"I give up." He said. The stupid old man. He proclaimed it to the sky in his tiny apartment. It was a quaint little thing. It's been there for years and chock full of stuff accumulated over 50 years or so. It was dark. Filled with contemporary and non-contemporary. Dark, wood stained interiors filled with more modern looking things from various decades. Retro, you'd call them. Filled with bad-ass furniture you'd see in wealthy people's houses in films from the 50's and 60's. A few bookshelves. Not very large but stacked with books that mean a lot to him. Mostly biographies, autobiographies, fiction, non-fiction. Few classics, at least in the general public opinion sense. Bukowski's entire collection of novels and poetry books are proudly displayed and take up an entire shelf. Some original editions included. 

                    Furniture ranging from before he was born to the present littered throughout. Nothing too shabby though. He was never a fan of saving old shit. Preservation for things like furniture were never his style. "Things should be used!" he'd say. "Why the fuck would I put plastic wrap on a couch all it's life? Save it from what? Dog hair, spills, dirt. Life? I mean jesus christ, save it for when I'm dead? Clean it once in a while, toss it when it gets too ratty. Things can be replaced. Mattresses, beds, dressers, tables, counters, desks. Fuck it. Only thing worth saving is if it's in the family. 

         A second bedroom turned-study. That's what he liked to call it. Old school. "Office, spare room, study. Who gives a fuck." He liked to call it a study. Makes it sound more ominous. A study because he inherited a desk his grandfather bought when he was middle-aged, married with 4 kids and his wife surprised him with it one day. A stately looking executive desk. Hard, wooden, beautifully stained a dark cherry. I mean dark. She was driving home and saw it for sale on the side of the road. he used it and worked on it until the day he died. It was a staple of our trips to their condo. It moved with them wherever they went. It was there previously owned before he knew it existed and there after he was dead. She kept it exactly where it was until she moved down to Virginia after a stroke. She set it up in her condo there and his aunt and uncle took possession of it after she died. A list of things was made and surprisingly, no one wanted to take it. He claimed it. 

           The second he had a place to put it he had it with him. It was a symbol. Of what he didn't really know. of professionalism? Whatever. 

"I fucking give up Max. I give. The fuck. up." He sighed getting up out of his recliner. Why did he have one? A recliner? That's what every old person does. That's what everybody does period. "I hate recliners. I should've turned the neighbors down." He only had it because they were moving out. Max got up and moved out of the way as the old man mosey'd his way to the kitchen. A mid-sized mutt. A long haired-something. The old man found the mutt in a shelter that was closing down. "No one knows what the fuck you are or gives a shit about you huh?" He said to him all the time. "Just like me." He opened the fridge. It wasn't stocked with much. But it had plenty of beer in it. He cracked another one. 

        When he drank he got sad. "Fuck it Max. It's not worth it. None of it." As he fell back first, into the couch this time. "Fuck that recliner." He said pointing to it with the beer. "Burn it!" He exclaimed. The dog took this as direction and hopped up on it, looking at the old man for approval. "Yea! Louse it up. Chew it. Destroy that piece of shit. He took a giant swig. He took out his cell. 

       "You'd think they'd call. On Christmas." He tossed it on the couch next to him. "Nata." Another drink. "Fuck em." He finished a beer off, the bottom in the air and he leaned over and slapped it on the coffee table. "Another Max!" Max looked puzzled, hearing his name. "Don't know that one huh?" He groaned getting up. "No one ever taught you that one huh?" Another beer. As he sat down this time, he reached under the couch. He emerged with a small lock box he placed on the coffee table. He crossed his feet and sat them on the table as he leaned back. 

         "Yep. Max, you and I, you and I. That's all we have. I couldn't do it without you Max. Last, oh i don't know, 10, 11..." He looked over at the dog who was staring right back at him. "Jesus Christ Max, has it really been 11 years?" He did the math in his head. "Well fuck! You're almost 12. We're both old men!" The dog actually woofed at him. "Yep, you old son of a bitch. I couldn't have survived this long without you. And you sure as hell could do it without me." He looked over, raised his beer and took a swig. "Well, that's not true, you probably could do without me." He took a huge swig after another and another, finishing it quickly. This one he leaned down and put on the floor next to him. The dog perked up to see, but didn't move. 

          He reached into his pocket and grabbed a key. "Well, you're gonna have to figure it out I think." He unlocked the box and opened it. A classic colt 1911 wrapped in cloth. He took the cloth off and and picked up the gun. He shined it around, looking at it in the bit of light coming from the light in the hall. "Shit, even this thing's nearly a hundred years old."