The Hustler

11

He did not go to Sarah’s apartment, but to another bar, a place where there was a great deal of noise and some kind of unfathomable gambling game, a game where a girl sat in a high chair and shook out dice from a cup while a group of men stood around her making bets for drinks and noisily losing, all of it under the shrill overlay of a persistent, grinding jukebox. And then, on his second drink, he realized abruptly that this wasn’t doing any good, that it never had and never would—not for him. He would have to find something else, something to break him out of the trap that this city of Chicago had laid for him, the trap that had already twisted—not killed, but twisted—his confidence, and that was already making him a whining, two-dollar scuffler. Or that would make him an employee, somebody else’s man. He paid for his drink and left. It seemed to take a long while to walk out of range of the jukebox; and even when he could no longer hear it, its loud insistence still rung, an imbecilic, thumping melody, in his head.

He walked to the bus station where he had left his cue. He did not think it out, but this seemed to be the best thing to do, the only step he could make in the direction he wanted to go.

He had the key in his pocket, found the right locker and took the round case from it. And instantly he felt foolish, standing there in the bus station holding a pool cue in a satchel. What was he going to do? Go to Bennington’s, beat on the desk, shout for Minnesota Fats, find him, and start a game of pool? With two hundred dollars?

He was more drunk on the whiskey he’d had than he realized. He bumped into an old woman as he was going out the door, a ragged, shriveled woman with a copy of Photoplay under her arm. She glared at him. He scowled, pushed by her and went out the door.

He walked the three blocks to Sarah’s, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, the cue stick under his arm, his silk shirt open at the collar, listening to the sound of his leather heels hitting the concrete, letting them hit it hard, as if he were trying to drive something out of himself. It was not Bert, he was aware of that, although Bert was part of it, part of the cat and mouse. But Bert was not a bloodthirsty cat; but a reasonable, reasonably greedy one. Nor, even, was it Minnesota Fats, not entirely; for Fats was only an accessory to, a witness of, his humiliation. But he had won so much money, had been so high, and had never touched Fats. Had never shaken him, moved him, pushed him, had never altered the quiet and quick look of his little eyes, almost hidden by the enormous face. And something had happened to him, Eddie, something deep and shameful and hidden. What then? Why did he not want to think about Minnesota Fats, about the night at Bennington’s—why not think about it? It was supposed to help to think about things like that, supposed to keep you from making the same mistake twice.

He would think about Bert. Bert was an interesting man. Bert had said something about the way a gambler wants to lose. That did not make sense. Anyway, he did not want to think about it. It was dark now, but the air was still hot. He realized that he was sweating, forced himself to slow down the walking. Some children were playing a game with a ball, in the street, hitting it against the side of a building. He wanted to see Sarah.

When he came in, she was reading a book, a tumbler of dark whiskey beside her on the end table. She did not seem to see him and he sat down before he spoke, looking at her and, at first, hardly seeing her. The room was hot; she had opened the windows, but the air was still. The street noises from outside seemed almost to be in the room with them, as if the shifting of gears were being done in the closet, the children playing in the bathroom. The only light in the room was from the lamp over the couch where she was reading.

He looked at her face. She was very drunk. Her eyes were swollen, pink at the corners. “What’s the book?” he said, trying to make his voice conversational. But it sounded loud in the room, and hard.

She blinked up at him, smiled sleepily, and said nothing.

“What’s the book?” His voice had an edge now.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s Kierkegaard. Soren Kierkegaard.” She pushed her legs out straight on the couch, stretching her feet. Her skirt fell back a few inches from her knees. He looked away.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Well, I don’t exactly know, myself.” Her voice was soft and thick.

He turned his face away from her again, not knowing what he was angry with. “What does that mean, you don’t know, yourself?”

She blinked at him. “It means, Eddie, that I don’t exactly know what the book is about. Somebody told me to read it, once, and that’s what I’m doing. Reading it.”

He looked at her, tried to grin at her—the old, meaningless, automatic grin, the grin that made everybody like him—but he could not. “That’s great,” he said, and it came out with more irritation than he had intended.

She closed the book, tucked it beside her on the couch. She folded her arms around her, hugging herself, smiling at him. “I guess this isn’t your night, Eddie. Why don’t we have a drink?”

“No.” He did not like that, did not want her being nice to him, forgiving. Nor did he want a drink.

Her smile, her drunk, amused smile, did not change. “Then let’s talk about something else,” she said. “What about that case you have? What’s in it?” Her voice was not prying, only friendly, “Pencils?”

“That’s it,” he said. “Pencils.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. Her voice seemed thick. “What’s in it, Eddie?”

“Figure it out yourself.” He tossed the case on the couch. She picked it up, fumbling with and then opening the buckle at the top. When she pulled out the silk-wound butt end she said, “Interesting,” and then pulled out the other, thinner piece. “How do you work it?”

“It screws together.”

She looked at it with frowning concentration for a moment, then deftly—in spite of her drunkenness—put the pieces in place and twisted them together. She ran her hand lightly over the silken end, holding the cue in her lap. Suddenly she said, raising her eyes, puzzled, “It’s a pool stick!”

“That’s right.”

“It’s like a fancy cane. All these inlays…” Then it seemed to hit her and she said, “Are you a pool shark, Eddie?”

He had never liked that term, and he did not like her tone of voice. “I play pool for money,” he said.

She took a gulp of her drink, shuddered under it, and then laughed self-consciously. “I thought you were a salesman. Or maybe a confidence man…” She smiled at him. “I don’t know. It seems strange….”

He looked at her a minute, carefully, before he spoke. Then he said, “Why?”

She looked back to the cue in her lap. “I never knew a pool shark before. I thought they all wore double-breasted suits and striped shirts….”

He started to answer this, but did not. She bit on her fingernail for a moment, and then said, “Why play pool?”

He had heard this before, several times. And always from women. “Why not?”

She was trying to sound serious, but her voice was still drunken. “You know what I mean. Do you make a living at it?”

“Sometimes. I’ll do better.”

This seemed to exasperate her. “But why pool? Couldn’t you do something else?”

“Like what?” He noticed for the first time that she had light freckles at her elbows, and this discovery irritated him vaguely.

“Don’t be cute about it,” she said. “You know what I’m driving at. You could… sell insurance, something like that.”

He looked at her for a moment, wondering whether he should take her to bed, work up a little action. “No,” he said. “What I do I like fine.”

He decided that it wouldn’t be worth the effort. He stood up from the couch, stretched, and then went into the bedroom to the dresser mirror and began combing his hair. The mirror, like the clown in the living room, had a white frame. He combed his hair carefully, patting it on the left side and then patting down the slight wave. He needed a haircut. Which was always a nuisance.

Sarah spoke to him from the chair in the living room. “I’ve heard that pool can be a dirty game,” she said.

He put the comb back in his pocket. “People say that,” he said. “I’ve heard people say that myself.”

“You’re being comical,” she said, trying to make her voice sound dry. And then, “Is it dirty?”

He walked back into the living room and, not looking at Sarah, looked instead at the clown. The clown looked back, sad and mean, holding the wooden staff. His fingers were painted in only sketchily, but they were graceful and sure of themselves. The clown was, apparently, unhappy, but was not to be pushed around; a good, solid clown and a figure to be respected. Eddie stretched again, his back to Sarah, still looking at the picture. “Yes. It’s dirty.” He felt of his face, which needed a shave. “Anyway you look at it, it’s dirty.”

Then he walked into the bathroom and began undressing, hanging his clothes over the edge of the bathtub. On the back of the toilet Sarah kept a turtle in a glass bowl. At present, it was probably asleep. Eddie did not investigate this; but he thought about the turtle. A self-contained, cautious, withdrawn creature. Solid and reliable, like Bert—withdrawn, now, into its two houses: one given it by God, the other by the five-and-ten. The turtle asked no questions, and was required to give no answers.

Eddie put his pajamas on and went to bed. Before he turned the bedroom lights out, he saw that Sarah was still in the living room, staring at the wall. He rolled over and fell immediately asleep.