I told him what had happened, sticking mostly to the facts while omitting the more incriminating parts. I wasn’t sure why I told him, maybe nothing more than an attempt to impress him with what I believed was a story of valor, even while knowing never to assume the way a person might react to fights. It was a point of pride for me that I could kick my way out of corners when I had to, that I had both landed and taken my fair share of punches, but of course not everybody was as impressed as I was by my own abilities. When I finished the story, I stood there self-consciously while Gene silently stared at me. This time I was the one who looked away first.

“You think he called the cops?”

I shook my head. “I doubt it.”

“Did you take the money?”

“Of course not. The man’s delusional.”

Gene’s face softened and I immediately felt better. “Well, good for you for sticking up for yourself. If you don’t, then nobody else will.” He shrugged. “Shit happens.”

“That it does, Gene.” I paused and looked around the room. “Hell, now what am I going to do? I have an apartment without a thing in it and it’s Friday night and I’m covered in blood,” I said, my voice echoing off the walls without the buffer of furniture to absorb it. “I don’t suppose you have anything else you want to get rid of?”

He laughed. “You’re a mess, kiddo. But let me check. I’m sure I do. Would be good for me to get rid of some of that shit up there.”

Gene ran upstairs and returned a few minutes later with his arms full of dishes, silverware, a pot and pan, an old patchwork quilt. He dropped the dishes in the kitchen sink and threw me the quilt.

“Like I said, you’re one hell of a guy, Gene.”

“Yeah, and I’m starting to believe it, too. You’re on your own for the rest, though.”

“You’ve done far more than I could have hoped for. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. Anyway, come up and grab a book before it gets too late. Going to need something to occupy your mind, especially after the day you’ve had. And it certainly looks like you could use a drink.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” I said. “It’s been one messed-up day.”

Gene went back upstairs. I unloaded my notepads, pens, and pencils from my shoulder bag into the desk. The shaking in my hands slowed and I pulled away a piece of skin hanging from a cut on the middle knuckle of my right hand. I licked away the blood, then paced the studio. A train roared by like an earthquake but not even that dampened my spirits.