The Absent Emptiness

As mentioned, we didn't talk on the ride home, that stupid awkward silence enveloping us like French whores in silk sheets. I wanted to light a cigarette so badly, but Ethan hated the smoke, so I nervously tapped it repeatedly with an irritated finger.
"You can stop that anytime now," he said, finally poking a hole in the silence cloud over our heads.

I bit my lower lip in frustration, but humored him as calmly as possible.
After a few stops and turns at traffic lights, we entered his development.
I dropped Ethan off at his house, I had the desire to drive away without a word but decided it best to at least say something.
"You take care of yourself Ethan okay? Just be safe."
He nodded wearily, his eyes had dark circles around them, a vague shadow of a man.
Not another word was spoken, he turned and entered his house. I backed out of his drive way and started my own journey home. I remembered the discarded cigarette I had sitting in my cup holder.
I immediately lit up, taking a couple long drags while trying to sort out the anonymous author.
What was their name? Who were they?
Their work was interesting, guttural and harsh, yet elegant. An angel with dirty wings with an anchor tattoo on their arm.
I began to ponder, why did Hunter have it? How long did he have it for? Did he have a Rolodex with them? Yeah, first things first, I have to identify the writer.
I took a few more drags before chucking the remainder out of the window.
My hands shook, such anticipation over such a silly matter, I felt a sickness with that excitement, feeling such rapture over something that came about my friends death. I didn't want to be depressed, but at the same time, I didn't want to be happy.
I was effectively becoming my own kill joy, and I felt that there was nothing wrong with it, but at the same time I felt that because I didn't want to feel anxiety about it, that made it even more disgusting.
My mother came to mind now, how she used to feel excited during the evening lotto, waiting to see if her numbers were the winning ones. She'd always tell us kids to quiet down so she could hear the numbers read off, her vision was pretty bad and even though she wore glasses, she'd rather hear it than have to strain her eyes at the television.
She also got me into smoking, by age 16 I was sucking down 1 pack a day, and chugging lattes like a fiend. Of course she didn't know, the cigarette smell I could always blame on her habit. It wasn't a matter of wanting to be like an adult, but more it was to see what the fuss was all about.
Honestly, I didn't even cough when I inhaled my first cigarette, a Camel Light, but it sure tasted like crap.
Good ole Mom.
Dad never really liked us, he tended to keep to himself when he wasn't busy banging his secretary Rose Arthur. She would always be so syrupy sweet and nice to me whenever I paid a visit to my dad's office and it bothered me. I couldn't say it was flirting, it definitely wasn't a Mrs. Robinson sort of thing either, it just seemed like she really wanted me to like her and confide in her.
All that was rendered moot when I caught them in the act while mom was out visiting family. Needless to say, he chased me down the hallway into the living room, pinned me down on the floor and made me swear that I kept my mouth shut.
Up to that point, he had just been a chronic dickhead who paid little attention to his son and verbally abused his wife, but now, he graduated to threatening his son's life.
He said, "I made you boy, and I can unmake you."
I just remember nodding and never blinking or taking my eyes off of his balled up fist.
So what can an only child do? Immerse yourself in others pain, let them tell it how it is, how it feels, how you feel. Let them put your harm and hurt into words, words that everyone can understand..and I suppose..enjoy on some levels.

Bukowski was my favorite obviously.
He even taught me how to please a girl. He would write how he cut his finger nails close to the quick, so as not to "cut" the woman he was about to pleasure.
I adored his work, but Bukowski could never teach me about true love.
Love for him was sleeping in, getting drunk, smelling, smoking, and still being able to get laid while smelling like last weeks stagnant laundry.
I pulled into my lot, parking near that dead dried up tree that was used as a community ash tray.
I hated this hike upstairs, for it only reminded me of where I was. In Columbia Maryland, but out of all the yuppie yaw yaw places to reside, I had to pick the cheapest. You get what you pay for right?
Another day, another dollar.
Another night, another dream.