Single: Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer | Page 7

of glucometers.
"Are you okay?" the cashier asked as the guard looked on and massaged his sidearm. "Are you okay?"
When his Agent called, the Cryerer was sleeping in the Valley. He had almost fallen asleep on the way home from the drugstore, having shoveled down a palm full of Xanax in the parking lot before starting the car. He had slept deeply.
"I was afraid that Colombian might keep you out all night," his Agent said.
"She's from Brazil."
"I thought she was Colombian."
"That was a movie."
"Now look nice," his Agent said.
"Yes."
"It's for charity."
"I know."
"Rested?"
"Yes."
"You're the best," she said.
When the Cryerer got out of the shower, he opened the medicine cabinet and shook the empty bottles of Valiums and Xanax and the now-empty bottle of Dramamine before remembering his pills were still in the pocket of his overcoat. He rifled around in the nude and dug the coat out from under the bed and washed down a pair of Xanax with warm water.
The Cryerer sometimes made appearances in malls and on talk shows. He was frequently auctioned off on dates to women who dreamed of dating a man who cried fluently. They were usually disappointed. A calm came over him as he ran a hand over his freshly-shaven face. He had a serious face, and when he had no expression at all he looked angry. It made him look old. He put on a black suit and a shirt the color of a Band-Aid. He tugged at his belt and tried to find his waist. He appeared to be thin, at least clothed, but his stomach bulged, foiling attempts to keep shirts tucked in. His well- kemptness had a half-life, eroding during the day via forces he couldn't control. He checked and steadied himself in the mirror, and tried out a few tearful poses.
When the Brazil Nut called, the Cryerer was sitting on a stool in the Valley. He felt the phone humming in his pocket but couldn't answer because he was next. The stage was arrayed with a semi-circle of stools. On each stool sat a bachelor. There was an attorney and a doctor and a policeman and a soap opera star. The Cryerer had worked with the soap opera star once on a Sunday night sweeps-sweetener about the life of St. Augustine. It was called The Temptation of St. Augustine, but was really all about temptation. There had been protests. The Cryerer had played the Brother, although for all he knew St. Augustine didn't even have a brother.
The soap opera star stood on a makeshift runway in an open-collared tuxedo, describing his dream date.
They, the soap opera star and his date, would meet for drinks in a bar atop a hotel in Santa Monica. They would hop into a sports car and drive the Pacific Coast Highway at sunset, up to Santa Barbara for Italian food at a little place where, the soap opera star alleged, the prociutto tasted like sweet candy made of meat.
The bidding was slow. Much slower than the bidding for the policeman, who was middle-aged and bulky but had promised to escort his date to a series of self-defense classes and firing ranges and help her secure a carry permit. The doctor, who seemed very young to be a doctor, had promised a series of teeth-whitening sessions and hinted, obliquely the Cryerer thought, at the prospect of a boob-job. It didn't seem fair.
The bidding was slow. The hostess, a thin blond woman in a smart aquamarine business suit, urged the women on. "What do we have ladies, for a soap opera star and sweet candy made of meat? For charity?"
A few hands went up. The star stood awkwardly on the runway, crooning "Come on, ladies," into a cordless microphone. The Cryerer squirmed on his stool. A few bids came in and a few minutes passed and the hostess closed the bidding. "Sold," she said, "to the lucky lady in the light blue dress." The lucky lady, a woman old enough to be the star's mother, joined him on the runway where they locked hands and bowed to desultory applause. The Cryerer was next.
The hostess introduced him, detailed his many appearances as the Brother on Sunday night movies of the week and on cable channels well known to the audience. "Remember ladies, it's for charity," she admonished before surrendering the microphone.
The Cryerer walked to the end of the runway. He managed a smile -- "Good afternoon, ladies" -- and began his spiel, which included oysters, cocktails, a walk on the beach, and, he hoped but did not say, backs of knees pressed against elbows, preferably knees not belonging to someone old enough to be his mother. The bidding was slow. He looked out on the faces of the women perched on folding chairs. There were conversations, women explaining to