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.