The City Between Us

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]

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]

The Last Brando

Marlon Brando: more than an idol to Johnny “The Ram” Rampole—something akin to a saint or a wayward prophet. Since his teenage years, Johnny had modeled himself after the Method great: dressing in torn T‑shirts, worn dungarees, and gritty leather jackets so retro they stood out like a sepia ghost in modern Manhattan. Now in his forties and decidedly out of shape, Johnny looked like a miscast statue from a wax museum’s “1950s rebel” exhibit—thick around the middle and terminally confused. His cramped Lower East Side flat was practically a shrine to a bygone era: black‑and‑white portraits of Brando, James Dean, Montgomery Clift, Paul Newman, Geraldine Page, Eli Wallach—each one peeling off the wall with affectionate neglect. His bathroom was doubled as a library: dog‑eared manuals by Stanislavski and Stella Adler, Brando’s scripts, a signed “Streetcar Named Desire” by Tennessee Williams, a shower curtain patched from Brando’s old movie posters—a retro‑movie saint’s altar, only dustier. Johnny inhaled every Brando biography. He memorized every role, every nuance. “The Godfather” remained his morning ritual—slurring the Don’s lines into his coffee cup with cotton in his jowls, like some makeshift Marlonish apparition. Meanwhile, the world whizzed past in the glare of TikTok filters, 15‑second celebrity pitches, and natural‑acting “charm.” Stanislavski and Strasberg were considered arthritic dinosaurs. Johnny himself became the token relic that casting agents half‑smirked at. “They wouldn’t know Stanislavski from a hole in the wall,” he’d mutter, pledging silent revenge on a world that rewarded conformity, not soul‑torn breakthroughs. His best friend was his mute neighbor, Silent Al, who faithfully listened to Johnny’s endless rants over toothpicks and Tahitian‑themed house specials in their dingy cafe booth. “Actors used to be rebels! And now they’re spoon‑fed social‑media clowns! Me? I’m an open wound! The next bum hurts as much as I do, but I bleed from the inside out,” he’d proclaim to Al, who only chewed his toothpick harder in solidarity. Johnny then turned to a Vietnamese waitress in a Tahitian grass skirt who spoke no English and told her he’d buy her an island if he ever made it big. But that was all before the escapade that truly defined Johnny’s folly occurred. A long‑buried Brando passion project—“Wally and Bud,” about Brando’s friendship with Wally Cox—was revived by Alexandra Tamar, a VP of a major streaming network. Johnny, convinced he was destined for the Brando role, took a job as a taxi driver and stalked her address. “Just a quick hop downtown,” Ms. Tamar said as she bounced into Johnny’s cab. “You’re not—wait—are you Alexandra Tay-maar?” Johnny asked as he pulled away from the curb. “Tay-mar.” “Wow, what a coincidence; I was just reading about that Brando script in the trades a few weeks ago. Can you believe this?” “Oh?” Ms. Tamar countered suspiciously. “Like Brando, I myself am an actor with a tragic past. And, let’s say, like Wally Cox, I’ve had friends I’ve mistreated in the past and come to regret. Take my friend, Silent Al, for instance. Maybe he never says anything because I don’t let him. Life teaches you things.” “I suppose it does,” Ms. Tamar replied, not knowing what to add. “And many people don’t realize how truly sensitive Marlon Brando was. Have you ever read the love letters he wrote to Solange? Now there’s a movie—Marlon and Solange—that was a painful breakup,” Johnny said as he bit his lower lip. “You can leave me off at the corner,” Ms. Tamar said. Johnny gripped the wheel tighter, his throat working as if to swallow words he could no longer keep down. His eyes glazed over, and before he could stop himself, the dam broke. “Ms. Tay-mar, you gotta cast me. I’d be the perfect nobody to play Marlon Brando—I can’t even believe I’m here before you, but look at me! I’m a loser straight from Palookaville, a nobody who coulda—coulda been somebody!—if fate didn’t slap me with a couple rotten breaks! I ain’t got nuthin’ in this life, Ms. Tay-mar, but a lousy broken dream to make good! I just wanna belong, damn it! You gotta gimme a chance!” Ms. Taymar couldn’t get away from him fast enough, as she exited the cab and hurriedly boarded a city bus back to sanity. Johnny was left wondering what he might have said wrong. Time crawled. Auditions failed. Johnny’s apartment’s once‑vivid lighting grew dim. Silent Al died—so quietly, in that silence, Johnny felt every word he had wasted. At the funeral, he sobbed through a eulogy thick with irony and grief: “The thing I loved about him most was—he never said a word. It was all in his eyes! Now his eyes are shut! And that’s the tragedy here today, people. What kind of world… is a world where everyone has their eyes open but cannot see? And one man has his eyes shut but cannot speak?” With Silent Al’s passing, the darkness inside Johnny stirred something fierce. He trained, polished his headshots, took elocution lessons, networked—he remembered what it meant to fight. Silent Al, the silent witness, would’ve wanted that. Then came the audition: indie, Brando-esque, with a hint of possible redemption. It was a “Guys and Dolls” themed deodorant commercial, but still, there are no small parts, only small actors. So Johnny strode in, eyes alive, syntax meticulously crafted, ending with a flourish so fierce—he even plucked lint mid‑monologue—that the room's air crackled. The director’s gaze widened. Then: “You bring a real authenticity to your work, Mr. Rampole. We’ll be in touch.” But, as days stretched into weeks, the call never came. Johnny figured that was that. What authenticity? He was a phony, and he knew it. “The Ram,” as he dubbed himself, was a ham. He walked the solitary back alleys of the Bowery like a two-bit nobody. Condemned to death. Even drunken derelicts wouldn’t give him the time of day. The city swallowed him. “My problem is I wanna be great even before I’m good, and that’s why I suck,” Johnny thought to himself, kicking an empty soda can down the street. Overcome with suicidal thoughts and tears streaming down his face, Johnny whispered, “All I ever had was a crummy dream to be an actor! For God’s sake, Marlon, I tried; I really did! But time after time, I came up empty! I could have been a contender if I wasn’t such a pretender!” Just then, Johnny’s cell phone rang. So before throwing himself into the East River, he thought he’d answer it. “Ya’ never know, it could be another audition.” “Hello?” “Do you know what you’re doing?” a low and gravelly voice asked. “Excuse me, who is this?” Johnny asked, clearing his throat. “Who do you think it is?” Johnny took a few uneasy steps as the voice at the other end sounded unmistakably like that of none other than Marlon Brando. “Cat got your tongue?” the voice asked satirically. “Is this someone playing a game?” Johnny sputtered. “Are you playing a game?” Brando’s voice countered wryly. “WHO IS THIS?!” “I have spies everywhere in the world. I could be at your side and punch you right in the mouth in ten minutes flat if I like. So don’t get me angry.” “Is this … Marlon Brando? I thought you were dead.” “You thought I was dead? How do you know you’re not dead?” Johnny gasped and searched for words. “You’re a weak man, Johnny Rampole! WEAK!” Brando boomed, forcing Johnny to reel back as though pierced through the heart by a dagger. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brando, I tried!” “You tried nothing! You want to be me, and yet you don’t know the first thing about me!” “I’m not trying to be you! I’m just going through a life-long lull!” “Shut up and listen, you slobbering fool,” Brando commanded, “You’re going to call that director and tell her to give you the role.” “Wow, you mean just call her? Wait, you didn’t see my audition, did you? I knew it! I knew you were there! I did everything Elia Kazan and Francis Ford taught us. Remember the concentration you had in ‘Apocalypse Now’ as Colonel Kurtz? That’s how deep I went! So, okay, yeah, I’ll call the director if you say so.” “If I say so? Where’s the conviction in your voice? Without conviction, the words of an actor are meaningless. Show us who you are!” “What do you mean? Precisely. No disrespect, I’m just trying to find the subtext to what you mean.” “You know perfectly well what I mean. What is your intent?” Brando asked, putting Johnny on the spot. “My intent is to um … is to find … what I want and why … in the scene,” Johnny whimpered. “What would Silent Al say?” “He wouldn’t say s**t, he never said anything!” “He served a purpose in your life! Every time you looked into his eyes, you saw the truth! What would those eyes say now?” Johnny took it in but said nothing in return. “Let me tell you something,” Brando continued, “When I was a child, I had a friend whom I tied to a tree and left there. Because I considered him my inferior, it was an act of malice and cruelty that I’ve never quite forgiven myself, even these many years later.” Brando’s voice cracked with emotion as he recalled his childhood and lifelong friendship with Wally Cox. “As it turned out, that friend forgave me and stood by me my entire life. I’ve always been in awe of his strength to forgive me. He taught me what strength was—he whom I once saw as my inferior. My intention in life is never to be that cruel to anyone again. What is your intention in life, Johnny Rampole?” Johnny was silent for a long time before Brando took a deep breath and spoke to him again in that low, dramatic voice that seemed to resonate from his soul. “You’re the last Brando, the very last Brando. Act like it!” At that point, the line went dead. “Mr. Brando? Mr. Brando, are you there?” Johnny took a moment and looked up at the night sky. He could hardly believe what just happened to him. “Marlon Brando just told me I’m his heir apparent! Hey everybody, wake up! I just spoke to the Marlon Brando!“ Johnny ran through the streets, screaming to any window that would listen. He called the director, breathless and half-insane, praying that it meant something. And miraculously, her voice came back: “Your audition was magnificent…but you’re too short.” Two inches. Two damned inches stood between him and his dream. He trudged home, like a rebel without a clue, soaked from the bucket of water an annoyed neighbor lobbed at him as applause, heart thudding with loss—and the faintest, rebellious bloom of pride. Because Brando had called. Brando declared him his successor. He crawled into bed: tears of grief, elation, regret all mingling. Brando’s voice, Al’s silent tutelage, velvet shadows of old‑world artistry—Johnny held them all in his roaring pulse. And, slipping Last Tango in Paris back into his DVD player, he drifted into sleep—dreaming that one day, someone would exhumed this kind of acting from its grave and, damned if they wouldn’t find Johnny Rampole waiting there. © 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]

Bullet To The Head (Part 5)

Jimmy Tong was dead. Eddie Cardone had watched the life bleed out of the only man who’d ever taught him the rules of Chinatown, the man who’d pulled him from Columbus Avenue street corner cons into better-paying hustles. And then, when Eddie needed him, Jimmy had tried to save him, driving him out of Chinatown under fire, but the night had eaten him alive. That left Eddie to run alone, without his closest ally, through streets that felt stranger with every step. He remembered Lillianne as he ran, and why he couldn’t leave Chinatown on his own. He loved her. It was that dumb love where he had nothing to base it on but a belief that, against all odds, she was the one. 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]

Closed Casket

Vic Martelli’s crew ran uptown, everything north of Central Park. They had the high-end card rooms on the Upper East Side, and all the dope moving through Harlem. Ran it classy, too; never had to shout when cash could do the talking. Carmine Russo’s boys—they had the West Side. Hookers, dockside smuggling, and a bunch of nickel-and-dime street rackets that kept the lights on. Martelli was silk. Russo was sandpaper. They worked together fine, mostly—until somebody got in the way. Then, yeah, maybe a guy took a bullet. But business always came first. So, when word got out that somebody big just got clipped—real big—mourning incorporated went into action. The thing is, nobody knew who it was. Like, even that was a secret. Nevertheless, both families were urged to show up to pay their respects. Business is business, and everyone who’s involved knows the consequences of stepping out of line. That said, when a brother-in-arms takes a bullet, men of respect put aside differences and give him a decent send-off. Besides, funerals are a great way to catch up. 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]