The streets were still damp from the night before, glistening in the early morning light. Down here, in the oldest part of Manhattan, the air carried the weight of history—stone, and steel pressed tight, the ghosts of a thousand deals made and broken.
Elliot rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the feel of the running shoes he’d thrown on that morning. He was already regretting them.
Solomon, walking beside him, grinned. “A proper city man turned athlete.”
Elliot sighed. “You said my dress shoes wouldn’t make it.”
“I said your Italian shoes wouldn’t make it.”
Elliot shook his head. “I didn’t take you for a guy with strong opinions on footwear.”
Solomon tapped his cane against the pavement. “I have opinions on everything.”
They turned a corner, the sound of gulls overhead mingling with the early morning hum of downtown. Solomon lifted his chin slightly as if catching a familiar scent in the sea air that rolled across Battery Park.
“There’s a guy, Charlie, runs a little espresso stand at the edge of Battery Park,” he said. “Knows a good coffee bean.”
Elliot raised an eyebrow. “You have a preferred barista?”
“I have standards.” Solomon smirked. “Besides, first stop of the day ought to be coffee. You’re going to need it.”
Elliot scoffed but followed.
Just as Solomon had said, there was Charlie—an older man with sleeves rolled up, a weathered face, and a sharp eye for who actually knew their coffee from the tourists who drowned it in sugar. When he saw Solomon, he didn’t hesitate.
“Solomon, my man!”
“That must be Charlie. Charlie, this is my friend Elliot. Elliot, Charlie. I’m taking Elliot on the blind man’s tour of Manhattan today.”
“You don’t say! Well, what can I get for you gentlemen this morning?”
“You already know what I want, Charlie.”
Charlie laughed, then turned to Elliot. “And for you?”
Elliot hesitated. “Uh—black, I guess.”
Charlie gave him a look, unimpressed. “Guess?”
“Black,” Elliot repeated, firmer.
Charlie poured the coffee and handed it over. Solomon took his own cup, inhaled deeply, and let out a satisfied sigh. “Now that’s a cup of coffee.”
They walked on, the city beginning to wake around them. Elliot took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at Solomon.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.
Solomon smirked. “That mattress in your guest room? Firm enough to break a man.”
Elliot laughed.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Solomon added. “Roof over my head, warm bed, and the kind of company that comes with expensive whiskey. I’ve had worse nights.”
Elliot didn’t ask where those worse nights had been.
Instead, he watched the city move—workers in suits moving with purpose, delivery trucks rumbling by, tourists already angling for the first ferry to the Statue of Liberty. Solomon walked at a steady pace, cane tapping in rhythm, moving through the streets as though he knew them better than Elliot ever could.
Elliot had to remind himself—Solomon was blind. And yet, he spoke as though he had seen it all. It was a peculiar thing that hung over their walk, an uncanny contradiction that Elliot couldn’t shake.
By the time they reached the Woolworth Building, the morning traffic had thickened. The air smelled of freshly brewed ambition, and Elliot was already questioning his life choices.
Solomon stopped, turning toward the towering neo-Gothic structure. “You know this one, don’t you?”
“Woolworth,” Elliot said. “Finished in 1913. The tallest in the world for a while.”
“‘The Cathedral of Commerce,’” Solomon murmured. “Cass Gilbert built it like a church because that’s what skyscrapers were back then—monuments to ambition.” He gestured toward it. “Look at those details. Gargoyles, vaulted arches, buttresses. A medieval castle built for businessmen.”
Elliot studied the façade, its intricate carvings, the way it felt crafted rather than just built. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”
“No,” Solomon said. “Because we stopped believing buildings should have souls.” He tilted his head. “What do you want yours to be? A monument? A machine? Or something alive?”
By the time they reached Bryant Park, Elliot had had enough. He exhaled sharply and slowed his pace, rolling his shoulders. “I need a break.”
Solomon snorted. “A break? We’re barely getting started.”
“Barely getting started?” Elliot shook his head and found an empty bench.
“We’ll never make it to Harlem by dinner.” Solomon smiled as he sat beside him. “Am I walking too fast for you?”
Elliot let out a dry laugh. “If anyone should be complaining, it’s you.”
Solomon stretched his legs out in front of him. “Why? Because I got age on you? Son, I ain’t old. Old is when you’re dead.”
Elliot smirked. “I didn’t mean to say you’re old. It’s just …”
Solomon tilted his head, listening to the city around him. “You know, my people were from the Caribbean. St. Kitts, specifically. They were travellers long before I got here. We got legs.”
Elliot was caught off guard. Solomon had never volunteered anything about himself before, not like this.
“They came to New York looking for something better. Something stable. A place to plant roots.” He smiled faintly. “It made me… genteel, I suppose. That’s what my mother used to call it. We had old manners in a new world.”
“Genteel?” Elliot said, half amused, half intrigued. “You don’t strike me as the polite society type.”
Solomon chuckled. “That’s because you think manners are about posture and silverware. It’s not that. It’s a way of holding yourself. A way of seeing the world, even when it refuses to see you back.” He gestured toward the park. “This place? This is genteel. Not because of who’s sitting here but because of what it offers. Space. Room to breathe. A kindness in a city that forgets kindness.”
Elliot followed Solomon’s gesture, watching as people sprawled on the grass, as others sat quietly on benches reading, sipping coffee. The city moved around them, but here, it softened.
“You know,” Elliot said, “New York keeps trying to bring more green into its architecture. Vertical gardens, rooftop parks, terraces. It’s a way to counterbalance the steel and glass.”
Solomon nodded. “It’s a start. But what’s at the base?”
Elliot frowned. “What do you mean?”
Solomon tapped his cane lightly against the ground. “A building grows like a tree. It needs roots, somewhere to pull breath from. If the bottom is nothing but concrete, you’re just stacking weight on dead space. No wonder so many buildings feel suffocating.”
Elliot considered this. “So, my tower—”
“I know you got your client and your partners to consider, but the skyscraper you design needs a park at its feet,” Solomon said simply.
Elliot looked back at Bryant Park. The way the buildings framed it, like they were guarding something delicate but vital. The park felt like a held breath, a moment of silence in the relentless noise of the city.
That’s when his eye caught something in the distance.
It shimmered in the midday sun, its spire slicing into the sky like the blade of a dagger. The details were faint from here, softened by the haze, but Elliot didn’t need to see them up close to know them by heart—the radiant crown, the intricate Art Deco flourishes, the unmistakable silhouette that set it apart from every other tower in Manhattan.
His pulse quickened.
“Quite a masterpiece,” Solomon murmured.
Elliot turned sharply. “How the hell do you know what I’m looking at?”
Solomon smirked. “What else would you be looking at, Mr. Van Alen?”
Elliot exhaled, shaking his head. The man was impossible.
They left the park and began walking east, the Chrysler Building growing larger with every step.
“The race to the sky in the 1920s was brutal. Everyone wanted to build the tallest tower. My grand-uncle had a rival—H. Craig Severance. They both kept redesigning their buildings to be taller, one-upping each other in secret.”
Solomon grinned. “And then came the spire.”
Elliot nodded. “October 23, 1929. He had it hidden inside the building the entire time, waiting. Then, in a single day, they assembled it, piece by piece, raising it from the inside out.”
“The ultimate architectural sleight of hand,” Solomon mused.
Elliot smirked. “Yeah. A last-minute trick to make sure it would be the tallest.” His smirk faded slightly. “For a moment, anyway.”
Solomon nodded knowingly. “The Empire State was already on the horizon.”
“The very next day—October 24, 1929—the stock market crashed. By the time the Chrysler Building opened the following Spring, the world had changed.”
They stopped at the base of the Chrysler Building, the late afternoon sun glinting off its steel arches, casting long shadows over the street. Elliot looked up, his jaw tightening. The building was magnificent—bold, defiant—but it also stood as a kind of monument to ambition’s quiet erasure.
“This was supposed to be his legacy,” Elliot murmured. “And yet, outside of architecture circles, almost no one even knows his name.”
Solomon said nothing at first. He turned his head slightly as if considering something distant, something only he could hear.
Then, finally: “And what about you?”
Elliot frowned. “What about me?”
Solomon’s voice was quiet but steady. “You trying to finish what he started?”
Elliot hesitated. He looked up again, past the intricate eagles jutting out from the building’s corners, past the spire that had once made it the tallest in the world. He had spent years chasing something—recognition, permanence, the idea that he could carve his name into the sky the way his grand-uncle once had.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Solomon smirked. “Then maybe it’s time you figured that out.” He let the words settle, then added, “How long are you gonna put off living your life in pursuit of something that might outlive you?” He let out a low chuckle. “Even a blind man can see that.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Elliot exhaled slowly, his gaze still fixed upward, but he no longer felt sure of what he was looking for.
They stood there a moment longer, the past towering over them, before turning and walking on.
By the time they reached Harlem, the sky had deepened into a rich blue, the last traces of sunlight dissolving behind the skyline. Streetlights buzzed to life, and music—Latin jazz from one doorway, gospel from another—blended into the warm hum of the evening.
They walked west, past brownstones and neon-lit bodegas, until they reached the Manhattan School of Music. Solomon stopped in front of the building, resting both hands on his cane.
“I studied here once,” he said.
Elliot turned to him. “Piano, right?”
Solomon nodded, his fingers flexing slightly, as if they could still find their way over unseen keys. “A long time ago.” His voice had a different quality now—softer, like something held at a distance. “I was good. Not great, but good. Could’ve made something of it. But life has a way of deciding for you.”
Elliot said nothing. He had spent the whole day learning that Solomon rarely answered direct questions, that his past was something he revealed in glimpses, never in full. But standing there, in front of this place, it was the first time Solomon felt truly still.
Then, with a small exhale, Solomon tapped his cane against the pavement and turned away. “Come on. Let’s eat before you collapse.”
They found an old restaurant nearby, the kind that had been there for half a century, unchanged except for the faces behind the counter. The lighting was warm, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and spices.
Solomon chuckled as they slid into a booth. “You held up better than I thought. For a man who spends most of his time in glass towers.”
Elliot smirked, but when he shifted in his seat, he winced. “Yeah, well. I think I have a blister the size of a subway token.”
Solomon laughed, shaking his head. “Amateur.”
They ordered, and the conversation meandered—back to the Woolworth Building, the pause of Bryant Park, the way the streets changed as they moved north. The day had been long, exhausting, but now, in the dim light of the restaurant, it felt like something permanent, something neither of them would ever quite leave behind.
At some point, between bites of food and sips of cold beer, Elliot realized something: they had created something together. Not a building, not a blueprint, but a day that would live on forever, a thing built out of steps and stories, out of silence and sound.
Solomon raised his glass slightly. “To your blister.”
Elliot clinked his glass against Solomon’s, shaking his head with a grin. “To the lasting memory of whatever the hell today was.”
Neither of them brought up legacies.
For once, the present was enough.
end of part three
© Michael Arturo 2025
Welcome to Michael’s Newsletter. Writer of 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 also writes short literary fiction. Below is a link to his first collection.
FLATIRON and other tall tales
other audio stories below and on the right-hand side of the screen
Rainspell
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