Watching Henry Crumble

by Dan Moyer

 “The face of evil is often masked by disillusion and sympathy.”
~~~
A young woman stood at the top of the stairwell, dressed in a ratty sweater she purchased years ago at the thrift store down on 23rd Street.  Her long blond hair disguised her face and draped over of her shoulders, settling atop the wrinkled collar.
             By then the only source of light was provided by the occasional flash of lightning, which illuminated the raindrops as they poured down upon the young woman.  She was aided by a flimsy, worn out umbrella.
             Her attention was focused on a heaping pile of trash which was strewn across a “welcome” mat in front of Madam Frito’s shop, which was the scene of a major immigrant raid less than a year ago.  For years Madam Frito, the city’s oldest and perhaps most infamous gypsy, had peddled illegal immigrants – mostly out of work acrobats - into the country via truck.  She stashed them away in the confines of her shop, concealed in empty closets and secret crawlspaces.  The sign outside read “The All Seeing Eye,” but anyone could tell you that she’s nothing more than a petty, marginal con-artist.  Yet by some unknown stroke of luck her shop remained open for over a decade.
             Thea D’Angelo brushed away the hair from her face and unveiled a helpless expression.  Her lips were painted a shade of red - similar to that of a dying rose with crusted and shriveled leaves.  She lifted her head and her face broke through the shadow cast by the umbrella, exposing her soft blue eyes.  A single tear trickled down the side of her face, cascading left as it rolled down the slope of her cheekbone.  Her spirit weighed heavy with the words she could not speak.
             “Daddy…”
             The words lingered on the back of her tongue, unable to spill from her mouth and create any physical sound of their own.
             A second tear fell, landing in a nearby puddle.  The impact created a miniature shockwave, sending several ripples across the water.
Thea lowered her head and turned to leave.  As she did, a low rustling came from the bottom of the stairwell, followed by a grumble and then silence.  The interruption forced Thea to hesitate.  She peeked back over her shoulder.  It was at that moment a voice, perhaps an anxious conscience, crept its way into her mind.  It cried for Thea to rush down the stairwell and embrace the forgotten memory which lay huddled in a cardboard box.  {This voice, if it were able to do so, would have wept for Thea’s twisted soul, which over the course of time had been ravaged by memories of violence.}
             No, she could not return to that stairwell; not then, nor ever again.  Thea was torn between two opposing worlds. One longed for reconciliation.  The other could not let go of the past.  In either case, it would be impossible to mend the outstanding wounds that scarred her family.  There were irreparable damages between her and the people she used to love.  Yet Thea was driven by the illusion of hope.  No matter how unlikely forgiveness seemed, it remained a distant possibility.  .
             A final bolt of lightening closer than any one previous.  The flash revealed Thea’s slender face.  The half-smile she wore marked a trust that one day the void within her soul would be filled.
             This last vision supplied enough comfort and reassurance.  Thea turned once again and continued on her walk home, back to the husband and new family she loved so much.  The trip would be dangerous; a dozen blocks or so through a thunderstorm in the darkest time of night.  Yet Thea was prepared for any obstacle, armed with a switchblade which she carried in her purse.
             Once the young woman rounded the corner, the rain ceased as if shut off by a master switch.  A few droplets drizzled to the ground and faded into puddles, sewer drains and the few patches of dirt that the city had not yet paved.
             The hours of restlessness were over.  Silence and the illusion of tranquility blanketed the city once again.
***
Henry Crumble awoke to the kicking and screaming of a hobbled gypsy woman.  Madam Frito towered over the cardboard box that housed the grizzled old man, shouting obscenities in English and Romanian.  Henry crawled out and winced at the sudden daylight.  He looked up and saw a frustrated Madam Frito, arms crossed, eyebrows perched halfway up her forehead.
             “I say you, never park box in front of store. You make look dirty.” 
             Henry stumbled to his feet and brushed filth off his tattered rags. He stood nearly a foot taller than Madam Frito, and his mangy beard dangled in front of her face.  Madam Frito waved it away, ducking under Henry en route to the front door.  A bell jingled as the door flew open and again when it closed.
             “Goddamn city,” he muttered.
             Henry Crumble, or Dr. Crumble as he was once known in a previous life, was approaching sixty-five years of age.  His dark and majestic hair had grayed.  The roots were soiled with dandruff and lice.  His once proud shoulders were now hunched over due to a lack of nourishment.  As a younger man he had been an exceptional athlete, during a time when three meals a day was the norm.  Now, Henry was lucky to salvage enough scraps from the trash for a lunch, let alone a breakfast and a dinner.  His spot of choice was the alleyway behind Steve’s Bagels ‘n’ Things, where every morning around four thirty, the employees would toss out the old, stale bagels that no one else would buy.  Sometimes he would wait for hours crouched behind the garbage cans that were lined up against the building.  At one point in his life, Henry would have looked down upon such vagrants, the “scum of society” as he called them.  But now, after years of living amongst the homeless, battling for every scrap, every half-filled bottle of diet Dr. Pepper, he had come to understand and even appreciate them.  He was, after all, one of them.
             The story of Henry’s downfall has been lost over the years, blurred between memories of temper tantrums and alcoholism.  At one stage he was a respected citizen, a cosmetic restoration dentist whose free time was spent on call or buried in someone’s mouth.  The next stage of Henry Crumble’s life included a family and a white picket fence closing his American dream within the boundaries of his yard.  For a while things were routine: Henry split his time between the office and his easy chair, Mrs. Crumble vacuumed and maintained a clean household, even little Thea managed a few awkward tumbles across the living room floor.
             But then his world was flipped upside down.  Henry was fired after a medical malpractice suit.  Mrs. Crumble grew depressed and refused to clean the house, opting instead to drink wine and watch soap operas.  Even Thea didn’t seem to smile as often.  The innocent grin which used to push back her chubby cheeks was replaced by an indifferent stretch of the lips.  Happiness took a back seat to perseverance.
             Somewhere along the course of the next ten years, Henry Crumble fell victim to a number of evils: alcohol, drugs, and the occasional run-in with a Swedish prostitute named Olga.
             His conscious thoughts became diluted with filth.  His mind was so intoxicated by various poisons that it became difficult to think anything at all.  Instead, anger overwhelmed Henry, and in fits of rage he would find himself striking his defenseless wife.  There were even times when he stopped and basked in the tears of his young daughter. 
             “Stop your crying!” he’d scream, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
             Yet each outburst seemed to provoke Thea even more.  She would cry harder and louder, until Henry lost interest.
             {Henry couldn’t recall his last days with his family.  His wife never approached him.  He couldn’t remember a single time that she complained about the abuse.  Instead he awoke on the hardwood floor of his bedroom, partially under the influence of three snorted lines of cocaine.  There was a crumpled piece of paper taped to the hairs on his left forearm.  It held only one word: “GOODBYE” written in bold black marker, with a single yet powerful underline scored beneath it.}
             From there the story followed protocol.  Henry couldn’t afford the mortgage.  His house was foreclosed and he was sentenced to live on the streets, unable to afford even the grimiest of living spaces.  Rotten apples and stale bagels became fine cuisine.  Cold weather became a life threatening enemy.  The cross city bus became much more than a mode of transportation.  It was a dry place to sleep from time to time, a place where Henry could snatch newspapers from careless riders and use them for a makeshift blanket.
               Henry Crumble slowly climbed the stairs leading up to seventy-second street, placing each foot in front of the other with caution.  The storm had left the pavement soaking wet.  With each step a squeak rose up from his worn out tennis shoes, which were a size and a half too small.
             The morning sun hid behind a mesh of cloud and pollution.  It struggled to shine through to the street, yet provided an awkward warmth.
             Henry’s empty and upset stomach ached.  His feet were numb from blisters.  He cruised the sidewalks and decided to scavenge around in the nearest alley; hopefully someone had thrown out what remained of a breakfast sandwich, or maybe even a bruised piece of fruit.  Henry was not picky, not anymore.  He learned to appreciate every piece of trash he managed to choke down.  But above all, he learned not to get his hopes up, especially when it came to food.
             So he scrounged through a dumpster, tossing away anything that wasn’t edible.  He stood on the tips of his toes and strained to reach deeper into the trash.
             Just then he felt something.  His fingers brushed what seemed to be a melon with some kind of thin residue.  It was warm to the touch.  Why on earth would someone throw away such a delight?  And whole?
             Henry searched near the dumpster and found a shipping crate hidden beneath a pile of two-by-fours.  He positioned the crate in front of the dumpster and stepped up, ready to claim his prize.
             A high pitched cry broke out from within the dumpster.  The sound startled Henry, nearly knocking him off his balance.  He had heard it millions of times before; on the streets, in the park, in a previous life.  His memory associated the shrill cry with something that should never be found in a pile of trash.
             Two pairs of eyes met.  One set belonged to Henry; the other to a newborn baby who lay wrapped in a dirty towel.  The child was buried in the trash heap, squirming its little arms and legs as if it were drowning in an invisible pool.  Its body was still covered in a mixture of blood and placenta.  Other than the obvious conditions, however, it was a healthy baby boy.
             It took a moment before Henry was able to gather his thoughts.  He surveyed the area.  There wasn’t another soul in the alleyway.  A smile emerged on his face, because as far as Henry was concerned, the baby belonged to him.  Possession was nine- tenths of the law, was it not?  Of that, at least, he was sure.  He had no intention of raising it as his own.  It was difficult to feed one mouth, let alone two.  But Henry knew that everything, no matter how obscure, was worth something.
Henry scooped up the child with both hands and held it against his chest.  The baby’s cries grew louder.  It began squealing and thrashing trying to free itself from Henry’s grasp.
             He picked up a stray sheet of newspaper and covered the baby, tossing the old, bloody towel back into the dumpster.
             Within a few minutes it calmed down considerably.  He nearly forgot how to properly hold a newborn.  It had been such a long time.  The feeling of another heartbeat against his own brought back short-lived memories of Thea.  But what was he going to do with his find?  He could leave it on a random doorstep and bestow the burden upon someone else.  He could even stop by a police station and have the authorities handle the child.
             But neither of these scenarios satisfied Henry.  Neither of them offered a satisfactory reward for his good deed.  The police would just hassle him with meaningless questions, and Henry wouldn’t have the answers.  A random doorstep would completely negate his act of heroism, and as usual, he would walk away empty handed.
***
William Sanchez, or “Will the Thrill” as he was known on the streets, was a low-life dealer.  For a certain price he could get you anything from heroin to hookers.  He was a slender Spanish man with thick black hair and a diamond earring through each lobe.  A snake tattoo crawled up his right arm, stretching from shoulder to fingertip.  His signature accessory was the pair of silver Aviators that hugged his thin face, resting precariously on his jagged ears.  They were far too large, and would at times droop down over his lanky, bony nose.  New clients referred by previous ones were ordered to meet the man with silver shades on the corner of 4th and Matthew.  Will the Thrill was always there, cigarette in hand, pacing the sidewalk with anger in each step. 
             Will the Thrill avoided jail by bargaining with local police officers.  He negotiated deals by offering his finest prostitutes, the “clean” ones, and sometimes a few bags of marijuana.  In return, police would overlook certain indiscretions.  It was a healthy, balanced relationship.
             Henry had done business with Will the Thrill on multiple occasions.  Years ago he bought Oxycodon and Vicodin from the dealer.  The painkillers were an outlet for the inner turmoil at home.  Recently Henry lacked the money for such luxuries.  Instead, he was forced to appeal to one of Will the Thrill’s other interests.  The dealer had a fetish for unique and strange items, and with Henry’s lifestyle, he encountered many.  One such transaction came on a frigid December morning.  Henry discovered a moldy piece of bread that bore a striking resemblance to the Virgin Mary in a dumpster.  He nearly threw it aside, but upon further examination decided that it might hold some value.
Sure enough, hours after his find, he bumped into Will the Thrill, who happened to be a born again Christian.  Within five minutes he’d traded the rare artifact for a bottle of Jack Daniels and a pack of smokes.  It was a fair price for a modern day miracle.
             Henry could feel the baby’s heart pulsing against his chest.  It was rapid and frantic, racing as the baby gasped for air.  The serenity of its sleep was broken by the blistering siren of a fire truck.  Once again, the child was engulfed in tears.
Henry rounded the corner of 4th and Matthew where Will the Thrill sat perched on a nearby stoop.  He dug into his pocket for a cigarette.
Henry froze for a second, his feet fossilized in the sidewalk beneath him.  He was nervous.  The dealer was an extremely temperamental individual.  One wrong word could get you a beating.  Worse yet, if Will the Thrill felt uncomfortable and suspected you of being an undercover fed, you didn’t wake up the next morning.  It didn’t matter how many times you had done business before.
Before Henry could duck behind a building and gather confidence, Will the Thrill caught sight of him, perking up on his stoop like a prairie dog coming out of its hole.  The slick silver frames that masked his eyes jumped from his scrawny nose and fell to the ground.  In a practiced motion, Will the Thrill knelt down and plucked them from the pavement.  He wiped them off on his velvet button down shirt and returned them to his face.
Henry stood motionless before the stairs, unsure how to begin.  Without uttering so much as a sound he held out the child.  Will the Thrill took the infant underneath the armpits and lightly tossed it in the air, calculating, in his mind, and approximate value.  As he did so, Henry noticed a creepy grin of unkempt teeth emerging on the Spaniards face.  The smile spoke of wickedness and treachery.
“What do you want?” Will the Thrill asked, still inspecting the child through his sunglasses.  There was only a hint of Spanish accent in his speech after years of street life.
             Henry said nothing.  “Well, what is it you want?”
             Henry’s mind searched for a possible asking price, but found nothing.  He had no idea of what a human life was worth to Will the Thrill.
             “Cash.  No drugs, just money.”
             Will the Thrill snickered at Henry’s vague response.  It was an opening to take advantage of the hobbled old man.  He placed the baby, still cloaked in newspaper, beside his glossy black loafers.  He turned and reached for a leather briefcase that was propped against the banister, which he opened and rummaged through. Henry caught a glimpse of the contents inside.  There were stacks of hundred dollar bills and bags of drugs, crumpled up receipts and assorted business cards from clients.  The man’s entire life was concealed behind the brass locks of that particular briefcase.
             Several moments later Will the Thrill drew forth a crisp fifty dollar bill.  He held it out to Henry and flashed an arrogant wink.
             “Here…take it,” he said.  “No one else will give you this kind of money.”
             His smile was deceptively smug.  It made Henry uneasy.
             He reached out and snatched the fifty away from Will the Thrill.  Part of him realized that the deal was a rip-off, but there was nothing Henry could do about it.  He was nothing but an old bum.  Will the Thrill was a cunning dealer with a 9MM tucked into the front of his pants.  Clearly there was an imbalance in power.
             Will the Thrill crouched down and held the baby to his chest.  With his free hand he reached back and grabbed his leather briefcase.  He stood up and gave Henry one final look.  The dealer’s expression was hardened and blank.  The silver Aviators that teetered on his nose cast but one pathetic reflection: Henry’s.
Will the Thrill, along with his new acquisition, descended the stairs.  The two continued down the block until they blended into the faint horizon of billboards and bystanders.  The baby’s screams gradually grew fainter until they were nothing but a whisper. 
             “Goddamn city,” Henry sighed, running his long fingers over his face.
He was exhausted and hungry, but this pain was coupled with a new agony that had arisen from his interaction with Will the Thrill.  It was a mixture of disillusionment and self-loathing.  He partially felt insulted by the pathetic fifty dollars.  A majority of Henry, however, felt guilty for what he had done.  The child was doomed to a drug dealer’s life.  Will the Thrill wasn’t a father.  He was barely a human being.  Yet Henry, in his selfishness, turned the infant over without giving it a second thought.  He was ashamed of himself.
             Usually Henry compensated for such subjugated feelings by preoccupying himself with drugs or sex.  Sometimes he would even provoke pedestrians into fights, which usually resulted in a severe beating for Henry.  That physical pain distracted him from other means of torment.
             It was nearing afternoon, and his hunger was becoming unbearable.  Acid churned within his unfulfilled stomach and produced gnawing cramps.  Usually the problem was where to find food.  Dumpsters and garbage cans were normally quality sources for scraps, but since Henry was fifty dollars richer, he had the perfect place in mind.
             He stopped at the deli on Estate Street, where occasionally he’d managed to coax the remains of a sandwich from a kindhearted customer.  The people who dined there were generally pleasant, and the Italian gentleman who owned the shop allowed Henry to use the bathroom in back. 
             The deli was packed with the lunch time influx that came everyday.  Most were businessmen and women, but here and there was a teenager or two who’d decided to take fourth period off. 
             Henry maneuvered his way through the crowd and to the counter.  He ordered a hot turkey sandwich and a bag of ruffled potato chips. 
             “You sure you got enough money for this?” whispered the Italian man as he sliced off another piece of turkey.  “Cause if you’re a little short it’s alright.  You look like you could use a good meal.”
             Henry waved the fifty in front of his face.  “No, I got enough.”
             The two men shook hands as Henry paid for his lunch.  Total came to $6.32.
He took a seat at the far end of the deli and unwrapped his sandwich, neatly tearing the tape and unfolding the edges lengthwise.  There was an unmistakable pleasure in each savory bite.  Deep down he understood that it was only a matter of time before he was choking down garbage once again.  It was in that short-lived respite that Henry found himself smiling, something he hadn’t done in months.  He suppressed the thoughts of Will the Thrill and the baby.  He even managed to ignore distant memories that haunted him on a daily basis; thoughts of his past life.
             Within seconds of his last bite, Henry was already obsessed with how to spend the rest of his money.  The smart thing to do would be to save it for another day.  But Henry was not a responsible man.  He was rash and spontaneous.  He brushed the crumbs away from the small, round table at which he sat and threw away his trash.  Henry waved to the Italian man behind the counter, thanked him for a delicious meal, and continued out the door. 
A slight breeze kicked up the distinct smell of city life underneath Henry’s nose; a combination of rotting garbage and exhaust.  He scanned the street, focusing his attention from left to right, dreaming up possible ways to spend the money.
             Suddenly he envisioned the perfect investment.  It provided everything a man could ever want: peace of mind, satisfaction.  Luckily it wasn’t far from the deli.  The trip would take less than twenty minutes on foot. 
It had been a while since Henry last visited the south side, and one building in particular.  “Juliette’s House of Burlesque” was a place for the lonely and desperate.  Henry happened to be both.
He stood before the massive structure, in awe of the magnificent molding which was carved into the second and third floor brick face.  At one point the Victorian architecture was considered a masterful work of art.  Fine details were measured and hand crafted, creating an identity that separated the building from the rest of the block.
Henry was halfway across the street when a familiar catcall came from down the block.
             “Heyy there big boy!” the voice shouted in a warm and alluring tone.  “I’m watching you…”
             Henry stopped mid-step and peered over his right shoulder.  There, perched on a fire hydrant at the other end of the street, was God’s gift to Henry and the rest of mankind.
***
             Charlotte Steele was in fact nothing like her name.  She was compassionate and sweet.  Golden hoops dangled from her ears.  Her luscious red hair was scrunched into a fixed bun atop her head, held together with bobby pins and butterfly clips.  She used a violet colored lipstick, a gloomy shade of purple.  Makeup was layered upon her pale skin, creating a plastic mask. 
Yet there was an undeniable beauty surrounding Charlotte Steele, who in her profession established many identities: Daisy, Candy, and an array of other sexual nicknames.  In one session with a congressman she was asked to play the role of Genghis Kahn, a challenge she reluctantly accepted.
Some would argue that prostitution is for common street trash and shameless whores.  Charlotte, on the other hand, was neither.  She happened to be cheerful and intelligent; a college dropout whose 15 credits separated her from a degree in political science.
Somewhere along the path of life tuition became more important than the desire to learn, and with the inflated cost of college, Charlotte was forced to choose between food and schooling.  Without the diploma, a piece of paper that signifies a person’s worth, she was unable to find work with any legitimate business.  She refused to accept “no” for an answer though, and for a short while that determination was enough to bolster her empty self esteem. 
But as the days turned into weeks Charlotte found herself devoid of any options.  One afternoon, while walking the hectic city streets, she noticed an elderly woman parked at a bus stop.  Charlotte took the empty seat next to her and, after a lengthy conversation, left with a business card, a new friend and a job at Juliette’s House of Burlesque.
She was annually the highest grossing prostitute for Juliette, the head mistress whom she had met at the bus stop.  With that success followed certain privileges.  Charlotte received a higher cut of the profit and was given freedom to seek out her own cliental.  It evolved into much more than a business though.  It became a way of life.  There were times when Charlotte had trouble looking into the mirror, faced with a reflection that reminded her of every past failure.  There were moments when she debated whether or not life was worth the price of admission.  She would cut her wrists simply to vent the stress.  She had considered a return to school on multiple occasions, yet each time she attempted to escape, she was reeled back in by Juliette.  Prostitution was a lucrative and steady business, but in the long run wreaked more harm than good.
Henry limped his way across the street.  His heart pounded against the inside of his ribcage, rattling his brittle bones.
Charlotte crossed one leg over the other and drummed her polished nails on the rim of the hydrant.  She wore sleek fish net stockings, with a slight tear in the left leg.  One black leather boot was tightly laced with a silver cord, a subtle lining on a dark rain cloud.
As Henry approached the gorgeous woman she flashed him a tempting wink, sending chills down the old man’s spine.
“You looking for a good time?” Charlotte asked, licking her lips.
She felt sorry for him.  Under normal circumstances, Charlotte never bothered with the ugly ones.  She went straight for the upper-class business type, the men who tired of their wives at home.  But there was something about Henry that she pitied.  He was more than just an aging, homeless man.  He was an actual person, one who felt the need to love and be loved.  That was difficult for most people to understand.
Perhaps Charlotte was the only person who could see past his gritty exterior.  Her line of work called for a heightened understanding of human emotion.  She saw a man who was pronounced dead by the rest of society.  That, above all, she felt sorry for.
Henry’s face was flushed bright red.  He strained to nod his head.  The muscles in his neck were tense; a stranglehold on the reply he wanted to give.
“You have any money sweetie?” she asked.
For a moment Henry found himself mesmerized by Charlotte’s perfect breasts.  They were perky and voluptuous.  Her tight Rolling Stones t-shirt, with the words “last tour ever” printed on the front, could hardly contain them.
Finally he managed to smile and nod.  He stared into Charlotte’s misty grey eyes and envisioned the glory days of youth.  Recent tragedies were crushed by memories of Christmas morning and Thea’s first words.  There was a remarkable air of triumph and success surrounding Henry.  Charlotte filled him with hope; promise that had all but abandoned Henry in his hours of despair.  
Charlotte leapt from her perch on the fire hydrant and took Henry by the hand.  Her skin was smooth, softened from the overuse of moisturizers.  The touch of a woman, a sensation Henry hardly remembered, was pleasure enough. 
             They crossed the street and walked through the doors of Juliette’s House of Burlesque.  There was a pungent odor about the main lobby; the smell of musky perfume crossed with sweat. 
             The building was a beautifully refurnished hotel.  An antique crystal chandelier hung overhead, casting a flood of rainbows on the far walls.  The hand woven carpet was faded and worn, the result of years of neglect.
             Charlotte led Henry through the empty lobby and to the staircase. 
             “Business has been slow today,” she said.  “I guess it’s just you and me babe.”
She held his hand as they climbed the flight of stairs and turned the corner.  Room number seven was several doors down on the left.  The glass doorknob was loose.  Charlotte twisted the handle and threw her weight against the door, forcing it open.  She nearly toppled to the ground. 
             Henry stepped into the room and found the light switch.  The only light poured from a tiny reading lamp on the radiator, near the bed, leaving half the room in complete darkness.
             Charlotte sat at the end of the bed.  Before Henry could take another step, she held out her hand to stop him.
             “Not so fast there…” she joked.  “Money is always up front big boy.  It’s seventy five dollars for the hour, two fifty for the night.”
             Henry had roughly forty two dollars left.  It would buy him a kiss on the cheek.
             He dug into his pocket and emerged with a handful of bills and coins.  He flattened each dollar against the edge of the table and stacked them neatly.
             “How much do you got there honey?” Charlotte asked.  She rose from the bed and walked over to Henry, who was still counting the money.
             “Forty-three dollars…and a handful of change.”  He jingled the coins in his pocket.
             Charlotte gave a sympathetic smile.  She took Henry by the hand and traced his knuckles with her thumb.
             “That’s fine,” she said, staring into his saddened eyes.  “This isn’t about the money.”
             Henry seemed confused.  He was under the impression that prostitution was only about the money and nothing else.
             “What – what do you mean?” Henry stammered.  He pulled his hand away and folded his arms.
             Charlotte was startled at his question.  “What are you talking about?”
             “You know damn well what I’m talking about,” Henry said.  His voice had accidentally turned hostile.  He immediately cleared his throat and started over.  “I mean, why did you say this wasn’t about the money?”
             Charlotte shrugged her shoulders.  “It just looks like you can use a friend, that’s all.”
             She inched closer to Henry and caressed his shoulder.  Her hands moved gently down his chest and stomach.
             Henry grabbed her wrist and threw it aside.  His pupils sank into the back of his skull.  “I look like I could use a friend?” he yelled, “What, do you feel sorry for me?  Is that it?”
             It was in that moment that his harbored aggression finally boiled over.  Henry towered over the girl, fueled by an unfamiliar and frightening wrath.  The hope Charlotte brought him was trounced by the inequities that had previously dragged him down.  He remembered Thea’s smile and her chubby cheeks soaked with tears.  He saw himself hitting his wife for the first time all over again.  He envisioned the house, his white picket fence, and the life he took for granted.  He heard the baby’s cry for help as he condemned it to a life with Will the Thrill.  He smelled the foul stench of a rotting, unjust city.  He cringed at the taste of garbage.  And finally, his illusion of love was shattered by the fist of sympathy.  Henry Crumble finally realized how pathetic and bleak his existence really was.  The last remaining threads of sanity snapped.
             “Are you, like, okay sweetie?” Charlotte asked.  She sensed that there was a deafening tension within the room. 
             Henry’s face was ghostly pale.  His eyes were frozen and bloodshot.  His teeth made a horrid sound as they grinded together.
             Charlotte’s lips began to quiver.  She had encountered a few unstable personalities over the years, but she had never quite feared them as she did Henry.
             She reached for his hand one final time.  “Mister?  I said are you -”
Before she could finish the sentence Henry lunged forward and wrapped both hands around her slender neck.  She latched onto his wrist and began gasping for air.  The breaths were short and frantic.
Henry didn’t quite know what he was doing.  He was lost in a daze.  The beautiful girl he was strangling was the result of years of passive frustration.  Charlotte dug her fingernails into Henry’s arms.  She clawed and kicked for dear life, knocking over the small table.  It crashed to the ground and splintered into pieces.  The noise would have normally evoked a visit from one of the other prostitutes.  Strange commotions were investigated in case of appointments gone wrong.  Unfortunately for Charlotte, the burlesque house was unusually vacant that day.  There wasn’t a soul to hear the struggle.
“Please, stop…” she begged.  Her words were muffled and desperate.
Henry clenched her neck harder still, until Charlotte’s body buckled.  She ceased gasping for air.  Her eyes were glassed over and emotionless.  The body fell to the ground and amassed in a contorted mountain of strewn limbs.  He could not help but marvel at the sight, which to him seemed like an abstract piece of art.  The lavender lipstick, fishnet stockings and broken neck all gelled into a free-flowing masterpiece; Henry’s masterpiece
             He knelt down beside the body and searched through her pockets, which were sewn into the back of her skirt.  He failed to uncover any money or drugs.
             “Damnit,” he groaned, “She’s got nothing.”
             The only thing Charlotte carried with her was a pair of amber sunglasses with thin wire frames.  At first he was disappointed with the find.  He expected wads of cash or drugs of some sort.  But the sunglasses were a trophy for Henry, so he decided to hold on to them.
Before stepping out of the room, he turned off the lamp and watched as his deed dissolved into a thick darkness.  He lowered the sunglasses over his eyes and strolled out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.  There was a noticeable spring in his step.  The old man was invigorated by the aura of death. 
             He walked down the stairwell and step out of Juliette’s House of Burlesque.  He was face to face with the wretched city once again.  The amber sunglasses distorted life around him, splashing the horizon with a bright palette of orange and red.  Henry watched as the sun began its gradual descent; soon it would disappear behind the skyline and its thin haze of smog.  Nightfall was approaching, and before long he would lay his head to rest in front of Madam Frito’s shop.  That particular patch of pavement had inadvertently become a home, and for some reason, he could not bear to be away from it. 
“Goddamn city,” he chuckled as he began the long trip back to 72nd street.  The All Seeing Eye was miles off in the distance, waiting to pass the final judgment on Henry Crumble.

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, May 21st, 2007 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~