A Hustler’s Sad End

A decade ago I was helping an old school hustler write his autobiography. 

It was an exciting project to both test my literary skills in this genre and get some insight on game.

I had known *RJ about a decade before we worked together. He owned a barbershop, a club, had a fly woman (with others on the side) and seemed to have the world in his grip. 

Cool. Grown men control their universe.

We’d meet at his Bronx apartment every Sunday for a few hours and I’d transcribe and revise tape recordings of his journey.

Everything was cool for the first month and a half. The best part was before getting to work, we’d have extended conversations about women, hustling – life. 

Being older than myself, RJ had some serious game to drop, even though his status had fallen. 

He was living in a rundown building and seemed dependent on the financial support of an older woman. 

Red flags aside, the game I was getting, even from a washed up player, complimented my efforts to master social dynamics and understand human nature.

I was getting PhD knowledge; which I turned into gold. 

Until darker truths emerged.

One evening RJ left a voicemail, a rant embarrassing for a grown man. 

He accused me of erasing his tapes (I had started transcribing at home) and said I could make things right by paying him $250.00 – or else. 

For some the hustle never ends, even when being helped. 

I called him back and scheduled to meet the next afternoon.

His temperature had dropped a few degrees from the night before, just like I knew it would.

I gave him back the tapes and told him I didn’t tolerate disrespect.

“Please,” he said. “I need your help.”

He was desperate and needy. 

“Look, I’m sorry about all that. I’m just stressed, dealing with a lot.”

I was calm, resolute. 

“I hear you. But I don’t need the drama.”

He nodded in agreement with whatever I said, supplicating like a champ. 

Unfortunately, he displayed weakness and for me there was no going back. 

“Good luck.” I said.

Sadness crept into his eyes as he seemed to shrink.

I saw RJ on the street a few years ago. We passed each other without a word. (No loss.)

While I continued to grow, I realized RJ’s limitations. 

As I got deeper into self-development, literally breaking open my consciousness, the glaring holes in his game were apparent (e.g. his lack of emotional strength and insecurity). 

I’ve seen similar characteristics in other hustlers who have, supposedly, mastered game. 

Rarely are these dudes clever or sophisticated. They expend a lot of energy but lack the ambition to produce substantive results. (Running game on the weak or self-loathing doesn’t count.)

This is the fate of a hood lifer; the man that never grows up and applies game on a large scale to get enduring results.

Alas, this is also the destiny of young street corner hustlers that follow in their wake. 

Later,

Gary

*RJ is an alias.