“Great,” he said. “And while you’re here I don’t mind if you borrow some of my books. Do you have any furniture?”

I shook my head. “Nothing but a bag full of clothes.”

He smiled, stamped out his cigarette, threw back the rest of his Gin Rickey. “Come on,” he said.

As far as I could tell the apartment contained three bedrooms; the middle one served as storage. There were boxes stacked to the ceiling, old, outdated tables and chairs, yellowing newspapers, clothes folded into piles. In the far corner was an old dust-covered desk.

“You can have that desk if you want it. I have no use for it. Been meaning to get rid of some of this shit for a while now. It’s real wood, not that pressboard garbage. Heavier than hell but I’ll help you carry it down now if you want it.”

“Hell yes, I want it. I’ll take anything you want to get rid of.”

Small scratches were scattered across the desk’s surface along with a few nicks here and there, but otherwise it was in good shape. It’d look nice in the apartment. Gene cleared a pathway and then crouched on one side of the desk while I took the other.

“I’m telling you, it’s a heavy son of a bitch.”

“I have faith in you, Gene.”

“I’m glad somebody does. On three. One. Two. Three.” We both lifted. He wasn’t kidding, it was heavier than hell. Before we were out of the room, Gene’s face had turned red; by the time we made it out of his apartment, and before the stairs, it was nearly purple. He went down first, which meant most of the weight was on him, but it was easy weight while I was nearly bent at a ninety-degree angle and straining mightily. By the time we made it down, my hands hurt so badly I was sure they were cut and bleeding.

“Alright, down, down, down!” he said. I lowered my end slowly onto the tips of my shoes to keep from making a sound and smashing my fingers, Gene dropped his when it was within a foot of the floor. “It’s yours now. I’m never moving this damn thing again.”