by Ed Sikov
"I will! I will! I-I wi-ill!" I sang wildly off-key in the shower, where only the Korean family next door and the lesbian phlebotomist with the Phyllis Diller wig below us could hear me. Also Bruce, who was making honking noises outside the bathroom door. Didn't bother me. In crisis therapy, I accepted Craig and Kyle's affair. Therapist Gary and I aired the musty roots of my breakdown, and eventually the stink of emotional rot receded. I'd been half right: My puke-green jealousy came from my mother, my dick and my creationist-like denial of aging. Having unearthed them, I achieved enlightenment. "Om shanti namaste"!
This Nirvana was admittedly eccentric. I stopped swiping sleeping pills from Dan's supposedly secret stash. (Even cretins start with the boyfriend's jockstrap drawer for the drugs, or the money, or that strumpet's phone number.) As for stewing over Craig and jerking off to filthy thrilling images of Kyle every day? I wiped my hands of them (in Kyle's case, literally).
Facts: I'm 53 and have a loving partner and a fine life. No reason to ruin it over some perfect-assed boy with the shoulders of Apollo. My constant put-downs of Craig had to stop. I ceased fishwife-screeching at Dan. But how could I prove my shiny new peace with my buddy Gargantua screwing my tight-as-a-2(x)ist-sport-brief dreamboy?
Solution: cocktails and dinner. Those wretched margaritas Craig adores were considered and rejected; shanti namaste had its limits. Still, a fruity cocktail for Craig would show off my fabulous new generosity of spirit, which was entirely absent during mein psychoticschen episode.
Cosmically, the very next day a cooking blog featured a pomegranate cocktail. The recipe was vile – more suitable for pomegranate Jujubes. Craig would love it. The insane but inspiring recipe called not only for making your own fresh pomegranate juice (oh, squeeze my ass!) but for adding pomegranate molasses. What? Waltz into Costco and inquire as to the whereabouts of the pomegranate molasses? I'd sooner slap on an Elizabeth I wig and ask for the mead department. I adapted the recipe for those of us who are not deranged.
Lo: it worked! We all enjoyed a marvelous evening. The drinks were luscious – a little tart, a little sweet and quite refreshing. Craig had three. I had one. Dan was relieved. Craig did a brief impersonation of Dolores Del Rio, which even I found a bit rarified, but Kyle beamed with pride, though Senorita Del Rio's identity escaped him. We adjourned to a steak joint, where Craig polished off a 24-oz. porterhouse, and I made no jokes. This boy was back!
At which point Kyle piped up: "Um, hey guys? Robbie can't find a place for next summer. Nobody else will put up with him. Can he stay with us?" Craig responded in the voice of Helen Lawson: "So Satan's come crawling back to Broad_way_! Well, Broad_way_ doesn't take to rudeness and fire-red treasure trails!" But we needed the rent money, so I supposed we'd have to.
Pomegranate Cocktail
2 parts Absolut
1/2 part Cointreau
3 parts bottled pomegranate juice
* "Really" Simple Syrup (optional)
Pour Absolut and Cointreau into a pitcher. Add pomegranate juice. Stir. Taste. Add 1/4 tsp. simple syrup if you like. Pour over ice.
*Put equal parts sugar and water into a jar, seal it tight and shake until the sugar dissolves.
