slowly down the hall, footsteps echoing. They stopped before 1B. Isaac lifted his hand to knock. Dan pushed him to the side and pounded on the door.

“Mrs... Whatever-your-name-is! You got a visitor!”

Silence.

“Ma’, it’s your son! Open up!” Isaac bellowed. “She’s hard of hearing,” he said to Dan. “Try again.”

Dan knocked louder.

Joey clasped his hands like a funeral director. “Some men leave home. Others are erased by it. He came in search of a dead letter with no forwarding address; what he found was his soul without a postmark."

“How would you like a signpost up ahead rammed down your f*****g throat, Mr. Twilight Zone?”

Dan turned, “All right, that’s enough.”

“MA’! OPEN UP! It’s me! Isaac!”

“Come on, let’s go,” Dan implored.

Isaac turned to the door, placing a hand on the wood. “No, please! She’s in there. She must be. Maybe she’s asleep. She might have my mail. She used to keep things for me!”

Dan pointed. “Out!”

“Schwartz! I remember now. My name is Isaac Schwartz! My mother’s name is Ida Schwartz! She lives here! You have to believe me!”

“There’s no one by that name living in this building. You’ll have to leave, or I’ll call the police.”

Isaac was marched back through the hall; Joey followed, whispering dramatically, “In a world where time wobbles, cabbage soup goes unheated, and mothers are so hard of hearing, they answer only in dreams, every window casts the wrong reflection, every door knob tells a different riddle. Home isn’t a place; it’s a mirage."

“Shut up!” Isaac snapped as he was shown the exit.

Outside, the air had grown colder. The city roared obliviously around him. Issac stood on the curb, unsure what to do next. Joey remained behind him like a shadow with a stage voice.

“Portrait of Isaac Schwartz, a man denied. A life postponed. All for a key he doesn’t possess... and a mailbox full of ghosts.”

“F**k off!” Isaac said as he took off down Ludlow. He didn’t look back.

Isaac wandered the streets like a man sleepwalking through his own obituary. The buildings loomed overhead like stone-faced judges, their windows blank and unblinking. He turned down Broome, then Essex, then back again, always circling Ludlow as if orbiting the epicenter of a trauma he couldn’t name.

Then he saw him.

A postman.

Blue uniform. Cap low. Wheeling a squeaky mail cart overflowing with envelopes and unspoken verdicts.

“Hey!” Isaac shouted, stumbling forward.

The postman didn’t stop. He turned the corner onto Rivington like a figment vanishing into a dream.

Isaac followed. “Hey! Hey, wait!”

He turned onto Rivington—but the postman was already halfway up Clinton, then somehow across Delancey. The cart’s wheels clacked like typewriter keys, recording an invisible history. Isaac’s lungs burned, and his legs stiffened, but he couldn’t stop.

He cut through a narrow alley behind what used to be a butcher shop. Once, long ago, he’d stolen a pickle from a barrel there and been chased with a meat cleaver. The smell of sawdust and brine returned in a flash, as did the memory of his first kiss in the alley behind Bernstein’s Books, where the girl had tasted like bubble gum and library dust.

Isaac passed a boarded-up storefront that had once been his father’s favorite deli—"Herschel's Fine Cuts." He could still hear his father complaining about the prices, even though the pastrami was free.

On Orchard Street, he nearly lost the postman again. But just as the figure turned toward the Williamsburg Bridge and was about to vanish into myth, a different sound stopped Isaac cold—a low mechanical hum.

A mail truck pulled up beside him.

It idled like a beast catching its breath. The driver leaned out, cigarette in one hand, elbow on the door frame. He had eyes like smoked glass and a voice like dry felt.

“I’m looking for Isaac Schwartz!”

“I’m Isaac Schwartz!”

“Oh yeah? ’The’ Isaac Schwartz? Used to play stickball with my little brother?” he said.

Isaac nodded, panting. “Stoopball.”

“Stoopball. Morris Feldman.”

“Yeah, I remember Morris.”

“He died. Couple’a years back. Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

The postman looked away as if to remember, then quickly looked back.

“Could be I got somethin’ for you, Isaac,” the postman said. “Hop in.”

Isaac didn’t argue. The cabin smelled like ink, engine grease, and unmistakably boiled cabbage. Isaac and the postman exchanged looks.

“Where you been all these years?”

“I couldn’t tell you if I tried.”

“That bad, hah? The old neighborhood. Right? I remember your father, Isaiah. Had the haberdashery over on Orchard, right? That was your father.”

“Isaiah, yes,” Isaac said breathlessly.

“How is it to be back? You see what these rich b******s did to our neighborhood? It’s hardly recognizable!”

“It’s happening all over.”

“It’s looney tunes, is what it is. Listen. Morris—he spoke good about you. He always liked you.”

“He was a good kid. Morris.”

“He was a bookmaker, just so you know. Started off to make ends meet and then he went a little wild. Went to Vegas. Got in with the wrong crowd. Went into debt. And they killed him.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Debt! When we was kids, you could always work off your debt. But now … they don’t wanna hear it. Anyway …” The postman reached behind his seat and produced a small bundle of envelopes, yellowed and slightly curled at the corners. He handed them over solemnly.

“Where’d you get these?” Isaac asked.

“Dead letter bin. Comes around now and again, like old curses. You were gone, so I figured I’d keep them for you.”

Isaac turned them over. His name, Isaac Schwartz, was scrawled in his mother’s handwriting.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t mention it. You treated my brother right; I treat you right. Someone’s gotta uphold the golden rule, no? These b******s—they’ll walk all over you if you let ‘em.”

His fingers trembled as he opened the first envelope.

My dear Isaac,

You left in such a hurry. I don’t know why. You didn’t say goodbye, not properly. But I understand. Things got heavy. I’ve lived long enough to know the weight people carry when they disappear.

Your father’s papers arrived yesterday—immigration, debt notices, something from the VA. I don’t know what it all means. I wish you’d call. Or write. I made cabbage soup. It’s in the freezer for you.

I miss you terribly.

Love,Ma.

Isaac pressed the paper to his chest. His mother’s words were like a match struck in the fog. Tears began streaming down Isaac’s face. He doubled over.

“You all right there, Isaac?” the postman asked, taking his eyes off the road.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.”

“Wanna hug or somethin’?”

“No, keep your eyes on the road, please!”

“Don’t be falling apart on me.”

Isaac nodded, took a breath, then opened the second letter.

Mr. Schwartz,

We regret to inform you that your claim for remission under Section 37B has been denied due to incomplete records and unverified residency. Your father’s estate balance, including outstanding debts from 1963 through 1987, has been transferred to your name.

Due to a clerical backlog, this notice is retroactively enforced as of ten years ago. Immediate appearance is required at the originating address of record—Ludlow Street—pending administrative closure.

Failure to comply may result in asset forfeiture and memory retention penalties.

Sincerely,New York Municipal Debt Reconciliation Department

Isaac looked up, pale. “This can’t be real.”

The postman smirked. “Oh, it’s real enough.”

“What the hell is this? What do they mean, 'memory retention penalties'?”

The postman flicked his cigarette out the window.

“Ludlow Street used to have a jail; most of the inmates were debtors imprisoned by their creditors, right on the corner of Broome. They say the basement’s still there. Buried under time. People owed too much; they went in. Didn’t always come back out.”

Isaac’s throat tightened.

“Why do I have to bear my father’s burden?”

The postman shifted into gear. “It’s the debt you pay. You return to make good. Back to your tenement. Make things right.”

Isaac frowned. “Make what right?”

The postman shrugged. “We Jews call it ‘make teshuva’—unburden yourself from whatever you brought back here. Then return to the pure soul you were born with.”

The mail truck dropped Isaac off with a hiss of hydraulics and the smell of stale upholstery. The postman gave him a small, two-fingered salute and drove off without another word.

Isaac stood before the tenement once more.

It was darker now, though the streetlamps flickered on in quiet protest. The building looked taller somehow, its windows more numerous, like eyes that had multiplied to keep better watch. The brass doorknob felt warmer this time like someone had been waiting behind it.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the lobby was quiet. No derelicts. No decaying chairs. Just Joey, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by envelopes.

“I see you’ve read all my mail,” Isaac muttered.

Joey lit a cigarette, creased his lips, and stared directly ahead.

Isaac stepped over the threshold into the hallway. He felt it immediately—something weighty and slow pressing on his chest. Like humidity. Or guilt.

From the stairwell above came the sound of something dragging. Isaac turned. Dan was standing at the top of the first flight. Still in his windbreaker. Still with that bland, officious expression.

“Back so soon, Mr. I?” he said.

“I need to settle something.”

Dan nodded once. “I’ll show you the way.”

He stepped aside, revealing a narrow staircase that hadn’t existed before, twisting up like an intestinal memory. Dimly lit. No railing. Just brass nameplates nailed into each riser, one after another.

G. SchwartzI. SchwartzL. SchwartzReturn to SenderReturn to SenderReturn to Sender

Isaac climbed, one step at a time, past names he didn’t recognize and ones that rang faint bells in forgotten rooms. At the top was a simple door labeled: Administrative Closure Office.

He knocked.

It opened immediately, revealing a room that looked like a DMV designed by M.C. Escher. Desks on the ceiling, clocks spinning backward, clerks typing on invisible keyboards.

A woman looked up from behind an enormous stack of manila folders. Her glasses were cracked; her lipstick was administrative red.

“Isaac Schwartz?”

He nodded.

“Please sign here.” She handed him a clipboard. It was blank.

“What am I signing?”

“Receipt of consequences.”

He signed.

She handed him a single envelope.

FINAL NOTICEStamped in red.

He opened it.

Inside was a single sentence: “You are now free to remember.”

Isaac blinked.

The lights flickered. Somewhere in the bowels of the building, a typewriter dinged.

The buzz of a stuck service bell on the second floor. The squawk of the parrot in 3C, shrill and indignant: “You again?”

Memory cracks open like an old mailbox forced with a kitchen knife.

His mother, humming off-key in the kitchen, wielding a ladle like a conductor's baton. The rhythmic thump of cabbage hitting the pot.

Stoopball with Morris, the corner bully-philosopher who quoted Aristotle between pitches. A sharp throw, a sharper insult, and always the same call: “Do-over!”

Lillian, red curls and a chipped tooth, who once gave him a marble for his birthday and a black eye the same afternoon. Years later, behind Bernstein’s Books, she would kiss him like it was a dare—and disappear the next week without a word.

His father’s laugh—deep, brief, and used sparingly, like a precious spice. Usually, while reading overdue bills aloud as if they were comedy.

The smell of soup. Always the soup. Eternal, boiling, fragrant with regret.

And then—the postman. “Some people you gotta hear from, even if they don’t write. It’s looney tunes, is what it is.”

The memory hits him like a wave. Isaac steadies himself on the banister, eyes wide. “I lived here.”

He was back in the lobby. Dan stood beside him, holding out a steaming bowl.

“Cabbage soup,” he said. “Your mother’s recipe. Found it upstairs. Between the records of your delinquent taxes and your bar mitzvah photos.”

Isaac took the bowl. Sniffed.

“Smells... right.”

Dan clapped him on the back. “Congratulations. You’ve achieved bureaucratic redemption. Mazel tov.”

“What now?”

Joey took another hit from his cigarette and stepped forward into the spotlight. “In a building where memory accrues interest and guilt is paid in installments, one man has retrieved his mail—and maybe a piece of himself. His name is Isaac Schwartz, late of Ludlow Street, recently reinstated in the Book of the Remembered. Whether he stays or goes is his choice now. The debt is settled. The soup is warm. And the mailbox... is finally empty.”

Isaac smirked. Then sat on the lobby floor and spooned the soup into his mouth.

© Michael Arturo, 2025

“The Book of the Remembered: A Deep Dive into ‘Late of Ludlow Street’”

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.