Single: Miss Tennessee b/w The Cryerer | Page 8

friends who he was and about his pathetic quality. The explainers whispered out of the sides of their mouths, pointing and looking at him. Explainees nodded and made emphatic faces that said, "Aww. He cries," and the bidding gained momentum.
"500."
"600."
"750."
This is the way it always happened.
"850."
"900."
Women were curious and concerned. They wanted to help.
"950."
"1000."
They would be disappointed.
"Two thousand."
All heads turned to a pale, tall redhead standing behind the rows of folding chairs.
"Do we have a bid in the back?"
"Two thousand," the redhead said, arms crossed, one foot balanced on a heel in front of the other. She turned away, revealing a jagged silhouette.
"Sold," said the hostess. "To the woman in the back."
The redhead joined the Cryerer on the runway where they joined hands and took a bow. Through the applause, the woman whispered, "I'm a really big fan."
When his mother called, the Cryerer was driving in the Valley, speeding toward Manhattan Beach with the redhead at his side. She wore leather pants and a purple jacket that matched her toenail polish. The Cryerer didn't answer. He hadn't spoken to his mother in years.
"So I loved you in The Cryist," the redhead said, walking long fingers up his leg and smiling. "And in The Crying Man."
Here was a true fan. Before he'd become aware of the scope of his pathetic quality, the Cryerer had appeared in adult features. It was a turn-off to most -- a man who bawled helplessly before, during, and after the act -- even to women, among whom the pornographers in Van Nuys thought this display might find a sympathetic audience. To men, it was so implausible as to be upsetting or, on the other hand, so plausible that habitual users reported a moment of clarity that often put them off the trade for good. The redhead was an exception. She leaned over and breathed into his neck. "Do you feel sad?" she whispered.
When his Agent called the Cryerer was in the fetal position under a bar in Manhattan Beach, a cold brass foot-rail bumping rhythmically against his forehead. He covered his head from blows delivered by a giant man, who -- he had managed to gather -- played cornerback for Pepperdine. He braced and waited for it to stop, trying to protect his face.
"Fucking crying ass faggot," the giant shouted, punctuating each blow with a syllable. "Fuck-ing cry-ing ass fag-got." Eventually it did stop and the Cryerer rolled onto his back. The redhead knelt at his side, running purple fingernails through his hair and searching his face for tears.
"Are you alright?" she said.
"I guess," he said, stretching his body tentatively.
"Go ahead, you can let it out. Let it out," she said.
It all happened quickly and the Cryerer had not immediately understood. The redhead spoke breathlessly all the way from the Valley, about his movies and about his pathetic quality, and about how these made her feel. In the bar she had leaned very close to him, running single long fingers lightly above her plunging camisole, talking about how excited she was and how she couldn't wait for the evening to come to an end, which would really be only the beginning. But now, lying on his back, he understood. She had excused herself from the table and returned with the giant man, who she had told all about the Cryerer and his pathetic quality, about how he was a creep and was bothering her.
"Go ahead, you can let it out. Let it out," she urged.
It had progressed very quickly.
"Come on it's alright," she panted. "Give it to me."
Clearly she was disappointed.
When his Agent called the Cryerer was lying awake in the Valley. It was mid-morning already but he was lying there, still and awake, monitoring various pains in his body and wondering what they might mean.
"You better not be in bed," his Agent said.
"My face is fine."
"The Columbian?"
"No."
"Did they love you?"
"Sure."
The Cryerer stretched his body cautiously, poking at his ribs with two fingers.
"Are you ready?"
"Yeah."
The Cryerer rolled out of bed and peeled off his suit and the shirt the color of a Band-Aid. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and found his face to be as he had reported, terminally serious but untouched, although his torso was covered with red bruises the size of compact discs. He eased himself into the shower and stood there for a long time.
The phone rang again while the Cryerer was driving in the Valley. The fingers of his right hand were stiff and sore and when he reached for the phone he knocked it under the passenger seat. At a light he reached over the emergency brake and his aching ribs and fished around. The phone rang as he fished, but when he finally located it the ringing had stopped and his hand was smeared with streaks of