The Hustler

7

He awoke at four o’clock in the morning. He awoke with perspiration sticky on his face and with the taste of acid and vomit in his mouth, awoke from a long dream of a bright light and a thousand spinning colored balls, awoke but kept his mind, for minutes, at the edge of the remembrance of what had happened before he had come back to the hotel and had fallen into bed.

And then he tried to sit up—still not letting himself remember—and the surprise of the pain in his arms and his back, together with the unreality of awaking at four o’clock in the morning in a strange city, perspiring, wearing shoes in bed, the surprise of these things jarred the memory loose and it took hold of him, burning. He fell back and stared into the darkness, every scene of his stupidity and arrogance before him, in sharp detail, seen as clearly, as circumscribed by his own free will and choice to be a fool, as had the circle of light above the table at Bennington’s encompassed the ground where he had chosen—deliberately and with no one else to blame—to play the fool and play him well.

But this kind of vision does not last long. Maybe the light is too bright, too clear, and hurts the eyes. Eddie Felson pushed himself up painfully in bed and sat on the edge of it, his mind now a blank, waiting for the thick, phlegmatic ache at the base of his brain and the ache that burned the length of his right arm to go away. But they did not and he had to force himself erect. He did not feel that he could stand the light to be on and he shuffled and bumped his way across the room and into the bathroom. His feet felt as if they had been swathed with thick bandages and stuffed into his shoes. He managed to turn the water faucet on and stick his head under it. The water was hot, and he fumbled with the faucets, adjusting it. Then he withdrew his head, sopping, and groped for a towel. He turned the light on and, after a minute of squinting, looked in the mirror.

It was somebody else’s face. The eyes grotesquely puffed, the hair dripping, clinging to the forehead, the neck dirty, smeared chalk on the forehead, the lips cracked, blistered. Somehow he managed a faint grin. “You son of a bitch,” he said, “you look like hell.”

Then he took a hand towel, a white one, from the rack over the lavatory, wadded it up in the bowl, sopped it with steaming water, rubbed it with a cake of soap, and began scrubbing his face. Then he washed the back of his neck—holding his head over the bowl—and the sweaty area under his chin. This soaked his collar, making it stick to his neck, and he stopped long enough to take his shirt and undershirt off. He washed his chest and arms then, holding the hot cloth around his right shoulder until the aching was dulled by it. After this he tore a hotel washcloth from its cellophane package and began washing his face more carefully, in greater detail, rubbing hard at the places where the chalk marks were, using more soap, getting every vestige of the finely powdered green from his skin.

When he was satisfied with this, his face glowing and his upper body chilled, dripping, but purified, he filled the bowl and stuck his head in it, soaking his hair in the warm, soapy liquid. He withdrew his head, squinted burning eyes, sneezed the water from his nose, and began scrubbing at the hair, scraping through it violently with his fingernails—knowing that he was cleaning them too of the filth and talcum powder and green chalk and shame that were under them.

Standing back from the loudly draining bowl, he grabbed a dry towel, sat on the edge of the tub, and began rubbing himself dry. The towel smelled faintly of Clorox, a strong, clean smell.

Then he shaved, slowly and carefully, and soaked his face afterward with a pungent, alcoholic lotion. He brushed his teeth with icy water, violence, and a stinging mint confection from a battered tube. He combed his hair, and when he had finished this looked in the mirror again, paused and said, “Anyway, now you’re a good-looking son of a bitch.”

Then he packed the lavatory tools into their case, went into the bedroom, opened his suitcase, put the toilet kit in, and withdrew a clean shirt and undershirt—both white—clean pants and socks. He put these on, wadded and stuffed the dirty things into the suitcase, and closed it.

He glanced at Charlie. Charlie was still completely flat.

Then he took out his billfold. In it were two hundred eighty-three dollars. He counted out one hundred fifty and then put the rest back in his pocket. He went to the bed where Charlie lay asleep, his face dirty, wearied, impassive. Next to the bed was a nightstand, with a cheap modern lamp on it. Eddie set the one hundred fifty in bills on the nightstand, making a neat little stack of the money. Then he fished in his pocket, withdrew the car keys, and set them on top of the bills. He looked at the sleeping man for a moment. “Okay, Charlie,” he said softly, “I’ll see you around.” On the floor by his bed the leather case with the cue stick in it was lying. He picked it up by the handle, and then abruptly he turned back to Charlie and said, “Charlie, I’m sorry….” Then he took his suitcase and left the room.

Outside, the sky was graying off, and somewhere a bird was singing, remote and feeble. From a window there was the sound of dance music, of talk. The air was pleasant and cool. A dog ran yipping up the middle of the street, its barking still echoing after it had turned a corner and was out of sight. He felt better, walking, but his mind was still thick, the pictures in it confused and unclear.

He tried not to think of anything except the simple fact that he was hungry. There was much else to think about, but this was not the time for thinking. After he had walked a few blocks he came to a bus station. In the waiting room were a scattering of very grubby, tired people—a woman with a red and ugly baby, some big-handed, dull-eyed men, a group of withdrawn old women, who seemed to be huddled against the brightness of the room itself. He did not like even seeing such people.

Along one wall there were public lockers—the gambler’s ubiquitous closet. He checked his bag and case in one of them. He looked at his watch. It said ten minutes until five.

The station lunchroom was less than half open. Most of it had been roped off and there were only five stools left at the counter and four booths along the wall. The stools were all filled; a pair of bus drivers on one side, three men in wrinkled business suits at the other. The lights were very bright; and the talking of the men seemed distant, yet highly articulate—strange, early-morning sounds, like the shrill conversations of birds that would soon begin outside.

In one of the booths only one person was sitting. This was a girl—a small, not very pretty girl—drinking coffee, alone. Eddie hesitated a moment and then sat down in the booth, facing her. She was staring at her coffee and did not look up at him. There was one waitress, a harried and skinny woman in a uniform, and he tried to catch her attention.

After a moment he turned back and looked at the girl. Beside her elbow was an ash tray, filled with cigarette butts. As he noticed this she pulled a silver case from the pocket of the tan coat she was wearing, withdrew a cigarette, and placed it between her lips. There was deftness in the motion—a kind of thing that Eddie always noticed when it appeared—and she lighted the cigarette with a smooth, easy movement. She did this without looking up from the coffee cup, into which she was staring.

This seemed to be an opening. He grinned and said, “Long wait for a bus?”

She lifted her eyes from the cup for a moment. He nodded toward the ash tray. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was tired, the tone final. She returned to her coffee.

The light was very harsh and it was difficult to tell whether the hard set of her features was a consequence of the bright light and the shadows—or of other lights and other shadows. Her skin was very pale, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Yet the eyes, although tired, were not actually dull; there was a hint of something alert about them.

Her hair was dark, cut short, practically straight. She could have been pretty, but she was not. Her lips were too pale, even with the faint lipstick she wore, and not full enough. There was a certain boyishness to her forehead; she had no discernible bosom; and the bone structure of her face, although fine and delicate, was too much in evidence. Or perhaps that was because of the light. Yet she did not look sickly; there was a suggestion of tired wakefulness, of self-sufficiency, about her.

He could not think of anything further to say and waited in silence for what seemed a long time, until the waitress came by, setting the universal glass of iceless water on the plastic table top before him. He ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, and coffee.

And then, on an impulse, he said, “Just a minute,” and to the girl, “You want another cup of coffee?” He made his voice casual, as friendly as possible.

She raised her eyes again and he grinned at her with what he knew to be his most forthright and amiable grin. This was the grin which, together with his honest face, he relied upon when on the hustle.

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged gently. “Okay,” she said, and then when the waitress was gone, “Thanks.” She looked at his face quizzically. There was nothing at all about this look to imply either flirtation or avoidance of flirtation. It was as if she were merely curious about what kind of man would be trying to pick her up in the bus station. Somehow this amused him.

He let the grin relax into a smile and said, “When does the bus leave?”

“What bus?”

“Yours.”

“Oh.” A private smile appeared on her face and then vanished. “Six o’clock.”

He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got almost an hour,” he said.

She nodded, and then finished the cup of coffee she had been drinking.

“How long you been waiting?” he said.

She turned her eyes up to him again. He liked the gesture; he had seen a girl in a movie do it that way once and he had liked it then. “Since four.”

There seemed nothing more to say, and they became silent. He was a little confused by the girl; he did not know whether she had been friendly or not. He would let it ride, let her open the conversation again if she wanted to. Anyway it was pointless, if she was leaving town at six o’clock.

The waitress brought his breakfast and the coffee. He ate slowly and silently; his stomach seemed acutely conscious of the food. She stirred her coffee for a long while before she began sipping at it.

When he had finished the breakfast he began to feel more alive. There was still a sense of pain in him somewhere, the scars of the knife in his stomach; but now he felt tighter, more aware of what was happening. The ache in his right shoulder remained, however—a reminder of what the night’s work had been.

He decided to try the girl again, for what she was worth. “Could I bum a cigarette?” he said.

“Sure.” She handed him the case from her pocket. “You press the button at the end.”

The case was heavy and plain; turning it over in his hand he saw the word “Sterling” stamped on its bottom. “This is nice,” he said, opening it and taking out a cigarette. He handed it back to her.

When he lit the cigarette he noticed with surprise that his fingers were still trembling. His matches said BENNINGTON’S BILLIARD ROOM on them, in green letters.

The cigarette tasted like tar. He coughed from it, and then looked at it more closely. On it was printed GITANES. “What did you give me,” he said, “marijuana?”

She smiled the faint smile again. “They’re French.”

“What for?”

She seemed to think a moment. “I don’t know,” she said, “to impress my friends, probably.”

It was a peculiar answer, but sufficient. He continued smoking, gingerly. It did not taste so bad when he inhaled it gently.

When he stubbed out the cigarette and looked at his watch, it was a quarter of six. He looked at the girl; she was absorbed in studying her coffee again, stirring the remains of it idly with her spoon. This irritated him slightly and he thought, What the hell. He got up and said, “Have a good trip.”

She looked up at him. “Thanks. I will.” And as he was paying the check, “Thanks for the coffee.”

Outside it was dirty, silver daylight and traffic sounds. The air was already becoming warm and moist. He felt neither sleepy nor hungry nor yet fully awake, and did not know what to do. He began walking, and a block from the bus station found a painted sign that said HOTEL FOR MEN. Inside, a fat Negress gave him a key to a seventh-floor cubicle. The room was surprisingly clean. He sat on the bed for more than an hour and thought and tried not to think about Minnesota Fats. This produced nothing. He did not feel like sleeping, got up finally, and went back out. There was more daylight, more traffic, more fast-walking people. He could think about Minnesota Fats—about the fat man, the pool game, and what they had all meant—later. Maybe in a few days, when he felt more like thinking it all out.

There had been a bar across the street from the bus station, closed before. It would probably be open now.

It was open, and there was a customer in it. In the back of the room, in a booth, the girl from the bus station. The lights were softer but it was the same scene, except that she was sipping a highball this time.

It seemed very strange, and for a moment it shook him. Then he walked back to her. She watched him coming, with the gesture of looking up at him. “Hello,” he said, grinning. “Have a nice trip?” She looked much better, with the softer light on her face.

“Fair.”

“Can I sit down?”

She did not smile; but her face did not seem so severe. “Why not,” she said. “Already we know each other’s secrets.”

He eased into the seat, wondering what she had meant. Then he signaled the bartender for bourbon and water. He looked back to her, noticed that her drink was almost gone, and said, “Look, if I buy you a drink will you tell me why you didn’t catch that bus?”

She looked at him a moment, and then for the first time smiled, wryly. “You can buy me a drink,” she said, “but I’d tell you anyway.”

He called to the bartender, “Another for the lady.” Then he looked back at her. “Okay,” he said, “why didn’t you catch the bus?”

She leaned back against the plastic upholstery of the seat. The seat was high-backed, and against it she looked like a child on a large sofa. She reached a small hand forward and stirred her drink. “I wasn’t waiting for a bus,” she said.

The man brought them their drinks and Eddie sipped at his. It tasted delicious; the bourbon cold and clean, like a mild antiseptic.

“Then why go to the bus station?” he said.

“The same reason you went there, probably. At five in the morning you don’t have much choice.” It was either the liquor or the lights or the fact that she seemed to have accepted his presence: her face had become more relaxed, although there was still no act, no assumption of any particular relationship. Eddie wondered, briefly, what would happen if he got up and went to sit beside her, patted her on the butt or something. Probably nothing. She looked as if she could handle herself.

“Besides,” she said, “I only live three blocks from here.”

Was that an invitation of some sort? He looked at her closely. Not likely.

“And you like bus stations?”

“No. I hate bus stations.” She made a small gesture with her hand. “Sometimes I wake up and I can’t get back to sleep—not without a drink. And this bar doesn’t open until six o’clock.”

He liked the way she talked. Her voice was soft, yet the words were precise and well enunciated. There was something in the sound of her voice that, like the plain silver cigarette case, felt of natural class—a quality that Eddie liked very much.

“You always drink in the mornings?” he said.

“No. Only when I’m broke and have to wait for the bars to open so I can charge a drink. Otherwise I usually have a bottle at home. In which case I sleep very well.”

This seemed ridiculous. She liked talking that way about herself. If she were really a lush she probably wouldn’t talk about it.

He looked back at her and it struck him, suddenly, that she was pretty. Why not make a quick try, the fast hustle? “Look,” he said, “I can buy us a bottle….”

Her expression hardly changed; but her voice was like a wall. “No,” she said.

“Say, a fifth of Scotch.”

She leaned forward, “Look,” she said, “we were doing fine here. Come off it.” She took a draw from her cigarette. “Anyway, I’m not your type.”

What she had said was instantly right and he grinned at her. “All right,” he said. “You win. Sorry I brought it up.”

“That’s okay,” she said, leaning back again. “A proposition is supposed to be flattering, even from a man who picks you up in a bus station. And I like Scotch—you made the right offer.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said. He finished off his drink and then said, “One more?”

“No,” she said, “I’m sleepy now.” She got up from her seat. He stood up too and saw how short she was, smaller than she had looked to be, sitting down. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

“If you want to. But you won’t earn anything by it.”

This irritated him slightly. “Maybe I wasn’t trying to earn anything,” he said.

She walked ahead of him when he stopped to pay the check and he noticed that she had a slight limp, her left foot hesitated gently against her stride. She kept her hands in her pockets. They walked in virtual silence, and when they came to her place—a faceless building in a long row of faceless buildings—she said “Thanks” and went inside before he had a chance even to attempt a foot in the door.

It took him a half hour of walking to find a liquor store. Before he found it he passed a poolroom, closed. He bought a fifth of Scotch, took it back to his hotel room with him and, before he went to bed, set it, unopened, on the green metal dresser.