The City Between Us

About The City Between Us

Michael Arturo’s absurdist and noir-inflected tales of a city split not by geography but by memory—where every street is a version of the truth, and the real conflict isn't between characters but between the stories they choose to believe about themselves. New episodes weekly. Stories, Reviews, Analysis. michaelarturo.substack.com (https://michaelarturo.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Michael Arturo

Category

fiction · fiction

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

27 Dec 2024

Latest episode

5 Jul 2026

Latest episodes

52 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   5 Jul 2026

   Ludlow Street Revisited

   What if the most important thing you ever forgot wasn't a birthday or an anniversary, but a change-of-address form? Late of Ludlow Street is a dark, funny, and deeply surreal noir fable about a man who returns to his old Lower East Side tenement for one reason: he never forwarded his mail. Originally published in 2025, I’m currently rewriting and expanding its world. In this excerpt, a postman with eyes like smoked glass hands Isaac a bundle of yellowed letters pulled from the dead letter bin—letters written by his mother, letters he never received. But the postman delivers more than mail. He delivers a story about a murdered brother and the old-world weight of a debt that has outlived everyone who made it. This isn't just a cute story about a man who forgot to forward his mail. It is also an exploration of the Jewish diaspora in relation to the authors who, for decades, sought to define it. Generational displacement inevitably breeds a psychological one—a profound loss of identity that has served as the deep, subterranean current running through Jewish literature. Franz Kafka captured the bureaucratic nightmare of this erasure. His protagonists are men stripped of their names and agency, standing before locked doors guarded by absurd, arbitrary authority. In Kafka’s world, identity isn’t lost; it is confiscated by a system that refuses to acknowledge you exist. Isaac Bashevis Singer chronicled the ghostly aftermath of displacement. His characters are refugees wandering the streets of New York, haunted by the dybbuks, rabbis, and ancient traditions of the Old World. In Singer’s work, the tragedy isn’t just that the shtetl was destroyed, but that the New World is actively erasing its memory, leaving his characters spiritually unmoored. Harold Pinter—a child of Eastern European Jewish immigrants—distilled the diasporic experience into something more modern and terrifying: the breakdown of language itself. His characters inhabit cramped, menacing rooms where memory is unreliable, communication is a trap, and identity must be violently defended against those trying to define you. These three authors have had the most profound influence on my writing this story. Myself with mural of The Beastie Boys on Ludlow Street, 2025 “Late of Ludlow Street” (excerpt) Isaac was promptly hustled through the hall, shown to the door, and thrown to the curb. He stood there, outside, feeling the concrete vibrate through his shoes, watching people on the street swirl around him like horses on a carousel. Once they slowed, he focused on them. They moved with purpose. They had destinations. Places to go. He had nothing but a name he’d only just recalled and a mailbox he couldn’t reach. “Schwartz! Ida Schwartz! Isaiah and Ida. Isaac Schwartz!” He was talking to himself now, muttering about bony-faced schelmeils and celebrity walls and buzzers that stuck on the second floor. The tenements watched. They were in on it. Like they all knew something and weren’t telling. Then: a flash of navy in his peripheral vision. A Postman. Blue uniform. Cap low. Wheeling a squeaky mail cart overflowing with envelopes. “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!” By the time Isaac got to Rivington, the Postman had made a left on Orchard, then somehow crossed Delancey. The cart’s wheels clacked like typewriter keys. Isaac’s lungs burned, and his legs stiffened, but he couldn’t catch up. 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 a girl, whose name he could not recall, 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 Delancy Street, he nearly lost the Postman again. But just as the postman turned toward the Williamsburg Bridge and was about to vanish, 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. A Postman — another one — 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!” “The Isaac Schwartz? Used to play stickball with my little brother Morris?” he said. Isaac nodded, panting. “Stoopball!” “Stoopball. Morris Feldman.” “Yes! Yes! I remember Morris!” The Postman looked away as if to remember, then quickly looked back with a broad smile. “I can’t believe my eyes!” “Have I met you before?” “I’m Morris Feldman’s brother, the Postman!” “Oh,” Isaac said, completely dumbfounded, “okay.” “Could be I got somethin’ for you, Isaac,” the Postman said. “Hop in.” Isaac hesitated for half a breath, then grabbed the door frame and hoisted himself halfway up. The Postman’s hand found Isaac’s wrist and pulled him in the rest of the way. “Where you been all these years?” “I couldn’t tell you if I tried.” “That bad, hah? The old neighborhood. Right? It’s good to see you, Isaac! Morris used to talk about you all the time! I remember your father, Isaiah. Had the haberdashery 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.” “Tell me about it! They even chased The Beastie Boys.” “No one belongs anywhere anymore.” “Not that we belonged anywhere to begin with. This whole neighborhood was built by people who escaped prosecution. Now where are they?” “Being judged elsewhere.” “Gone! Scattered to the four winds.” “So where is your brother Morris?” “Where is he? He’s dead.” “Morris?” “Yeah, my baby brother, the Bookmaker. It’s a long story. Went out to Vegas, got in with the wrong element. Found himself in debt and they killed him.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” The Postman teared up. “When we was kids in this neighborhood, you could always work off your debt. But outside, people don’t wanna hear it. Anyway …” The Postman reached behind his seat and produced a small bundle of yellowed, slightly curled envelopes. 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 Morris 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. The s**t that I’ve seen as a Postman in this friggin’ world … you don’t wanna know about.” The Postman smiled from ear to ear. “Go on, my brother, open your mail.” Isaac’s 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. “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 brought you back here. Then return to the pure soul you were born with.” The mail truck dropped Isaac off with a hiss of hydraulics. The Postman gave him a small, two-fingered salute. “God bless you, Isaac. My brother loved you.” The Postman then 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. Isaac walked to the entrance and reached for the doorknob. He pushed it open. © Michael Arturo, 2026 Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series (https://vimeo.com/espressodes?fbclid=IwY2xjawLVBWJleHRuA2FlbQIxMABicmlkETFKaGZuS1MxT2RwZER1bE50AR7tVnwr2_V8YJyhj9sGvJSrTt8k7im0Jux9MtX7r8Cj4JISxQurEvTFaVQHRw_aem_4o0XW-m7D_sa694BrGDklw) from 2010 to 2014. To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you. Buy Me A Coffee (http://buymeacoffee.com/michaelarturo) Support by hitting the like button or leaving a comment. Get full access to The City Between Us at michaelarturo.substack.com/subscribe (https://michaelarturo.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

2. 

   7 Oct 2025

   Zenith Solutions

   Bob Forrester trudged through Central Park under a stubborn gray sky that refused to rain despite October’s promises. The air was thick, and the damp breeze carried a faint scent of old leaves and forgotten memories. He thought he’d forgotten where the fountain was—or maybe he couldn’t remember if he’d forgotten where the fountain was. But when he located it, he sighed, took a seat on a nearby bench, and waited. An overstuffed pigeon strutted nearby, side-eyeing him, which felt oddly judgmental. Something about being stared at with one eye unsettled him, so he looked away. He felt the weight of the letter inside his jacket pocket—a relic shoved away for years. The corners of the envelope jabbed his chest every time he moved, a nagging reminder of things he’d rather not confront. Just then, his phone vibrated. The screen lit up: Zenith Solutions. He answered as if he’d been expecting the call from the moment he arrived. “I’m here,” he said, trying to ignore the background noise of the fountain’s aimless splashing. “Good afternoon, Mr. Forrester! It’s Andy. Hope you’re well.” Andy’s voice was unnervingly cheerful, like a Cockney-bot programmed for politeness. “I see you’ve made it to the fountain. Does it bring back memories?” “Not really,” Forrester blurted. “Not really? That’s disappointing. We were under the impression this place mattered a great deal,” Andy chuckled. “It’s been years.” “Perhaps you prefer not to remember. We can fix that. Did you bring the letter?” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I brought the letter. How long is this going to take?” “Well, that depends on you. It may take forever,” Andy’s tone shifted, still pleasant but with a bureaucratic edge. “Before we dive in, could you spare a few moments for a customer satisfaction survey? It won’t take long, promise.” He scanned the park, half-expecting a hidden camera. Maybe even that pigeon was in on it. “You’re kidding, right?” “Not at all,” Andy replied smoothly. “Your feedback is vital to Zenith Solutions—keeps the cogs turning, you know. Now then, how would you rate your overall experience with us?” “I’m not even sure why I selected this service,” he snapped, digging his fingers into his pockets. Andy sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for predictable resistance. “A common conundrum. Let’s rephrase: since our first delightful conversation—you remember it, don’t you?—have you felt more enlightened with the choice you’ve made?” “What choice?!” He shot back, frustration cracking his voice. “You chose the Closure Optimization, did you not?” Andy said, his tone maddeningly sincere. “Yes, closure, I think, maybe, I don’t know. Yes, I guess I’m satisfied, whatever.” “Alright then, pressing onward.” A weariness crept in, the sound of a teacher with an unruly student. “Next question: On a scale of one to ten, how satisfied are you with our level of engagement?” “This is ridiculous,” Forrester muttered. “I’m not doing this. There’s been no level of engagement!” “I see. Well, we were prepared to offer you the Emotional Asset Recovery upgrade if that would make this easier,” Andy replied, politeness now a sharp edge. “What is the Emotional … Asset … Recovery … upgrade?” “The survey first, Mr. Forrester. Now. True or false: I would recommend Zenith Solutions to a friend.” Forrester mumbled something unintelligible, his nerves fraying. The pigeon edged closer, pecking at some invisible morsel. “Mr. Forrester? Still with us?” Andy prodded. “Yes, I’m here!” he snapped. Andy’s voice softened. “Mr. Forrester, Zenith Solutions’ Closure Optimization may not offer the type of closure you seek, but the kind of closure you need.” “What does that mean?!” “Take the letter out of your pocket, Mr. Forrester. Put it in your hands.” A chill ran down his spine. He obeyed, the letter’s weight suddenly unbearable, as if it held every past mistake he ever made. “There it is,” Andy mused. “Your regrets, unfinished conversations, unresolved heartbreak—the entire dreadful backlog. It stymies even the most accomplished among us. But fret not, old chap. Zenith Solutions can set things right. And the wonderful thing about us is you never have to look us in the eye. We take the guilt out of guilt. Sort of.” Forrester’s breath trembled as the letter’s edges bit into his palms. “To be frank, I left her. Here. Walked away. Just abandoned … the love of my life!” Andy’s tone brightened, as if hearing exactly what he wanted. “Ah, there it is. The disclosure. Always cathartic in the early stages. You left her at this very fountain. Did you even look back, Mr. Forrester? Or was the sidewalk more compelling?” Forrester pressed his palms together, trembling. “Perhaps it’s time to face facts,” Andy continued, almost merrily. “Isn’t that why you kept the letter? Deep down, you knew this moment would come. The letter, all these years later, Mr. Forrester! People don’t hold onto relics of indifference.” Forrester tried to steady his breath. Andy chuckled softly, a bureaucrat checking boxes. “Tell me—was the so-called love of your life surprised when you dropped the bomb on her? Or did she already see the coward in you from the start? Did she cry? Tears? Did you see tears streaming down her cheeks? Or worse, did she stay quiet, sparing you the indignity?!” Forrester shut his eyes. “Ah, silence. That tells me plenty. Let’s move on then. Would you describe your subsequent relationships as—what’s the phrase?—‘adequate compensations’? Or have you always measured women against the one you abandoned at this fountain?” Forrester’s hands gripped the letter until the paper crackled. “You see, Mr. Forrester,” Andy said smoothly, “the heart is not unlike a filing cabinet. Every time you open a new drawer, you find the same old document waiting inside. Same mistake, stamped and restamped. And here you are, finally back at the source. Tell me, was it worth it?” Forrester’s fingers skittered across the letter, a frantic spider. “Why… does it… matter?“ he asked, desperation leaking through. “Because here at Zenith Solutions, we specialize in second chances for those brave enough to face what they left behind,” Andy replied, that maddening charm now oddly comforting. “Solutions that lead to resolutions, if you will. Now, open the letter and read it.” “I know what it says!” he protested, resolve crumbling. “I said, read it, Mr. Forrester. Aloud!” Forrester’s hands shook as he unfolded the paper. The rustle was deafening. He inhaled sharply and read, “Uhhh, all right. It says, ’I still love you, Bob. And I… don’t know how to stop loving you. Please don’t let this be… the end of us.’” The words hung between them, raw and undeniable. “You b*****d! That woman loved you! She adored you! She would have laid down her life for you! She would have made you so much better a man than you ever deserve! You louse! You pathetic, sniveling wretch! How could you be so cruel?” Andy snapped, like a prosecutor savoring a verdict. Forrester pulled the phone away and began to weep. The dam broke. Years of defenses washed away. He brought the phone back to his ear, but held it at a slight distance. “Are you there? Are you listening? Tell me, Mr. Forrester, are you ready to begin anew? I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself, you bloody basketcase,” Andy sweetly but cruelly murmured. “In the meantime, what was the name of your former beau?” “Nancy,” Forrester said, gripping his cell phone with two hands and beating back tears. “Nancy,” Andy repeated with relish, as if testing the syllables. “Would you like us to contact Nancy? Last word was that she still loved you. She might still be out there, wasting the best years of her life waiting for a coward.” “No.” “No?” Andy snapped, voice dropping its syrupy coating. “Of course not. Why bother? You already rehearsed your role as deserter decades ago. Why change the script now?” Forrester pressed the phone harder against his ear, shaking his head. “You know what she probably remembers?” Andy pressed on. “Not your face. Not your touch. Just your back as you walked away. That’s your legacy, Mr. Forrester. A pair of retreating shoulders.” Forrester let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a grunt. “How pathetic,” Andy sighed, his tone returning to bureaucratic politeness. “Very well then. We have a lot of important work ahead of us. The Emotional Asset Recovery upgrade is our next best option. An extension of our Continuity Services. I highly recommend that you take advantage of the discounted offering.” Forrester fell silent again, gathering himself. “Take all the time you need, Mr. Forrester. Heaven knows you’ve already squandered enough of it.” “If I say yes, what happens?” Forrester’s voice was threadbare. “You open the door to the life you left behind for starters. But this time, you don’t walk away. No. You stay, Mr. Forrester, you face it, and maybe—just maybe—you reconcile with yourself, confirm the closure you’ve denied yourself. And once you’ve achieved…” “I’ll do it. Please! Emotional … recovery … whatever. Sign me up,” Forrester said, while slowly spinning in a circle. “Wise choice, Mr. Forrester. Very wise. Keep in mind, at Zenith Solutions, your highest point may be your lowest. We’ll be in touch.” Andy hung up. Forrester took a deep breath, his chest still tight under the weight of the years over regrets, mistakes, and long silences. He exhaled and looked around the park, taking in the faded grays and browns of early autumn. The pigeon was still at his feet for some odd reason, still side-eyeing him. Then another pigeon landed, as if summoned. Two silent witnesses at his feet, side-eyeing him, their heads bobbing in unison. Soon, a flock arrived, surrounding him, pecking at his feet, and side-eyeing, like auditors of his guilt. Forrester suddenly realized the absurdity of it all and laughed once, a thin, almost embarrassed laugh. And in that laugh, something shifted—brief, insubstantial, but real enough. It was a flicker of lightness. It was the high point of the entire day—a zenith, if not a solution. © Michael Arturo, 2025 Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series (http://vimeo.com/espressodes) from 2010 to 2014. To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you. Buy Me A Coffee (http://buymeacoffee.com/michaelarturo) Support by hitting the like button or leaving a comment. Get full access to The City Between Us at michaelarturo.substack.com/subscribe (https://michaelarturo.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

3. 

   11 Sept 2025

   Innocent Bystander

   Foghorns moaned low across the Hudson as first light strained against heavy clouds, draped like wet cloth over the tenement buildings along MacDougal Street. On the third floor, in a narrow kitchen with a view of Passanante’s Ballfield, the morning chill seeped under the windowsills, threading its way into the bones of the small apartment where Julie lived. From her window, she saw a cluster of figures in the field on Houston Street—practicing Tai chi in the mist, their slow, deliberate movements blurred into abstraction. They moved like ghosts, rehearsing something ancient and private. Further off, the Twin Towers were lost in fog, their presence felt more than seen. She loved mornings like this. But then she opened the refrigerator and realized she was out of coffee. Get full access to The City Between Us at michaelarturo.substack.com/subscribe (https://michaelarturo.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

Contact The City Between Us

Guest appearances

Does not typically book guests

Based on episode analysis; this does not confirm that the show is currently accepting guests.