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Watching Henry Crumble
by Dan Moyer

Henry Crumble awoke to the kicking and screaming of a hobbled gypsy woman. Madam Frito leaned 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 closed. The sign outside read “The All Seeing Eye,” but Henry knew that she was nothing more than a petty con-artist.

“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 hair had grayed and 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 in peek physical shape, during a time when three meals a day was the norm. Now, Henry was lucky to salvage enough scraps from the trash for one meal, let alone three. The best spot to find decent food was the alleyway behind Steve’s Bagels ‘n’ Things, where every morning around 4:30, 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 lost his license 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 (especially pain killers), and the occasional dalliance 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. He would choke her and throw her up against the wall. The violence often provoked tears from his young daughter.

“Stop your crying!” he’d scream, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Yet each outburst seemed to worsen the situation. She would cry harder and louder, until Henry lost interest.

Henry couldn’t recall his last days with his family. His wife never threatened to leave if things didn’t change. He couldn’t remember a single time that she ever complained about the abuse. Instead he awoke one afternoon 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.

From there his 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 quarters. 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 72nd 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. 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-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 and 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 the boy 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 had nearly forgotten how to properly hold a newborn. It had been such a long time. The feeling of another heartbeat against his own brought back 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”, was a low-life dealer. For a certain price he could get you anything from heroin to hookers. The lifestyle was a contradiction of his Catholic beliefs. But the streets obeyed the law of natural selection, and Will the Thrill did whatever was necessary to stay alive.

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 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.

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, in his other life, he’d bought Oxycontin and Vicodin from the dealer. The painkillers were an outlet for the inner turmoil at home. Since he’d come to live on the streets, Henry was no longer interested in such luxuries. Now his business with Will the Thrill usually meant bartering for money or food, not pills. The dealer had a fetish for unique and strange items, and with Henry’s lifestyle, he encountered many. One such discovery came on a frigid December morning when 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. 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 even suspected you of being a narc, 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, and 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, an approximate value. As he did so, Henry noticed a creepy grin 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. Will the Thrill began tapping his foot. “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, but he knew how he wanted the payoff.

“Cash. No drugs, just money.”

Will the Thrill snickered at Henry’s vague response. It was an opening to take advantage of the old man. He placed the baby, still cloaked in newspaper, beside his glossy black loafers. He turned and reached for the leather briefcase that was propped against the banister, which he opened and rummaged through. Henry caught a glimpse of the contents. 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. 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 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 he 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. Will the Thrill crouched down and picked up the baby. With his free hand he 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, 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 groaned, 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 was insulted by the pathetic fifty dollars, but mostly he felt guilty for what he had done. The child was doomed to a drug dealer’s life. Will the Thrill wasn’t going to father the boy. Perhaps he would sell it to a sweatshop at age seven or eight. That was no life for a child. But Henry, in his selfishness, turned the infant over without giving it a second thought. He was ashamed of himself.

It was nearing afternoon, and his hunger was becoming unbearable. Cramps gnawed at his unfulfilled stomach. Henry was fifty dollars richer and could afford a decent meal. The anticipation made him feel like a young boy on Christmas Eve. There were hundreds of restaurants in the city, but he had one particular 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 daily lunchtime crowd. 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 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 the turkey. “Cause if you’re a little short it’s all right. You look like you could use a good meal.”

Henry waved the fifty. “No, I got enough.”

The two men smiled 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, tearing the tape and unfolding the edges. He took a moment to enjoy the aroma of a hot lunch before he dug in. There was an unmistakable pleasure in each savory bite. Deep down, he understood that it was only a matter of time before he was swallowing garbage once again. It was in this 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 of his past life that haunted him on a consistent basis.

Within seconds of his last bite, Henry was already obsessed with how to spend the rest of his money. 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 walked out the door.

A slight breeze kicked up the distinct smell of city life underneath Henry’s nose. It was a combination of rotting garbage and exhaust. He scanned the street, 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. It was a beautiful example of Victorian architecture. 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 catcall came from down the block. “Heyy there big boy!” the voice shouted in a warm and alluring tone. “I see you over there…”

Henry stopped mid-step and peered over his right shoulder. There, sitting on a bench 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. Charlotte was not your average hooker. She happened to be cheerful and intelligent, a college dropout separated from her degree in political science by 15 credits. Charlotte began her education with the best of intentions, but soon enough, tuition became more important than the desire to learn. Without the diploma she was unable to find work with any legitimate business. As the days without a job turned into weeks, Charlotte grew desperate.

One afternoon, Charlotte took the empty seat next to an elderly woman sitting at a bus stop and, after a lengthy conversation, left with a business card, a new friend and a job at Juliette’s House of Burlesque.

She was uncomfortable with her first customer. He was a lonely business man with a foot fetish. She laid back and let him lick her toes, wondering how things went so wrong so fast.

Soon she became Juliette’s highest grossing prostitute. All too quickly, her job evolved into a way of life. There were times when Charlotte had trouble looking into the mirror, faced with her own reflection. There were moments when she debated whether or not life was worth the price of admission. She longed for better things, but each time she attempted to escape, Juliette reeled her back in.

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 edge of the bench. Golden hoops dangled from her ears. Her luscious red hair was scrunched into a bun atop her head, held together with bobby pins and butterfly clips. Makeup was layered upon her pale skin, creating a plastic mask.

She wore sleek fishnet 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 elaborately. She felt sorry for him. Under normal circumstances, Charlotte 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. She saw a man who was pronounced dead by the rest of society, and she wanted to make him feel alive.

Henry’s face was flushed bright red. He strained to nod. The muscles in his neck were tense. They strangled 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 holiday dinners and Thea’s first words. There was a remarkable air of acceptance and success surrounding Henry. Charlotte filled him with hope. There was promise that had all but abandoned Henry in his hours of despair.

Charlotte stood up from the bench 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. 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.

There was a pungent odor about the main lobby. It was the smell of musky perfume crossed with sweat.

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. 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.

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…” she smiled. “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 anyway and emerged with a handful of bills and coins. He flattened each dollar against the edge of the table and stacked them up.

“How much 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.”

Charlotte gave a sympathetic grin. She took Henry by the hand and traced his knuckles with her thumb.

“That’s fine,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “This isn’t about the money.”

“What--what do you mean?” Henry stammered. He pulled his hand away.

Charlotte was startled. “What?”

“Why did you say this wasn’t about the money?”

“It just looks like you can use a friend, that’s all.” She came 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 shriveled into nothing. “I look like I could use a friend?” he yelled, “What, 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 chubby cheeks soaked with tears. He saw himself hitting his wife for the first time all over again. He envisioned his house, the 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. 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 okay sweetie?” Charlotte asked. Henry’s face was ghostly pale. His eyes were frozen and bloodshot. His teeth made a horrid sound as they ground together. There was a deafening tension within the room.

Charlotte’s lips began to quiver. She had encountered a few unstable personalities over the years, but she had never quite feared anyone as she did Henry at this moment.

She reached for his hand one final time. “Buddy? 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. 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 knock on the door, just to check that everything was all right, but the burlesque house was unusually vacant that day. There wasn’t a soul to hear the struggle.

“Please, stop…” she begged. Her voice was broken and desperate.

Henry clenched her neck harder still, squeezing, until Charlotte’s body buckled. She ceased gasping for air. 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. “Dammit,” 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, but the sunglasses seemed like a trophy to 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. It was awful, but the old man was invigorated by the aura of death. It was the same satisfaction he gained from hitting his wife, only better. The power over another distracted him from the rest of reality.

He walked down the stairwell and 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 sighed 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.

Dan Moyer is a college student at Rutgers University, which means that no well-respected magazine takes him seriously. He has been rejected by the New Yorker, 3AM, and literally a dozen others. In fact, he once received a response from an editor who claimed that they could not accept the submission because their magazine had been shut down. However, once he checked the website a week later, Dan found it was up and running. Apparently the editor juts wanted to let him down easy. However, Dan is consumed by the ignorance of youth, and therefore, continues to write short stories, and as of recently, has begun work on his second book. Dan is a lifelong resident of Hightstown, NJ. Contact him here.