The Kid woke up once more feeling the frost on his sheet; it’s actually been a while since he felt any kind of warmth in his life. It all felt like the same to him. Nonetheless, the Kid had to get out of bed… whither he knew it or not he had few choices.
Halfway across town, the Hustler knew, as always, that today was his day. “There was no science to the matter: today is a great day and it’s mine”: he thought, “Life is sweet”. There are those who are naturally good at anything and there was the Hustler. He had a neck for any sort of skill base activity and never –as never get closer to never –put a value to anything in his life. It was all the same to him. In that respect, the Kid and the Hustler had something in common yet they were not to have the same outlook at what one had to offer the other.
The Kid, once, had been the light of his world; he brought to those around him so much hope as a promise of greater things to come. His life yet took a bleak step away from what other would have said to be a very simple choice. “Simple”: he often said to himself, “was never my thing”. Nonetheless, his gift was that which many would have sold more than their soul for. The Kid, as I name him, wasn’t a Kid at all. He had grown more than any had in a so short of a time; his face, that of a mid-lifer suited his life experiences but went against his youth.
He made it a point never to go to a bar with his I.D. as no bartender has since… well no bartender has ever ask him for it. The Kid, though, wanted to find that one soul who would be kind enough to ask him for it.
“Hey Kid…” he heard. A fifth sober, very sleepy and uneasy on the bar seat, he turn his neck very hardly to spot the Hustler before him. “Kid…” he thought, “hey”.
~ Never saw you here before… the Hustler said. What is your name?
~ Mark… I just moved in town…
The Hustler, as always, measured him very well and pondered upon his next question. The Kid reeked of the purest of alcohol; his half emptied glass of Pineapple Cruzan Vanilla Rum was a sure side of what he had all night. The Hustler felt, as it sure was to be, that the Kid was an easy catch.
~ Kush… the Hustler said, you’re not the typical Kid that walk in my bar. Want a light?
~ Don’t smoke… what make you think I’m a Kid?
~ Well… the Hustler snuffed, you don’t look a day over twenty-four. I have a nose for that.
The Kid was impressed. Many have put him at thirty-six; he was confused on whither he should let it be know that he was twenty-two. The Kid, of course, had had some very fast paste life events. A recorded genius, he graduated from college at a young twenty with a degree in mathematics and minor in statistic and logic, joined the Army commissioned by the intelligence signal officer corp.
The Kid was never good at measuring people yet he saw the Hustler for what he was: a man who never bled a day in his life.
~ So am I right or… am I just right, the Hustler asked.
~ Yes… you are but I am not a Kid. There is a great many I could teach you.
The Hustler froze his gaze at the Kid, sat at the bar with him and said: “well that insignia on your shoulder let me know you had some life experiences with the Army corp. of engineers, you surely have a snob smug to your face: you’re one of those Ivy League graduates, Harvard was it? It’s all the same to me… but in the end you’re Kid and a Kid is a Kid until he has earned a different calling.”
The Kid thought it well: he was not from the Army corp. of engineers but with Army intelligence, he didn’t graduate from Harvard but from M.I.T but since it was still the same to him he had few choices outside of agreeing with the Hustler. “You are right”: he whispered.
~ Good…
~ But… he stopped the Hustler, you are wrong: I am not a Kid and… to prove it, let’s play a game of pool.
~ Kid… I’ll let you know three facts about me: one, I am good at any activity that takes place in a bar. Two, I have played pool professionally for sixteen years. And three… which should give you a clue on who I am: I have never bled a day in my life.
But the Kid knew that much about the Hustler… and felt that the rest was all the same to him. To the Kid whither he won or lost made no difference to him… and perhaps that was all the difference he felt he needed. “I see… so it well makes it fairer if the game was handicapped in my advantage.”
The Kid was very gifted with tilting the balance of justice through intricate systems of rules and regulations that could ultimate make natural abilities obsolete. “We will play… on a bet at three to one over a hundred dollars.” They both knew what it meant, if the Kid won he would go home with three hundred of the Hustler’s money yet it the Hustler were to win he would go home only with a hundred of the Kid’s money.
However, to them it was all the same…
The Kid was given the right to start the game… and on his break the Hustler knew he was going to get a run on his money.
~ You HUSTLED me… he shouted.
~ No… the Kid responded, you got hustled.
The truth is the difference in this game was that very same thing that they had in common. It all was the same to them. As the game continued the Hustler saw no means of saving himself from a cost of three hundred dollars; he looked at the Kid’s half weary eyes and thought “there must be some kink in his demeanor”.
~ I have a proposition, said the Kid. Since I have only the eight ball before I can cash in, why don’t we just make it fairer on you?
The Hustler was skeptical as he did not want to get handed a second time but he listened to the Kid’s proposition.
~ You call my shot and: one, if I refused to shoot it you walk away with no loss. Two, I attempt it and miss; you walk away with no loss and double my losses. Finally, I attempt it and succeed; you double my winnings.
The Hustler knew the “Sky Masterson rule” very well yet his eagerness to win made him take it. The shot was a bank, and the Kid got it in walking out with eight hundred dollars well earned.
The shot came as expectedly as he knew would he would have won that bet…
~ Kid… I warned you I never bled a day in my life, said the Hustler with uneasiness to his voice.
The Kid felt the warm wound on his back melt trough the frost on the street and, looking up at the Cambridge sky, he felt his face rejuvenate by the breath of death. It was clear that he won that game because it was al the same to him but not to the Hustler.
He had seen many die and has killed many in his two tours in Iraq. Death was no stranger to him; the Hustler on the other hand had not seen a man weather in the face of death. Furthermore he had never killed a man.
~ Yes… but from now on will bleed as I have for so long…
The Kid die with a young face and a smile as the Hustler lingers on with a frost on his should and a face of mid-lifer aged too soon. This was his day and he lost it to the Kid…
The End…