I was sitting by myself in the lonely and cold room of the funeral home staring at my friend’s body surrounded by flowers. He looked good as corpses go, decked out in a fine suit with an Art Deco pin on the lapel. He had on a lot of make up, but then again, most do. The casket was glistening steel in a muted silver and they hadn’t bothered to drape the underside, so the criss-cross bars that supported him were exposed. There were a smattering of funeral floral arrangements, all beautiful and one just as fragrant as the next. There were two screens on the wall above him, playing a woman speaking and singing incessantly as the tape rolled over and over. She had a great voice, but it was a short video and the volume was too low to be heard in the back, where I finally moved to after an hour and a half of waiting for the service to begin. More people made their way in and as the waiting time became closer to two hours, some began to leave. The older age of those gathered made no argument for the rest of us to get back to the day at hand. As I looked around, I noticed a friend and he came and sat and said hello. He was shaking, sweating and smelled of tobacco. I saw that he came in earlier and left with two other guys and was just returning. As he started to speak, his voice was shaky and he was unable to speak in a clear sentence-as if his speech was forced, muted and choppy. His eyes were so dark and his hands were trembling. All he could muster was “I’m socially inept at the moment”. I asked why and he said he was just having trouble. Fresh out of rehab and back in town, he was contacting old customers like myself as he was starting a new job this evening. My body language must have said it all, if only he were sober enough to have read it. In his twenties with so much talent and a bright future ahead of him, he was making ill use of his idle hands and wide open schedule. He managed to awkwardly apply his black cloth face mask, half exposing his mouth and beard. After about 15 minutes, his body began twitching uncontrollably as he was either going into withdrawal or suffering from chorea. I weighed out my options of either giving him my business card which listed my specialty in counseling or just asking him about his sobriety. I did neither. After all, I am not his counselor and I have no business asking him about his choices. On the other hand, I do care that a young guy that I care about is absolutely not ok. It reminded me of some terrible choices that I made at his age. I remember that horrible feeling of not being able to speak when spoken to and wanting to sink into the floor. Today, I saw a ghost.