32. The Secret War, Chapter 3

Editor's Note: Again, this is part of a novel that Hawkinson is attempting, especially during cold months--usually commencing in late September--filled with snow and ice and howling winds and darkness, utter darkness--the kinds of conditions that immigrants from Sweden could enjoy. (Since Hawkinson is a little over half Swedish, he enjoys the conditions in this neck of the woods only up to a certain point. (The other bits of his ancestry would be far more comfortable on a beach in California.)) As noted earlier, the would-be novel has little or nothing to do with the fact-based events covered elsewhere in this blog. Enjoy.

Chapter 3

A gaunt woman with wild white hair and a greasy apron squirted out behind the bar. She was holding an empty coffee pot. I recognized her immediately from her “Employee of the Month” photos. “Whaddaya say?” she asked. “House spesh’ ‘til 12:17 pm.”

Before I could answer, a voice from a booth behind me shouted out, “Hey, Marbles, turn down the TV. It’s getting too hot in here.”

That sounded like code to me, but, despite my training, I turned to the TV mounted just below the ceiling. Footage of a fire blazing in a hearth was looped

Fire on TV

to play continuously.

“Don’t make me come over there,” Mirabel “Marbles” threatened.

“Ah, c’mon, I was only kiddin’,” replied the voice, filled with deep regret.

I turned to see who was talking. A little squirt, maybe nine or ten years old, was sitting alone in the booth. He was wearing a ski mask pulled down over his face and eating a tall plate of corn pancakes. When he noticed that I was a new member of his audience, he gave me the finger and ran out of the Parkside Restaurant & Grill without paying his bill. Obscenities poured from his mouth until the front door swatted shut behind him.

“Pancakes sound good,” I answered, but Mirabel “Marbles” had already disappeared.

A rotund man poured into the restaurant and suffocated the stool next to me. Rivets groaned. His gasping took several minutes to subside into a low, chronic cough. “You the guy?” he asked, without looking at me. His stomach wobbled as he spoke, and his general hygiene was nearly as high quality as the “canning” factory.

My training told me to be evasive. “I might be,” I replied.

“Flippers, you get outta here right now,” demanded Marbles. “Now, git!”

The man, now known as Flippers, skulked out without another word.

“Who was he?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s Flippers. Got his name by catching too many sea turtles in his nets.” Marbles sighed. “Lost his license. Now he just sits at home eating sardines and pork rinds.”

“Unemployment will do that to a person,” I muttered.

“Well, here’re yer pancakes,” Marbles said, sliding the plate almost into my lap.

House special . . . pancakes shaped like a turtle 

As I examined the unusual looking pancakes, Marbles rested on her elbows in front of me and continued: “He’s sort of the local town hero,” she mused. “He’s going to donate ‘is own skin to charity . . . says he wants the town to have a holiday, ever’body gets the day off . . . and all they do is eat pork rinds, they can git ‘em at the Farmers’ Winter Market, only it will be his pork rinds, on account of it’s all coming from him . . . He says we kin even sell ‘s house ta buy a giant deep fryer. He wanted ta use mine, but I says no Flipper skins’ gonna fry in ma fryer, and that’s all there’s to it!”

I coughed up my pancakes.

“Where’s my manners?” Marbles said, and poured me up a large cup of coffee. “Now drink up.”

I sipped the coffee. It tasted nothing like coffee. It tasted nothing like anything I had ever tasted before.

“Flippers wants a statue made of him after his passing and his donation, so ta speak,” said Marbles, “but the town council said the bronze would be too ‘spensive on account of how much cubic footage’d be needin’. And that was the end of it . . . Flippers R.E.-scinded his offer and said the bears could have ‘m when he expires, so to speak . . .”

I fixed my gaze on the corn pancakes as Marbles spoke. Her dentures slid and danced wildly around her mouth as she informed me about the life and times of Flippers.

“Then why’s he still the town hero?” I asked.

No answer. When I looked up, she was gone. A check was already on the counter. A smiley face was drawn next to Marble’s name.

Eat a good breakfast

After paying the check, I spun a toothpick out of its holder and stood for a moment, digging for corn bits and exploring the postcard stand. One postcard in particular caught my eye. It was an eagle tearing a rainbow trout to shreds. On the reverse side was a single sentence: “Eat a good breakfast.” –From the folks at the Parkside Restaurant & Grill, Mirabel “Marbles” White Crow, Your Friendly Hostess. I slipped the card back in its slot and  left immediately.

31. The Secret War, chapter 2

Editor's Note: This is the second chapter of a novel that Hawkinson is apparently writing; it has no basis in reality and nothing to do with the other activities and individuals noted in this blog, or so I am told. People around here can be pretty slippery.

Chapter 2

Spinning like a dervish, I dodged screaming headlights piercing the fog first from one way and then the other. My fishing line had snapped and I was in the middle of the road, and at a loss to navigate a return trip back to the house. A large refuse truck was drifting over the centerline, rumbling straight for me. I used my training skills to turn sideways, standing up as straight as possible to make myself a smaller target. The truck jammed on its brakes, slid sideways, its hydraulic handle just snagging a button from my coat; the driver snarled, “Hey, buddy, you wanna die young or somethin’? Ya kin always join the Tombstone Pizza garbage—ha, ha, ha!”

During a lull in the traffic, I maneuvered to a narrow sidewalk along the road. Inside my coat pocket was the single piece of mail I had retrieved from the Seahawk. On one side was written, “Et a gut brakefas’.” On the reverse side was a photo of a grizzly bear shredding a salmon—and the salmon looking none too

Grizzly bear eating a good breakfast

happy about it. I flipped the photo over back and forth, noticing it wasn’t a postcard. There was no place for a stamp, no address. It was simply a photo with writing on the back . . . that someone had stuck in my mailbox. 

Knowing from my training that the most dangerous thing to do in the fog is to try to retrace your steps back to your home base, I jammed the photo in my coat pocket and began walking down the sidewalk, cars still racing by only inches away from me, their horns screaming, and their lights burning in my eyes. My mind was filling with questions. Overhead, ravens seemed to mock me in increasing numbers. A murder of crows, I recalled, and a conspiracy of ravens. Bad omens either way. I secretly hoped that they would crash into the local “canning” factory and die from the fog-enhanced stench.

A few minutes had passed, and I found myself in front of the Parkside Restaurant & Grill. The front door was framed by a large sign: “Mirabel ‘Marbles’ White Crow, Owner and Head Cook.” An even larger sign warned: “Don’t even think about coming in without wiping your shoes!” I wiped my shoes and settled at the bar. As I waited for service, my eyes drifted down a row of “Employee of the Month” photos.  The same person was featured in the last eleven out of twelve months. The nameplate boldly identified that person as Mirabel “Marbles” White Crow. The twelfth photo was still blank.

“Pancakes, hon?” asked a voice from behind a wall. “Made from fresh corn . . . “

Was she talking to me?

30. Mr. Leonard Elsewhere, under surveillance

Elsewhere was sitting on the park bench
before he disappeared somewhere else

(Submitted by RJC, free-lance)

When I first observed Mr. Leonard Elsewhere, he was sitting on a park bench, feeding bread crumbs to the Canadian Geese. I noted that it was odd that he fed only Canadian Geese to the exclusion of our many local birds. When he saw me focusing my camera on him, he stood up, waved in kind of a semi-salute, and disappeared almost instantly. I was sure I had captured him on camera, but the photo to the right is all that was recorded. Oddly enough, all the geese had vanished as well.

Mr. Leonard Elsewhere was a worthy adversary--a much greater threat than Krista Von Matisse. The report I received from unnamed government officials indicated that Elsewhere was not a smoker and had tremendous upper body strength, two significant advantages over Krista Von Matisse. Though unclear, with many redactions and a few missing pages and a lot of typos, the report went on to say that Elsewhere had left a long trail through a variety of countries, from the Middle East to Australia and then mostly to Canada. Mr. Elsewhere in fact had spent considerable time in Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada, possibly because his transmission had gone out during a local mechanics' strike--caused in part by what the mechanics considered an unfair exchange rate imposed on them on American parts, which weren't all that great to begin with. The strike lasted for weeks with no hope of a settlement; the mechanics, in fact, did not even know who to negotiate with. When the lead mechanic made a call to a local union in Duluth, a little girl answered the phone and said the following: "Deal with it, turkey. Or become an American." Then she hung up and wouldn't answer the phone again. A tough little negotiator . . . 

I noted Mr. Leonard Elsewhere's travel itinerary. He had been in many of the major Canadian cities, but in no particular order, starting in Winnipeg, then Thunder Bay, then Toronto via Montreal, off to Quebec, back to Vancouver, and finally to Ottawa (where Elsewhere had initialed receipt of a letter by Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, entitled "My Formal Apology to the National Government of Canada in Ottawa; Elsewhere wrote a single annotation: "What a dumb apology letter. Must be a product of the American public education system.") I would have to dig deeper into my evidence files, create a criminal profile, and forecast what kind of plot this Mr. Leonard Elsewhere was planning to hatch. 

Tons of work lay ahead of me. I was going to need a few pots of coffee, maybe a package of doughnuts . . .

. . . and some Slim Jims.

29. Mr. Leonard Elsewhere

(Submitted by RJC, former head of security, free-lance)

RJC, fired but still loyal,
working free-lance

Despite his juvenile infatuations with all things attractive-women-wise (case in point: hiring that foreigner, without any kind of formal vetting process, Krista Von Matisse, who had been actively pursuing his injury if not his outright demise (I mean, what kind of bad judgment is that? (Would you hire someone who stuffed compost in your mouth? (Think of the germs alone.)))), Hawkinson's security status at this point is Threat Level 4, from my own experience as a security official and my interpretation of The ABC's of Keeping Civilians Alive Handbook, 2nd edition.

If you're interested, the handbook identifies 5 levels of threats from lowest to highest.

Level 1: Generally low, roughly about the same as getting a mild sunburn or a paper cut while pulling paper out of the printer too quickly.

Level 2: Still pretty safe, equivalent to riding your bicycle in the driveway without a helmet on, possibly getting scratched by a cat that you're trying to pick up by surprise.

Level 3: Heightened level of danger. Opportunity for injury somewhat likely, equivalent to riding your bicycle in the middle of the street without a helmet, getting scratched by a stray cat, or eating Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa that's been left in the refrigerator for more than 5 days.

Level 4: Critical. Likely to be injured. Equivalent to rescuing a turtle in the middle of a busy freeway during rush hour, or to eating Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa that's been left in the refrigerator for more than 15 days, or to getting caught looking in your neighbor's wife's shower on one of her special nights. 

Level 5: Unacceptable. Risk considered so high that collateral damage is likely to involve security personnel. Stay away from this person if you know what's good for you. He's a goner anyway. Cut your losses. Make sure you've already cashed his check.

That brings me to Mr. Leonard Elsewhere. I've been tracking him now for several weeks. What I'm about to say must be kept out of the hands of the Canadians . . . *

*Editor's Note: The Canadians are more dangerous than you think. Have you ever looked at the ingredient lists of their cooking shows? They're trying to kill us Americans (maybe slowly over several decades, but it will happen, it will happen) and then take over our country. Scott Walker had it right. Too bad he's back in Wisconsin with no hope of ever becoming president and with a bigger bald patch on the back of his head. Presidential campaigns are hard on the hair. (Just look at Joe Biden, and he hasn't formally announced yet.)

28. Another reason Canada has a major grudge against Hawkinson: Secret War, Chapter 1

He likes to write nonsensical stuff that for the most part makes fun of all that is Canada, and such an activity is likely to displease and provoke a whole lot of people.

The title says it all . . .

The Secret War between Canada and the United States and Alaska, Too, and other Misadventures too Numerous to
go into Here or even Summarize or even Begin to Discuss . . . because, let’s
face it, it’s all Just a Little Too Confusing . . .

Chapter One

I awoke with a start, sweating, yet cold, sensing danger all around me. The phone was ringing—seven, eight, nine times. I resisted answering. The voice on the other end almost always meant another dangerous assignment. And the paperwork afterward was just a chore. There were, unfortunately, the practical consequences of not answering—including having the power cut off frequently, which is sometimes a bad thing in Squamish, a little coastal village north of North Vancouver because it gets cold and raw and overly foggy in the winters . . . and sometimes, unfortunately, not answering meant a personal visit from the voice on the other end of the phone.

The fog was particularly opaque on this early morning in February, as it was most mornings in the waning months of winter, in a little village north of North Vancouver. It was like leftover pea soup, only with the addition of 100% unpasteurized whole cream and a little eggnog thrown in from last Christmas. (Coincidentally, the nearby “canning” factory was, as long as I had lived in Squamish, redolent of stale eggnog and poorly distilled rum manufactured by a clan of corrupt Jamaicans, who substituted imported rhubarb for the locally grown sugar cane, but that’s a story for another chapter.) 

After coffee and three aspirin, I looked out the window leading to the driveway and saw a blank page. Not even the garbage can next to the front door was visible. Yet something tugged at me. Information was waiting for me. Urgent information.  How I knew, I didn’t know. I just knew I had to check the mail.

From my years of extensive covert training, I knew enough to tie a fishing line to my wrist—borrowed from the local fishermen, who always complained that they sensed the constant danger of an Inuit attack from, by rough and twisting road, about 3500 miles away, though they had  never had so much as a threatening or unpleasant phone call, email, or letter from any of the Inuit,

Ravens--bigger and smarter than crows, although
slightly less musical  and  substantially less choosy
about roadkill they're willing to pick at (should be
considered the national bird of Canada)

except for an 8-year old girl named “Walrus Stains.”  Addressed only to the “peepel of Skwamis,” her letter read in part, “Wite man stinki.” It was handwritten, and so did not enjoy the benefits of a spell checker. The rest of the letter would remain a mystery until many years later—when it could actually help rescue the scrubby Squamish fishermen, whose reluctance to smile hid their lack of even a basic dental plan.

The fishing line tied to my wrist, I carefully felt my way out to the mailbox, designed like a large Seahawk, painted fire engine red and sold to me at a moving sale by a little girl who would only refer to herself as W.S. She was a brutal negotiator. I ended up paying more than the price scotch taped to the label. Over the years, my Seahawk mailbox had been routinely defiled by the droppings of ravens and Arctic Terns. Sometimes a good insult is worth more than a hopeless frontal attack.

Letting the fishing line go slack, I unlatched the Seahawk and reached inside. In the distance, a raven caw-cawed. Or was it a crow? 

27. A look into the drafts of Hawkinson's letters to the National Government of Canada in Ottawa

(From the archives)

In her quest to bring down Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, Freida Snintnonerlynn offered one of her graduate students an unpaid internship to dig up every public and private document that Hawkinson has ever written. Though little was found--and even less was interesting--here are, using the word charitably, the highlights.

(Dated 1966, the year after his visit to his grandmother's cellar apparently to "fetch some mason jars." See Post #3.)

Der Santa Klus,

I wud lik u to tak to my granma. She scar the undyss off uv me. That no gud.

Yor fren,

Dane

-----------

(Dated 1969, a year or so after he had defrauded the seed company at the age of 8. See Post #4.)

Der Sed Compnee,

Sorry.

Bye.

Sinseerlee, 

Duane 

PS--seeds dint gro aniway.

-----------

(Dated September 9, 2013.)

Dear Acme Tooth Company,

I'm writing on behalf on my new employee Ed. Recently he ordered a new set of choppers--I mean dentures--and they still have not arrived. Now Ed is a good man and an even better employee, but he's a bit difficult to understand when he gums all his words, if you will pardon the expression, and that frustrates the high efficiency of our production facility.

Will you kindly look into this matter and send Ed's new teeth as quickly as possible. But no Priority Mail or anything too expensive. We'll make do. 

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Duane Hawkinson,
owner of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa

-----------

(Dated October 19, 2014, written to his neighbor's showering wife. For reference, see Post #2.)

Dear Mrs. Clean (Ha, ha, hope you didn't mind the joke),

I am writing to emphasize that your husband's accusations that I peeked at you while I was on my roof have no basis in fact. Really, I was too busy putting on the Salsa-Fest. It's a big responsibility, too big for one person. Say, that reminds me, would you be interested in helping with Salsa-Fest? If you'd like to climb on the roof, we'd probably break attendance records. Well, let me know. And thanks for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Duane Hawkinson,
your neighbor,
and owner of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa

PS--On an unrelated note, does Prell really work? I've been thinking of changing my shampoo.

-----------


(Dated February 1, 2015, in regard to Poopsie, Audrey Burning's cat. See Post #6.)

Dear Poopsie,

My new employee has informed me that you have been a naughty girl. That's no good. Poor Audrey is already suffering from enough stress adjusting to her new job. So if you can see your way clear to putting a stop to going in her slippers, that would be greatly appreciated. Have a nice day, Poopsie. And remember to use your litter box.

Sincerely,

Duane Hawkinson,
cat lover,
and owner of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa

-----------


(No date, but probably late in 2015, in reference to offending the Canadians. See Posts #16-17 and #20.)

Dear National Government of Canada in Ottawa:

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. If not, I hope your day gets better. Sometimes, my day starts out bad and I think, oh no, this is going to be a bad day. Then things turn around, even when I didn't expect them to. Which just goes to show: There's always hope.

The purpose of my letter is to offer my deepest, most heart-felt apology. Without going into too much detail, I hold a Salsa-Fest every year, a celebration of the end of the harvest and the beginning of salsa-making. Overall, it lasts about two hours. There's food and refreshments and a few balloons and music if someone turns up the car radio really loud. It's also really a thankless job, but the neighbors have come to expect it, and I don't want to let them down. (Are you Canadians the kind of people who don't like to let people down? It's a burden, but in a good way.)

It can be fun, if enough people show up. The first year, only the employees showed up, and they didn't seem too happy about it, which I don't understand because they all went home with a free jar of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. That's the name of my product. I don't charge for it, which works out okay in some strange way. Sometimes, I just send a jar to people as a surprise. I like getting surprises once in a while--as long as they're good surprises, if you know what I mean. (Are you Canadians the kind of people who like to surprise people or do you like getting surprises? Come to think of it, I suppose you could like both kinds of surprises.)

Sometimes, unfortunately, surprises can be bad surprises, which gets me back to the purpose of this letter . . .



Graduate Student's Notation: (The letter ends there for no apparent reason. More investigating to follow.)


-----------

Suffice it to say, Freida Snintnonerlynn was not happy with the preliminary results of her graduate student's investigation. She was not yet, however, ready to throw in the towel.

26. Absinthe and Cliff, Part 4

Frustrated and unnerved by his father's drunken blustering, Cliff decided to sort out his misgivings, walking to the liquor store for a fresh bottle of Aquavit, drifting in a circuitous route and plotting along the way that he'd probably get the cheap stuff in the bargain bin at the corner Discount Liquors just to be slightly spiteful.

On his way, Cliff wandered through a cemetery and stopped occasionally to read the names. He read them out loud, then combined the last names of different markers to create composite characters in his mind. Some of the names, he thought, could be used for Hollywood actors. He looked at husbands and wives, tied together in granite for all eternity. He noticed the dates, tried to do the math to figure out how old people were when they died. Cliff wasn't good at it. He liked to see the age differences between husbands and wives, especially those over ten or twenty years. Something about that appealed to him. And he smiled ever so slightly when he saw that the husband had expired before the wife, which was almost always the case.

One gravestone said "Libby Blinderly, 1994-2014. Beloved daughter and really good soccer player." Cliff shook his head. "Lucky stiff," he sighed. The girl's high school graduation photo had been carved into the face of the gravestone; she was attractive, full of enthusiasm, ready to take on the world. Her eyes locked on to yours, vibrant and engaging, as though she'd like to stop and chat for a while, get to know you a little, make you feel special. One could just tell that she was going places.

Will never reach 21

As he continued, he tripped over an uneven piece of ground and almost toppled into an arborvitae, the tree of life. He returned to the offending obstruction and found a piece of limestone: "Knucklehead Knoll." It said nothing else. Scratching his balding head, Cliff wondered if the cemetery weren't having a bit of fun at his expense. Some dark humor.

Then he stopped in front of his mother's grave, knelt down, and, after a few moments, began to dig away tufts of grass that were growing over her foot stone. She had died the day after Kennedy's assassination, on November 23, 1963, and two days after the birth of Cliff. As Cliff's father's put it, "Two bad omens in two days--I need a drink." Cliff's middle name, Kenny, was an oblique tribute to Kennedy. Cliff's father didn't like Kennedy--then again, he didn't like any president--but he thought a fallen president should deserve at least a marginal remembrance.

Cliff stood back and surveyed the family plot. On the left end was his mother's grave, all dates filled, with the tribute on the foot stone "Will be missed" requested by Cliff's father. On the right end was Cliff's father's grave; his name, military status, and date of birth all filled in. Only one space left to complete. Between his parents' foot stones was another, smaller one, with Cliff's name on it. Cliff stood, gazing at it, his mind filled with a premature sense of loss. It was as though, he thought, his destiny had already been decided, that the arrangement of his parents, with him sandwiched in between, had in some ways foreclosed on any other life for him. He was established in place as a perpetual child, between two parents, one he never knew, one he never cared to know, for the rest of an eternity. Why couldn't I make this decision? he thought. Why is it so hard to imagine that I could rest in peace next to a loving wife and mother? What did they know that I don't know? Cliff's life had already been planned out for him. Couldn't he at least plan out his own death? 

Wiping off his knees, Cliff fought against remembering his father’s repeatedly cruel and drunken rant playing like a scratchy recording in his ears: “It’s your fault, you know.” He’d take a long swig on the Aquavit and continue, “She took one look at you and decided she’d rather be dead!” Cliff shook his head. Why had his father chosen to misremember history? The truth was, as bad as it was, that Cliff’s mother suffered from an aneurysm that broke open in her brain from the strain of giving birth--a silent, asymptomatic killer just waiting for the cruelest moment to strike. It was not Cliff’s fault. He was just too little under the circumstances.  

After heading along the streets into town and thoughts drifting elsewhere, Cliff smirked—almost vindictively. He sneered to himself, "Corporal, U.S. Army." The old man had served three years in the European Theater. And that's all the better he could do? Only two steps above Private First Class. What a loser. (At Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, Cliff was given the designation of Major, as in The Major of Night Security. Now that was a respectable rank.) Cliff thought for a moment--yes, he'd do it, he'd request What a loser be engraved on his father's foot stone. But he soon gave up the idea. What would people think? he wondered. They'd shake their heads and point at the bad son. They’d stop inviting him over for coffee. He was probably already drinking, they’d think, the hard stuff, like that no-good father of his. Apple doesn’t fall far, they'd say. Cliff continued to Discount Liquors. 

It was closed.

25. Absinthe and Cliff, Part 3

Back to Absinthe's mother's anti-man-ism . . .

The second reason (which could probably be broken down into several sub-reasons, but let's keep things simple for now) had to do with anything women were required to do that seemed to originate solely from the minds of men (while one might be inclined to draw from biblical precedents, we'll stay a bit more contemporary here, having little patience for giving the Bible any more publicity than it has already received over the years).

To put it bluntly, Absinthe's mother resented anything that she had to wear that men did not and anything that men could wear that was considered inappropriate for women. To be even more specific, Absinthe's mother was particularly adamant about NOT wearing a bra--so strong was her objection that she proscribed the mere presence of the "garments of oppression" among her sisters, and she never bought one for nor allowed Absinthe to possess a bra of any kind, even a training bra, a term for an undergarment that Absinthe's mother considered derogatory and demeaning toward all women and girls--as if they had to be trained, like goats or sheep or dogs or the occasional cow. As she once said, "Women do NOT need to be trained by men."* Her sisters generally agreed, generally agreeing with everything Absinthe's mother proclaimed--especially if she was really worked up about it--though the freedom of going sans-bras did pose some unintended consequences for the more amply-endowed sisters while they performed some of their daily chores.

Paperboy lingering

One consequence involved simple practicality. Garden activities, for example, often became onerous and uncomfortable as the sisters bent over hacking into the hard soil, their top sides sliding to and fro, jiggling and jostling, flipping and flopping, oddly reminding one of freshly caught fish wrenching themselves about for their freedom on the bottom of a boat. On the whole, they seemed to be fighting against their own bodies as much as they were the soil and the weeds and the posts that needed pounding, and all the rest. Ironically, bras may well have offered a bit of control and support and stability and even improved balance through these sweaty labors--which leads to a related issue. Sweating through their clothes created a certain translucence that, when back or side lit by the late afternoon sun, introduced a level of intrigue and titillation that drew like curious meerkats  the neighboring male farmers and gardeners. Even the paperboy took his time digging out the afternoon edition from his bag, casting side-long glances toward the women and feeling a little tingly and not quite understanding why but understanding that he enjoyed it until Absinthe's mother yelled, "Get on your way now, future-man! You're not welcome here!" The men, on the other hand, were far more subtle, often using binoculars from their outhouse windows.

How Absinthe plays into the previous discussion may soon be shown--perhaps in the next post.


*Editor's Note: Absinthe's mother's hostility toward men may be well founded for many reasons, but apparently the bra tirade was slightly off the mark. A woman actually receives credit for creating the first patented modern bra. Her name was Mary Phelps Jacob, a socialite who so objected to a lot of flopping around, and the such, that she took it upon herself to regain some chesticular order (editor's term). That she simply wished to exact revenge on women who smothered her self-esteem with the kinds of buxom curves and pendulous sensuality a somewhat blunted boyish body was less able to express is still open to debate.** A photograph of Phelps Jacob would probably solve that mystery--if only time permitted.

**Second Editor's Note (coincidentally on the first Editor's Note--how often does that happen?): Again, this is an issue for the 1960s. Boyish bodies on women--especially athletic women with chiseled biceps and six-pack abs--seem to be all the rage these days. Whether the trend lasts is anyone's guess. I'm hoping not--but I'm a male.

24. Absinthe and Cliff, Part 2

Nothing about Cliff appealed in any way to Absinthe.

Not even after they had started working for Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa did the slightest flinty spark occur. Still, faint hope swirled in the air, like the exhaust from the commercial salsa sterilizers (now available for home use). Along with that, one could speculate that other romances may have started in a similarly dismal fashion. (Certainly no Canadian would ever find Duane of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa desirable in any conceivable way; downright repulsive was more apt to be the case--but let's not allow him to intrude into Absinthe and Cliff's story.)

Cliff was raised without the benefit of a mother. Even with a father, one could repeat that Cliff was raised without the benefit of a father. Put bluntly, Cliff's father drank--a lot. And he drank exclusively Aquavit, the water of life, out of a misguided loyalty to his Scandinavian heritage. He drank the better part of a fifth by lunch time and either passed out during Judge Judy or went fishing for crappies, his favorite fish found in the surrounding lakes. (Watching him clean the fish and then eat it knowing full well that there were plenty of bones remaining, and then listening to him hack up bits of cartilage and bone shards, always set off anxiety attacks for Cliff, who eventually developed a phobia against eating it himself.) "What's a matter?" his father would say. "Have some more! A few bones won't kill ya!" And then the sounds of hacking and laughing and coughing emerged from his massive belly. Sometimes he'd spit up the fish in a napkin, look it over, pick out a bone here and there, and dump the remains back in his mouth. Cliff would turn pale.

Seldom needs netting

Now in his later years, Cliff's father was a little less than sure footed when launching his fishing boat, starting up the boat, controlling the boat's accelerator, steering the boat, slowing down the boat, and stopping the boat without swamping the boat or getting snagged on a thicket of millfoil grown amok. (See The Scourge of Dill Run Amok post for a similarly heartbreaking situation.) Cliff worried about his father, about his drunkenness on the water, his tendency not to wear a life vest, his occasional bouts with vertigo while netting fish that were clearly too small to net in the first place. He also knew he'd feel responsible should his father fall out of the boat and drown. He could already hear his accusing neighbors: "What the hell, Cliff, where were you?" or "Sorry about your dad, Cliff. By the way, way to go letting him die and all that." or "Hey Cliff, did you rescue any of the fishing gear?" There's was always someone looking for a good deal, no matter how sad the circumstances. Bastard.

The Aquavit was just part of the problem. Cliff's father enjoyed somewhere around six to eight cigars a day. They were large cigars, exceedingly stinky, with a unique ability to stay lit for hours, even if left unattended by the would-be cigar smoker. Cliff's father demanded for his birthday each year that Cliff buy him an accessory for his cigars. Of course, the first item was an expensive humidor, which burnt a "pretty good" sized hole in his weekly paycheck.

Rolling cigars is not as easy as it looks

The list only grew from there: Often traveling to other cities, or even to Canada, Cliff bought every kind of legal cigar he could find, cigar clips for a nice clean cut, guillotine blades for an even nicer, if not more dangerous cut, hygrometers for his humidors that had to be replaced routinely from being dropped on the floor, ashtrays, hundreds of ashtrays, high-tech lighters, books about cigars to show what a “know it all” he could be about cigars, novelty cigar gifts (not to get into too much detail here), a cigar store Indian (that Cliff tried to hide in an inconspicuous place, though his father would have none of that, putting it instead in the front  window), an authentic cigar roller found at a flea market and “authentic Kentucky” tobacco leaves (that crumbled before even one cigar could be rolled),  and finally a patch for Cliff’s father’s shirt that read: “I smoke cigars to piss you off.” As Cliff learned more than he cared to about all things cigars, he ticked off the items in the ledger in his mind and weighed it against his monthly MasterCard bills, which were overwhelming his weekly checks—not to mention the cases of Aquavit he had to supply for his father. Clearly, if things did not change, Cliff was headed toward insolvency.

Aquavit, the water of life

Despite his expensive tastes, Cliff's father lived on a minimal fixed income, supported by Cliff's supplemental income received from Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, though from any perspective it didn't offer much supplement. Cliff's father had to quit working when he was twenty-seven, the year after Cliff had been born, due to a condition that researchers are still trying to identify, though a few of them have little doubt that it does in fact still exist, and is even somewhat aggravated by the excessive Aquavit and cigars. The burden of caring for his father weighed heavy on Cliff. He worried about him when he watched him snore in his La-Z-Boy recliner. He worried when it appeared that his breathing had stopped and maybe he should give the old man a good shake. He worried that giving the old man a good shake might startle him into some worse condition, like a heart attack or a stroke or a newly wet pair of boxers. And the repercussions: "What the hell did you do that for?" the old man would say, "You trying to kill me? Is that what kind of son I raised? One that wants to kill me? After all I done for you! Why don't you just get the hell out of here! Just go you worthless . . . And get another jug of Aquavit, for god's sakes!"

Most of all, Cliff worried about his father when he was at work, unable to monitor his condition or his whereabouts. Cliff worried a lot.

23. Absinthe and Cliff, Part 1

Both employees at Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, the similarity between these two star-crossed lovers ends there. One might say had it not been for Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, they very likely would not have found any other means of meeting each other—even if they had lived next door to each other.

Let’s start with Absinthe. Absinthe is now somewhere in her late forties. On her application form for Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, she put “old enough to know better” in the box where her DOB was supposed to go—Hawkinson was amused by that and let it slide while other prospective employees were shown the door if they so much as had a smudge on their applications (one might say that Hawkinson was somewhat arbitrary in his employee selection, but enough about him). To continue, Absinthe was raised by her mother and her mother’s three sisters in what could be called something of a commune, one that prohibited men in any form, including the male of any species of livestock they had planned to raise, along with fresh organic vegetables, in what might be called today a hobby farm. But it was no hobby to them.  It was serious business.

The prohibition against men became problematic at times, especially for occasions requiring a plumber (the consensus was that they could work around the loss of a plumber’s services) or for getting the mail. Back then, most mail carriers—no, all of them—were male, and if a package had to be delivered to the door, well, god help the poor soul. He’d have to drop it on the front step and outrun a barrage of eggs and the freezing cold stream of the water hose. Of course, he never waited for a signature, and he never complained to his supervisor—men back then didn’t complain, or even bring it up in casual conversation, about being attacked by women. That would reflect poorly on their manliness, and eventually it would get back to their wives, who would then begin to wonder what kind of men they had married—and that was never a good thing. People would inevitably stop inviting them to social occasions, their names would stop showing up in the society column of the local newspaper, causing all sorts of ugly rumors, including questions about who’s really “in the closet” which often led to references to the “Big D” word, until eventually people’s attention would turn to even bigger disasters. Depending upon farm accidents or international crises, that could take some time, which only protracted the period of tension between the couples in question. The 1960s were a different time, in some ways a less forgiving time.

There were two reasons for the anti-male sentiment in Absinthe’s mother’s commune. First, as history would show, in the decade of sex, drugs, and rock & roll, Absinthe’s mother—before she was her mother—was more than a little willing to squeeze the marrow out of that particular decade, including attending Woodstock in 1969, hooking up with the man who would not be her husband, and conceiving Absinthe during a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo. After they shared some weed (one of its many names back then), Absinthe’s mother, now within minutes of becoming Absinthe’s mother, passed out and never felt again the embrace of the man who would not be her husband. If he had hung around, the result would have been the same (she didn’t even know his name, for god’s sakes), so her resentment and years of bitterness and hostility may have had more to do with the “hit and run” nature of the encounter and the lack of manners in not saying good-bye or in giving her cab fare home. Absinthe’s mother was also not crazy about becoming Absinthe’s mother; she had a lot of living left to do—she wanted to follow the Grateful Dead and panhandle on the corner of Haight-Ashbury--and not with a baby strapped to her body. That covers the first reason—and that covers enough for now about Absinthe. 

22. Enough of Hawkinson—time to move on to the more interesting employees, but before we do that, let’s review the characters discussed to date in this blog, though many more are likely to show up in the future

                                                        

Let’s review the characters in this blog to date.
Duane Hawkinson	Main contributor to blog, owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, victim of assault, constant source of controversy and hostility, seemingly unable to get along with an entire country, namely Canada
Senior editor & editor	Prefer not to be identified at this time
Ed	Loyal employee, assault victim, significant drain on dental insurance policy
Hawkinson’s neighbor	A long-time enemy, seeks ways to get even with Hawkinson, has yet to act on them, but fully intends to--when the time is right
Hawkinson’s neighbor’s wife	An attractive woman, trapped in a loveless marriage, enjoys a good shower, and an appreciative audience--thinking of divorcing
Freida S.	An academic and enemy of Hawkinson, hopes to take him down, how, beyond her vicious use of words, she is still unsure
Three Canadians	Life-long enemies of Hawkinson (insofar as they’ve known him for just a few weeks), after witnessing his disrespectful activities, thinking of ways to make his life miserable
Krista Von Matisse	A loyal Canadian, takes revenge on Hawkinson, later accepts employment offer by Hawkinson, admits her smoking addiction is out of control, could become a strain on Hawkinson’s health insurance premiums, still unsure of her appropriate allegiance; if her Canadian passion gets out of control, she may turn on Hawkinson with surprising results
Earl & Rita	Married couple misrecalls the demise of Hawkinson in sinkhole, accidentally shoot each other in Civil War reenactment
Absinthe Florida	Known less for her role in the Hawkinson organization than for her budding romance with Cliff
Cliff	Becoming somewhat concerned that his relationship with Absinthe is moving too quickly
Grandmother	Referred to but not actually part of this blog
Turtle from sinkhole	Awakes from nap, seems to be getting along well in its new environs
Newspaper reporter	Is taking some time off to do an extended profile on chopper gangs
Uper	Discontinues his all-day half-price beer garden & Civil War reenactment extravaganzas when his wife says he isn’t spending enough time talking over his day with her, currently under indictment for questionable business practices
Highway engineers	Fired after misreporting a sinkhole that never happens
Karl & George	Pioneers as the first turtles ever to be married in a gay ceremony, they are both caught during their honeymoon in the prop of an indoor/outdoor motor and die as they are married--together; Cliff is charged with their deaths, though he's never owned a boat, and faces possible hate-crime charges
RJC	Former head of security, bitter, can't decide whether to plot against Hawkinson after losing his job to Canadian Krista Von Matisse, or to warn him of other plotters, has not actually appeared yet in blog, except for his picture, which he's none too keen about
Hank	Stolen when newspaper reporter forgets to lock the storage locker door, several chopper gang members likely suspects, other members "helping" in search
Custodian who read Hawkinson’s letter to National Government of Canada in Ottawa	Is considering visiting Hawkinson to “slap him upside the head” for his poorly worded letter, also running for member of parliament on the theory that “if I can clean up their messes, I can clean up Canada’s messes.” His wife is opposed to the idea, admitting she’d like to move to the states, maybe look into the salsa business
Big PHARMA & the big boys of salsa	Have prepared a joint statement denying any involvement in the demise of Duane Hawkinson, should the eventuality actually take place
Mavis,  Karl, & Devon	Have been processed into salsa, eaten, and reprocessed in other ways
Police officer	Fired for inappropriate remark about taking a bribe in the form of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, applies for head of security of D’pgSS, is beaten out by both RJC and Krista Von Matisse, later reinstated into police department on the condition that he watch his “smart mouth” and maybe use his taser more frequently. (As his supervisor says, "We didn't buy 'em just to leave 'em sitting around all day letting their batteries get low!")
Grace Kellinski	Operations Coordinator, not sure how she feels about Audrey Burning
Audrey Burning	Head of human resources, a little out of place, distracted by problems with her cat Poopsie and her feelings for Grace
Attending nurse	Has thoughts about dating Hawkinson, but just can’t get past the thought of unprocessed bits of  compost stuffed into his mouth--also she loses her appetite for her brown bag lunch after viewing the disintegrated colors in his bed pan
Vladimir Putin	Never actually makes an appearance in this blog, though he is more than welcome to do so
Poopsie	Incontinent cat, whose days may be numbered, hostile to Hawkinson
Larry	Former manager of now-defunct Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Bidet and Sump Pump Systems, on permanent disability after inadvertently adjusting bidet to highest setting
Ed Terwilliger	Not to be confused with the other Ed, though in some ways he is the other Ed