How the hell that happened I have no idea. In all the years I've known Grant the only interest I've seen him take in cocktails was his penchant for demanding, like a petulant emperor, that they be handed to him. I mean, yeah, he once made a mean pitcher of Midori margaritas. And when he's on that diet of his he can throw together some pungent cups of vodka and unsweetened, unfiltered, unflavorful cranberry juice that he always tries to push off on us but, really, it's about as easy to swallow as a big bowl of sperm. But let's face it; bartending involves, like, ingredients and stuff, some of it probably perishable.
And until recently Grant didn't even own a refrigerator. Or an oven, come to think of it, and at parties he simply served loaves of bread. You would think that, if there was a bartender hiding under his freckled hide somewhere, there would have been maybe a cabinet in his kitchen with liquor in it other than his signature big bottle of vodka that he probably gargles with before going to bed. The making of drinks, I tell you, was not a talent I suspected he possessed.
In fact, I'm suspicious of his ability to make anything. Like I personally made curtains once. It was when I lived on the first floor of the Telephone Factory lofts and I woke up one morning with perverted workmen leering down at me as I slept topless in tatty underwear on the other side of my bedroom's clerestory windows. So I bought reams of cheap muslin and damn if I didn't fashion some stylish window treatments that only occasionally caused people to ponder whether I had hung mummies, cobwebs and all, across my wall.
Grant, on the other hand, when he needed curtains, simply draped lacey kitchen aprons across his windows. Of course it looked fabulous but it's not like he made them. I mean he just put them there. Why should he get credit for that? And then there was that time we had to construct a vendor tent we borrowed so Daniel could showcase his work at a folk-art festival right before Daniel discovered he hates folk-art festivals because, he says, they're too much like carnivals. So there we were -- or I should say there I was -- trying to construct the booth while Grant and Daniel spent their time twirling the tent poles like batons.
So Grant didn't make that booth, I did. All Grant made was a crude bullhorn from a rolled-up piece of poster board so he could blare like a sideshow barker, "Come see the artist formerly known as Daniel, now known as the CARNIVAL WHORE!!" And, Jesus God!, Daniel hated having to sell his art like flea-market flotsam. Grant just laughed. "CARNIVAL WHORE!!" he barked through the bullhorn.
After that we toasted the sunset from the top of the Telephone Factory, and that was the first time Grant told us it was our duty to catapult each other into greatness. "Dare to leap," he said, and he acted like he was going to leap off the top of the building. Daniel and I did nothing to stop him; we knew there were bushes below that would probably break his fall.
"Clarity" is another word Grant bandies about, and he's always making us try and be clear about what we want to accomplish in life -- not that he's so perfect, what with his 12 different careers in the past six months, and that's not even counting his retirement that lasted like five minutes. And now this bartending thing, which is a complete comet out of nowhere.
But Grant says it all makes sense. "It's all coming together," he says excitedly, all his passions -- people, conversation, creativity, sex and booze -- all essential ingredients to the cosmic cocktail that is his life, all coming together to create part of the catapult that will launch him to heights unknown because, come to think of it, I can't say he never made anything after all. Looking back to the Telephone Factory rooftop that one night, Grant made us beholden to each other.
As of now we are not great yet but at least we sometimes experience moments of immeasurable glee, at least we can say that. At least we are not wholly miserable every minute of the day, and for that we can say we made each other into what we are today.
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