Late of Ludlow Street

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 forgott