Single: Two Stories

by Jim Hanas

  I went into the living room, expecting to see him asleep on the couch. I looked in the kitchen and in the bedroom. The bed was unmade and Miss Tennessee's smocks hung over the door of the wardrobe. I even looked in the backyard to see if Steve had been left out to squint into the sun. He was nowhere to be found and there were no signs of astronauts. No Tang stains or envelopes from Cape Canaveral. I fished around in a kitchen drawer for a piece of string and fished around in my pocket for all of Miss Tennessee's keys; keys to the front door and the screen door and the shed where she kept the lawnmower. I threaded them onto the string and opened the front door to drop them into the mailbox.

  I didn't notice the little man until I reached back inside for the cardboard box, but I almost tripped over him when I turned around. He stared up at me with his huge, marble eyes, making out what I knew could be little more than a blur. He slowly squinted, almost closing his eyes before opening them again, like he was trying to hypnotize me. "You are wanting to feed the puppy dog," I always said in my best fortune-teller accent whenever he did this. "You are wanting to feed the puppy." And everyone would laugh.

  He was calm, just sitting and squinting. His tan fur was dark brown in places, like he'd been rolling in dirt, and he had an enormous bluejay pressed beneath his paws. It was nearly as big as he was and its feathers were dirty and bent but still brilliantly blue in places. It occurred to me to take the keys out of the mailbox and go get the shovel. Steve looked at me expectantly, his tiny ribs heaving in and out, but I knew he'd want her to be there. As I crouched down and gently smoothed his matted fur, I winced at the thought of the vicious, eye-pecking struggle.

  THE CRYERER

  When his Agent called, the Cryerer was sleeping in the Valley. The sun, already up for hours, had long over-powered the air conditioning unit that hummed in his ear, and he woke as always, pasty and flush; moist in a malarial way that felt like, but was not, a fever. He lurched out of bed and patted around for his cell phone. He patted pants and coats and towels and magazines and all over the bedspread, wiping sweat from his face with a damp forearm, before locating the phone on the floor between the bed and the ash-covered nightstand.

  "Where in God's Dark Universe are you," his Agent said. "I've been hitting you with 911's all morning."

  "I've been running errands," he lied. "My batteries are dying." He unbuckled his belt and wiggled out of his pants. He wandered into the bathroom, surprised to find himself alone. He opened the door gently.

  It wasn't working, his Agent explained. The network wanted to write him in.

  "They need your pathetic quality," she said.

  "I wish you wouldn't call it that," he said, easing the shower curtain aside with two fingers..

  "What? Pathetic? Quality of pathos. It's from the Greek."

  "But the connotations."

  "Put those out of your mind."

  "Is it bad?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "Of course it's bad. It's terrible. It's worse than church. Worse than prison. That's why they want your pathetic quality."

  "I will be who?"

  "The Brother."

  "Of who?"

  "Of the Sister," she said. "Of the Mother of the Baby."

  "And the Baby is?"

  "Gone," she said.

  The Cryerer wrote down the time and location on an envelope he found hanging out of the nightstand, then fell back onto the bed.

  "Don't forget the Mall," his Agent reminded him.

  "Yes," he said, mashing a pillow into his eye sockets.

  "You're the best," she said.

  The Cryerer lay on the bed, trying to find a position. The fever was bad this morning and he smelled sulfur. Rather, he had the sensation of smelling sulfur. There was no sulfur. This much he had learned.

  Where had the Brazil Nut gone? He rolled over, expecting her to be there, as if he had missed her before. He mumbled her name; then shouted it.

  They had met on a movie of the week. He had been the Brother and she had played the girlfriend of a Columbian drug lord. They'd gone for drinks and she had told him everything. He hadn't told her anything, but she had worked up a warm feeling telling all without interruption — save long pauses she spent, he realized later, snorting cocaine in the ladies room — and she had associated this feeling with him.

  Where was she?

  The Cryerer thought maybe he had killed her. He didn't actually think so, but he had the thought. When the fever was bad, such thoughts came from nowhere, shouted at him from a great, echoing distance. You killed her. Like the smell of sulfur. Depraved. He went through the events of the night before like a clown counting his fingers after waving them into the lion's cage. He could do this, he promised himself.

  Had she really rolled down her hip-huggers and let a team of development executives lick liquor and salt off her perverse paunch in an after hours club in Los Feliz? Had that happened? Had she gone completely drug mad and challenged all manner of men to all manner of things and then looked at him and shrugged like this had an inevitability to it that was obvious?

  Yes. That was something she would do.

  Had she stood, bombed out, in his shower wearing only a strapless bra, staring up into the nozzle and letting water splash over her face and into the dark grooves of her body, slicking back her black hair and smiling blissfully as if she were standing, not bombed out in a shower, but in the chill, rejuvenating folds of a waterfall?

  Yes, yes. This made sense.

  And, thus soaked and resuscitated, had she snapped back, remembering where she was and who he was and, in short, thrown herself at him, cooing sweetnesses and addressing his flesh in a way he pretended was, but knew was not, unaided by substances abused and pre-existing conditions? He thought of the backs of her knees pressed against his elbows, her tanned toes pointing. "Is what is like with ballerina," she said. "Is what is like with everyone," he thought.

  She had not been a ballerina in some time.

  The Cryerer rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. His vision strobed, and he imagined he was part of a photographic experiment designed to determine if his feet left the ground as he shuffled. He shook an empty bottle of Valium and an empty bottle of Xanax. He shook a forgotten bottle of Dramamine by his ear and tablets rattled inside like dice in a cup. There were three. He washed them down with a handful of warm water before falling back onto the bed and muttering … for the motion of the Earth … into the pillow.

  ***

  When the Brazil Nut called, the Cryerer was standing in a 24-hour drugstore in the Valley. He was in the magazine aisle, checking on the competition. What his agent said was true, he reminded himself. He was the best. There was a guy in Chicago turning in good work in telephone commercials and another in Miami who scored well in Hispanic households, but he was the best. He had range. From a single, slow-rolling tear to a face-wrenching, hyperventilated blubber, there was no cry the Cryerer couldn't do. He had cradled dead babies and dead soldiers and dead sisters in his arms. He had received grim prognoses, medical results, and death sentences. He had been shot wide, close-up, and from cranes, looking up from the lifeless bodies of babies and soldiers and sisters, crying out into slowly rotating skies.

  He read a story about a movie star he had known in Van Nuys, when he, the star — both of them for that matter — was a nobody. It took him a long time to answer.

  "Oh hi. Your are up?" the Brazil Nut said, shouting over music bumping in the background.

  "I couldn't sleep."

  "Are you out?"

  "No. I'm at a drugstore."

  "It sound like you are out."

  "No. I'm not out. Where were you this morning?" he asked, only slightly relieved to be cleared of a capital crime.

  "Out," she said. "Why don't you come out?"

  "I can't. I have to be at the Mall tomorrow."

  "You are shopping?"

  "No. It's just a thing.

  "Thing?"

  "Yes." he said, distracted by the magazine. "
I'll talk to you later." He put the phone in the overcoat he wore over his pajamas, took out a bent cigarette and lit it. Despite frequent appearances as the Brother, people didn't recognize him in drugstores in the middle of the night. Sometimes people asked if he was okay, if he was sad, but even they didn't know why.

  This guy, he thought as he read. People probably recognized him in 24-hour drugstores. Here were pictures of his secret wedding in Malibu, apparently taken from a helicopter. Here were stills lifted from video shot by a turncoat guest. The Cryerer thought of some videos from Van Nuys the bride might like to see. He puffed on his cigarette without interference from the security guard, who was busy dazzling the cashier with shoplifting stories.

  The Cryerer heard his name and collected his pills at the pharmacy, dropping the magazine on a row 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 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.

  "Five hundred."

  "Six hundred."

  "Seven-fifty."

  This is the way it always happened.

  "Eight hundred."

  "Nine hundred."

  Women were curious and concerned. They wanted to help.

  "Nine-fifty."

  "One thousand."

  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?"