Not long ago, I found myself in a forgotten friend’s loft, unsure of how I had arrived. The place felt more like the ruins of an obsession than someone’s home. Paintings were scattered with reckless abandon—against walls, windows, furniture, and across the floor as if the space had surrendered itself to them. Each canvas pulsed with color, fractured yet deliberate, a chaotic hymn to one of New York’s most iconic landmarks: the Flatiron Building—which loomed like a ghost outside the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows.
Minutes stretched, then folded in on themselves, as I wandered between the canvases. An hour slipped, maybe two; I had no idea how much time had passed.
All the while, the artist, Jerry Greenberg, stood over my shoulder, breathing through his nose like a bull that had just crossed the finish line at Pamplona. This was his life’s work, a syncopation of otherworldly retro-futurism, a pandemonium entirely his own.
Greenberg himself was a paradoxical chap. His wealth afforded him the luxury of masquerading as a bohemian, yet he lived like a king, with a king-sized view of the Flatiron. He was the sort who craved fame yet despised its superficiality. The sort who saw himself as misunderstood yet took pride in just how misunderstood he was.
For him, art transcended Warhol’s quip, “Art is what you can get away with.” Each brushstroke carried existential weight—a puzzle he alone was destined to solve. The toll of this pursuit was etched in his scowl, a silent testament to his simmering frustration. He was a character, strutting about in a full-length paint-splatted smock, a wool scarf an old girlfriend had knitted, and a pair of Converse high-tops.
"I don’t recall ever seeing anything so familiar, yet so utterly strange," I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper. It was as if I had stepped into a memory I had never lived—something known, yet unknowable. The paintings, the Flatiron beyond the window, even the air itself felt charged with a presence I couldn't quite place, as if I were witnessing something I had seen a thousand times before but was only now truly seeing for the first time.
Greenberg’s lips curled into a secretive smile.
“I paint only the Flatiron,” he said. “It’s all I see. It’s all I want to see. And to truly see the Flatiron, I must see it for the first time every time.”
My connection to Greenberg was a passing chapter in a New York minute—our acquaintance a byproduct of his ties to Alex Alessi, my forgotten friend.
I hadn’t seen Alex in years. At some point, I’d realized I must have sought him out on a whim earlier in the day. I suppose I had nothing better to do than to be carried by the city’s timeless pulse, but Alex wasn’t there when I arrived. He was just a name lingering on the intercom.
“Alex is gone. Where have you been?” Greenberg sneered after he answered the door and gave me the once over.
It was one of those New York things—time passing unnoticed until, all at once, it was apparent. I recalled a New Year’s Eve Party here. I thought then the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the Flatiron precisely seemed fated to be an artist’s muse.
“Most people think they’re looking at an optical illusion,” Greenberg said of his work. “But even that’s not real.”
“You mean the illusion itself is an illusion?”
“I’m saying I’m not sure if what exists outside my window is even there.”
“No, it’s there. I just walked past it,” I said unsure if Greenberg was half-joking.
“Don’t patronize me,” he said dead serious.
“I was on my way here, and I looked up at it—”
“—and your mind registered it as the Flatiron, because it always has.”
“I then walked by it. Crossed the street.”
Greenberg shook his head. “You may have thought you walked by it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Of course, you walked by it—millions of people do. But don’t pretend you can see something that isn’t there.”
I let out a laugh. “I’m not following. Are you saying consciousness itself… is an illusion?”
“Yes, but I can’t speak for you.”
I sighed. “The illusion of the Flatiron isn’t that it isn’t there. It’s that it’s flat.”
Greenberg’s eyes flickered. “How would you know that?”
“I can see it with my own eyes!”
“Have you ever been on the other side?”
“Of course I have.”
“At the same time?”
I frowned. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
“You’re either on one side or the other.”
“Then tell me—which side were you on? The long side? Or the short?”
I hesitated. I had no idea.
“To some, the Flatiron is a 12-5-13 Pythagorean triangle,” he continued. “A long side. A short side. So? Which side were you on?”
“How would I know?”
“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere! If you don’t even know which side you were on, how can you be certain there is another side? To some, it’s a triangle. To others—a flat, one-sided structure that exists only in theory. And if it only exists in theory, how can anyone be sure it exists at all?”
At the risk of sounding like a tramp in a Beckett play, I responded accordingly. “Forget how many sides there are—or aren’t. If I walked by it, and millions of others walked by it—but it isn’t there—then what do you see when you look out your window?”
Greenberg took a moment, nodding as if I had just proven his point.
“Let’s say the mind registers it as real. Or maybe as something that appears real—like a rainbow.”
“But we’re not talking about a rainbow!”
“Which is why it’s worse! A rainbow at least acknowledges its own fraudulence! The Flatiron just stands there, pretending to be real!”
I let his absurd notion linger.
“Are you saying the Flatiron Triangle is New York’s version of the Bermuda Triangle?”
“No, jackass,” Greenberg snapped. “I’m saying I paint the Flatiron to prove to myself that it’s there.”
Greenberg saw metaphors in everything—graffiti-covered walls, discarded objects, the Flatiron itself. And he expected the rest of us to, as well.
“You ever read up on Pataphysics? The science of imaginary solutions?”
“Sounds like pretentious b******t.”
“Exactly! It’s the most sophisticated pretentious b******t ever conceived! It’s the paradox of contradictions! The science of imaginary solutions! The answers to problems no one asked! It’s a system built to explain the unexplainable, measure what can’t be measured, and solve what doesn’t need solving.”
Greenberg’s words hung in the air, heavy with meaninglessness.
The concept of imaginary solutions sounded like a smokescreen conjured by a delusional postmodern conman. Then again, an imaginary solution only suggests the possibility of an alternate one—and an alternate one does not necessarily negate a valid one.
The Flatiron itself seemed to whisper that every story had at least three sides. Was it a building? An idea? A shape people accepted without question? A long side, a short side, a hypotenuse—the mind registered its geometry without hesitation. But to stand on both sides at once? Impossible. As such, the Flatiron could be, in theory, both real and unreal.
Greenberg studied me, then changed the subject. “Wanna get high?”
I smirked. “I assumed you were already high.”
“Don’t be cute. Do you wanna get f****n’ high or not?”
I didn’t answer. He took that as a yes.
I came looking for someone else, an old friend. And you know what they say when you begin dredging up the past. You wind up chasing ghosts. So there I was, feeling very much like a ghost myself, who, by looking for one ghost, ended up being entertained by another ghost.
We sat among his canvases, the air thick with the scent of oil paint and turpentine. Greenberg lit the bong, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a cloud that curled toward the ceiling.
“I thought you and Alessi had a rift,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t call it a rift. Things were said. We drifted apart.”
“So it was a drift, not a rift?”
“He was successful early on. I was struggling. You know how that goes.”
“Well, I have no idea where he is. Off to find himself, I guess. Europe, Asia, South America—he could be anywhere.”
“What’s his name still doing on the intercom downstairs?”
“He never officially moved out.”
“So, do you sublet from him?”
Greenberg sighed. “Yo, this is New York. People like to be left alone. They don’t want bounty hunters coming after them.”
“I’m just asking. Alessi and I were close once.”
Greenberg waved a hand dismissively. “Look, Alessi’s got more money than God, and I’ve got more money than God. Do the math.”
At that moment, amidst the canvases and clutter, I made a connection with Greenberg that defied explanation—a connection forged through the unending quest to understand what more money than God actually meant.
I leaned against a table. Greenberg, who had more money than God, lounged on a battered sofa that bore the weight of restless nights and, quite frankly, smelled funky even at a distance.
A stack of dog-eared philosophy books sat on the floor beside him. He took another hit.
“We never really hung out, did we?” Greenberg said, blowing smoke.
“I was the one lurking at Alex’s get-togethers. I always wanted to open an art gallery.”
Greenberg squinted at me. “I remember you now. But not quite.”
“Nice to be remembered for not being remembered.”
“Funny. You remind me of Alex. Both of you are sarcastic as f**k.”
“Alex was going to back me.”
“The art gallery?”
“Yeah. But it was just talk, I suppose.”
Greenberg studied me, then asked, “How close were you with Alex?”
“Inseparable, once upon a time.” I hesitated. “Did Alex ever tell you the story about his great-grandfather? He worked construction on the Flatiron.”
Greenberg exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alex’s great-grandfather,” he repeated, as if weighing the name. His usual sharpness wavered, replaced by something more introspective. “I don’t know, man. If this is some Ellis Island tale, I’m not sure what it has to do with—” He stopped himself, sighing. “Go on.”
I studied him, surprised. “Only if you’re really interested in imaginary solutions.”
Greenberg sat up. I nodded, choosing my words carefully.
“For Alex’s great-grandfather, the Flatiron wasn’t just a building. Laying its foundation, carving its bones—it was an immigrant’s rite of passage, proof that he belonged here. But somewhere along the way, the story of what happened during the construction of the Flatiron shifted—got twisted and blurred. I’m talking about the deaths of dozens of immigrant laborers. That never happened.”
Greenberg watched me closely now, “I’m not interested in something that never happened.”
Greenberg took a deep breath and softened. “I didn’t mean to be an a*****e. Jews, Italians—we all have stories, we all have scars.” His voice dropped. “Half my mother’s family was wiped out in Auschwitz.”
I felt the weight of it. “I’m sorry.”
“But that happened.”
Silence settled between us.
I shifted in my seat. “You ever hear about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire? 1911. One hundred forty-six people, mostly women, trapped. Killed.”
Greenberg exhaled sharply. “Yeah, I have. Horrific.”
I hesitated. “Alex’s great-grandfather told his grandfather, who told his father, who told Alex, that men were buried alive during the Flatiron’s construction in 1902.”
Greenberg’s expression changed. His usual air of detachment wavered.
“The Triangle Shirtwaist fire was front-page news,” I continued. “But there’s no record of workers being buried alive while constructing the Flatiron.”
Greenberg held my gaze for a long moment. He turned slowly toward the Flatiron, as if waiting for it to offer an answer.
I pressed on. “Alex’s great-grandfather didn’t speak English. His grandfather barely made it out of grade school. So whatever was passed down—through the generations—might have been a misinterpretation of events.”
Greenberg’s jaw tightened. “It either happened, or it didn’t. No language barrier can misinterpret one for the other.”
“That’s what Alex thought. He spent weeks reviewing old newspapers and historical records. The Fuller Building, as it was originally called, never reported an accident that killed anyone.”
A flicker of something crossed Greenberg’s face—not skepticism, but recognition.
“So you’re saying the old man mistook the Waistcoat Factory fire for—wait a minute,” he said, his voice suddenly unsteady. “I’ve had nightmares about this. Recurring nightmares. I’ve had these nightmares even before I started living here. And since living here …”
He stood, his movements sharp, agitated. “No. I think Alessi’s great-grandfather saw something.”
A cold weight settled in my chest. “What are you saying?”
Greenberg raked a hand through his hair, his breath uneven. “I don’t know. I don’t f*****g know. But I swear on my soul—I’ve seen what he —”
The room felt smaller. Tighter.
“Who sent you here?” Greenberg snapped, out of the blue.
The question cut through me like a blade.
What was I doing here? And why was I remembering all of this now?
“I told you—I came to visit Alex.”
Greenberg shook his head, eyes unfocused. “I’m having an out-of-body experience. I dreamt this. It’s like you’re burrowing into my head and pulling it out!”
He spun, clutching his skull. “I might even be dreaming right now! Don’t go anywhere—I need to show you something.”
He rushed across the loft, rifling through a rack of unfinished paintings.
“This is my nightmare.”
He yanked out a painting and turned it toward me.
I went cold.
The image was uncannily precise—mourners or laborers, or some combination of both, dressed in black frocks, standing over mounds of sand and ash.
A trench. A collapse. A burial.
Greenberg’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Tell me I’m a madman! But I’ve seen this in my dreams! It happens the same way every time. A trench caves in. Immigrant workers, buried alive. Their muffled screams, the suffocating dirt.”
He swallowed. “And then I hear music.”
I barely breathed. “Music?”
“Dancing. Singing. It’s New Year’s Eve at midnight.”
I shivered.
“There was a ballroom in the basement of the Flatiron when it opened,” he continued. “They were buried beneath the ballroom.”
He looked at me now, his face pale, his certainty terrifying.
“Then I wake up, go to the window, and see nothing but a mound of sand and ash.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Greenberg collapsed onto the battered sofa. He grabbed the bong and took a long, slow hit, exhaling through his nose like a man trying to calm himself down.
I stared at him, his paintings, and the Flatiron beyond the window.
A story passed down through generations—one that history had either erased or never recorded at all. Real or imagined. And if imagined—for what purpose?
And yet, I felt its presence.
Just as one could see the Flatiron in different ways—either as a triumph of architecture or a monument to an untold tragedy.
A triangle with long and short sides.
It’s all about perspective.
Greenberg let out a breath, voice softer now. “Nice to be remembered for not being remembered.”
I blinked. “What?”
“What you said before. ‘It’s nice to be remembered for not being remembered.’ I like that. I might have use for it somewhere. Do you mind? I’ll give you credit. What did you say your name was again?”
I hesitated. Then, quietly: “I didn’t say. Best to be an unknown than being never remembered.”
As I left Greenberg’s loft, I asked him to call me if Alex ever reappeared.
“Maybe we’ll all go out for dinner,” I suggested.
Greenberg scoffed. “I haven’t been to dinner since the Twin Towers collapsed.”
Outside, I looked up at his windows from the sidewalk, trying to see what Greenberg saw. Then I turned to the Flatiron.
The sun bathed its upper floors in golden light. But at the street level, the wind howled, slicing through the narrow intersection like a blade. For a moment—just a moment—I thought I heard something in the wind.
Whispers.
Cries.
Music.
Right where the wind split in two along the Flatiron’s protruding edge.
I decided to walk around it. A full circle. To see it whole for the first time in a long time. Maybe even for the first time. Which side was the long side and which was the short side?
I counted my paces as I moved north along Fifth.
As I turned the corner, the wind picked up, howling through the canyon of buildings. I struggled to keep my footing.
They used to say the Flatiron’s draft would lift women’s skirts. That men would be blown off their heels.
I had all I could do to stay upright.
My mind went dim.
I lost count of my steps.
By the time I circled back to my starting point, something felt… off.
I couldn’t explain it.
I turned back toward Greenberg’s building—drawn by something beyond logic.
I should have retraced my steps more precisely. Should have counted them again.
But instead, I crossed the street and headed for the entrance.
Something shifted.
The air around me.
The feeling of it.
I stepped inside.
And then I saw it.
On the intercom.
A name I recognized immediately.
Alex Alessi.
But how?
My heart pounded.
I called the concierge. “Mr. Borges?”
“Ah! Señor Alessi!” He sounded delighted. “It’s so nice to hear your voice again! When did you return?”
I felt a wave of dizziness.
“I… I’m sorry?”
“It’s been a long time, no? It’s good to get away. It gives you a new perspective.”
“Yes,” I murmured. “It does.”
“Did you enjoy Buenos Aires? I don’t return often enough myself. But do not worry, Señor Alessi! Everything is just as you left it.”
I swallowed.
“How did I… get home, Mr. Borges?”
He chuckled. “What do you mean, Señor? Do you need help with your luggages?” He always mispronounced luggage as luggages.
It made me feel right at home.
“No,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Mr. Borges.”
I stepped into the elevator.
The ride felt longer than I remembered.
When the doors finally slid open, I fumbled for my keys.
They fit the lock.
I turned the handle.
The loft was just as I had left it.
I crossed the room and drew open the curtains.
And there it was.
The Flatiron.
Always there. Never there.
A triangle with long and short sides.
It was all about perspective.
Generations ago, my great-grandfather, an Italian immigrant, played a role in constructing the Flatiron Building in 1902. His young wife—my great-grandmother—would later perish in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911. Over time, the two events became intertwined in my family’s retelling, history blurring into myth. Decades later, it fell upon me to untangle the threads.
When I shared the story with Jerry Greenberg—an artist who once crashed at my loft—he became obsessed. His imagination seized on the idea of men buried alive beneath the Flatiron, and soon, his canvases bore scenes of mourning laborers, ghostly figures entombed in ash and sand. Jerry had always sought to extract meaning from absence; perhaps his own family's past—marked by loss in the Holocaust—made him more attuned to history’s distortions.
Despite our differences—me, born into wealth and pragmatism, him, a restless artist chasing transcendence—we had once been inseparable. Our friendship thrived on long conversations, philosophical debates, and shared dreams. But as time passed, so did we.
Before he disappeared from my life, Jerry confided that he didn’t want to be overt in depicting loss—it was always there without being there. The past is inescapable, he said.
His words lingered, forcing me to reconsider my own inheritance. Had my great-grandfather rewritten his past, just as Jerry reshaped his nightmares into art? Perhaps, in telling himself a different version of history, he had found a way to live with it.
Sometimes, Jerry and I saw eye to eye, and our perspectives aligned. Other times, we looked at the same thing and saw something else entirely.
As I gazed down at the street below, a dark figure, his smock whipping in the wind like a tattered flag, stood at the base of the Flatiron. He moved methodically, counting his steps—one by one.
And then—he was gone, swallowed by the recesses of the building.
Jerry’s voice echoed in my mind, a lingering meditation on time, memory, and perception.
I turned from the window.
And I remembered—I was home.
© 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.
