Static Cling and Hallway Whispers

The shrill, electronic bleating of the alarm clock on his bedside table felt like an ice pick to the cerebellum. 6:30 AM. Kaizer slapped blindly at the snooze button – a relic of torture he hadn't endured in decades. His body, despite its youth, protested the early hour, conditioned by years of late nights in smoky halls rather than early mornings for trigonometry.

He dragged himself out of bed, the floorboards cool beneath his bare feet. The morning routine felt like navigating a museum exhibit of his own past. Brushing his teeth with Crest instead of the fancy sensitive-formula stuff he'd used for years. Staring into the mirror at that impossibly young face, trying to reconcile the image with the sixty-three-year-old mind staring back. Choosing clothes – faded band t-shirt (Soundgarden today), baggy jeans that felt ludicrously oversized compared to the tailored slacks he favoured in his later years. Everything felt slightly off-kilter, like wearing someone else's life.

Breakfast was another exercise in careful navigation. His father had already left for his early commute, leaving just Kaizer and his mother in the yellow-tiled kitchen. She slid a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him, her movements efficient but her eyes lingering on him again, searching.

"Sleep okay?" she asked, pouring herself coffee. The aroma, cheap drip coffee instead of the single-origin espresso he'd grown accustomed to, filled the air.

"Fine, Mom," Kaizer mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. The food tasted… plain. Uninspired. He missed the complex flavours, the hole-in-the-wall diners near tournament venues that served legendary chili or biscuits and gravy. Teenage taste buds, apparently, weren't as discerning. Or maybe his mom just wasn't the gourmet cook memory had painted her as. Guilt pricked him again.

"You're sure you're feeling alright?" she pressed gently. "You were tossing and turning half the night. Heard you pacing."

He froze mid-chew. He hadn't realized he'd been audible. His mind had been racing, replaying shots, calculating odds, planning strategies – habits ingrained over fifty years, now manifesting as teenage restlessness. "Just… thinking about school," he deflected, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "Big year, you know? Tenth grade."

She seemed to accept this, though a flicker of doubt remained in her eyes. "Well, don't overthink it. Just do your best. And remember what I said about... that place."

"Rack 'em Up," Kaizer supplied automatically. "Yeah, Mom. I remember." He finished his eggs quickly, eager to escape the scrutiny. "Gotta go, don't want to miss the bus."

He grabbed his backpack – a flimsy canvas thing compared to the sturdy leather briefcase he used to carry – and headed out. The air was cool, carrying the damp scent of dew on dying lawns. Autumn was settling in. Waiting at the bus stop felt like a bizarre social experiment. Clusters of kids, loud and awkward, buzzing with hormones and insecurities Kaizer hadn't felt firsthand in nearly half a century. He stood slightly apart, observing. The slang, the fashion (so much flannel!), the exaggerated drama over minor social slights – it was like watching a nature documentary about a species he vaguely resembled but no longer truly belonged to.

His gaze scanned the faces, looking for Mark Jessop. He spotted him near the back of the loose crowd, hunched over a bulky, grey brick – a Nintendo Game Boy. Mark looked exactly as Kaizer remembered: slightly built, glasses perched on his nose, absorbed in his digital world.

Kaizer walked over. "Hey, Mark."

Mark jumped, startled, then pulled off his headphones. "Oh, hey, Kaiz! Dude, where were you yesterday? I waited by the arcade like we planned."

"Ah, yeah, sorry man," Kaizer began, searching for a plausible excuse. The truth – 'I experienced a fatal heart attack during a pool tournament and woke up thirty years in the past' – seemed unlikely to go over well. "Something… came up. Family stuff." It was weak, but it was all he had.

Mark frowned, adjusting his glasses. "Family stuff? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. Just… you know. Stuff." Kaizer shifted his weight, feeling intensely awkward. This easy camaraderie he'd shared with Mark felt distant now, separated by an unbridgeable gulf of experience. How could he talk about video games or comic books when his mind was replaying the 1988 Atlantic City Open final?

"Okay," Mark said slowly, clearly sensing the evasion but too polite to push. "So... you heading to the library at lunch? New issue of 'X-Men' should be in."

The library. Comics. It felt like a lifetime ago. "Maybe," Kaizer said noncommittally. "Might have to catch up on some homework." Another weak excuse. He could probably ace most of his classes without cracking a book, thanks to the echoes of his original education combined with decades of life experience.

The bus arrived then, a yellow behemoth breathing diesel fumes. They shuffled aboard, the air inside thick with the scent of cheap deodorant and adolescent angst. Kaizer found a seat by the window, Mark sliding in beside him. Mark tried to talk about the game he was playing, some side-scrolling adventure Kaizer vaguely recalled, but Kaizer found himself tuning out, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, his mind already calculating angles on imaginary tables.

Mark eventually fell silent, sensing Kaizer's disengagement. He put his headphones back on, a subtle barrier erected between them. Kaizer felt another pang of guilt. He was already drifting away from the few connections he had in this timeline. Was this how it started the first time? Prioritizing the game over everything else?

He forced himself to focus. "Sorry, Mark," he said, tapping his friend's shoulder. "Just got a lot on my mind."

Mark offered a tentative smile. "S'okay. Rough morning?"

"Something like that," Kaizer admitted. It wasn't entirely a lie.

Northwood High School hadn't changed much in his memory. The same sprawling brick building, the same linoleum floors buffed to a slippery sheen, the same vaguely institutional smell. The roar of hundreds of teenagers navigating crowded hallways hit him like a physical force. Lockers slammed, voices echoed, cheap perfume warred with teenage body odour. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly trivial compared to the focused intensity of a high-stakes pool match.

He found his locker – combination thankfully stored somewhere in the recesses of his muscle memory – and dumped his books. First period: History with Mr. Davison. Kaizer remembered him – a well-meaning teacher whose passion for the Peloponnesian War was met with glazed expressions by most students.

Sitting in the hard plastic chair, listening to Mr. Davison drone on about Athenian naval strategy, Kaizer felt a profound sense of detachment. He could answer every question, correct the minor inaccuracies in the textbook, even offer insights gleaned from decades of observing human nature and conflict in arenas far removed from ancient Greece. But he couldn't. He had to play the part of Kaizer Saint, average tenth grader. He doodled geometric patterns in his notebook – bank shots, kick shots, cushion trajectories.

The morning crawled by. English class discussing 'The Great Gatsby' – a book whose themes of wealth, obsession, and the unattainable past resonated with him now in ways his fifteen-year-old self could never have grasped. Math class – algebra – felt insultingly simple. He could practically feel the complex physics of spin decay and collision angles fighting for space in his brain against basic linear equations.

It was during the break between second and third period, navigating the human traffic jam near the main staircase, that he heard it. A snippet of conversation from a group of older guys leaning against the lockers, voices loud enough to carry.

"...swear, man, Tank told me this little freshman punk walks in yesterday..."

"...ran like three racks straight..."

"...Spike was pissed. Said the kid was playing like..." The voice lowered conspiratorially. "...like some kinda pro."

"No way. A freshman?"

"Dunno, maybe sophomore? Skinny kid, dark hair. Never seen him before."

Kaizer kept walking, his expression carefully neutral, but his senses sharpened. It was starting. Faster than he'd expected. Spike and Tank hadn't kept their mouths shut. He wasn't just 'some kid' anymore; he was the 'freshman punk' (he was a sophomore, technically, but close enough) who'd embarrassed the local hotshots.

He felt a prickle of satisfaction mixed with apprehension. Attention was a double-edged sword. It could open doors, create opportunities. It could also bring scrutiny, challenges, and unwanted complications – especially from his parents.

Lunchtime arrived, a welcome respite from academic boredom but potentially fraught with social challenges. The cafeteria buzzed with noise, the air thick with the smell of reheated pizza and mystery meat. Kaizer got a tray of something vaguely resembling Salisbury steak and scanned the crowded tables. He saw Mark waving him over to their usual spot, occupied by a couple of other quiet, nerdy types.

He headed over, but before he could sit down, a voice cut through the din. "Hey! New kid!"

Kaizer turned slowly. It wasn't Spike or Tank. It was a different guy, leaning against a pillar nearby with a couple of his friends. Older, maybe a junior, with a cocky smirk and the air of someone who thought he was important. Kaizer didn't recognize him specifically, but he recognized the type. Every school, every pool hall, had them.

"You the one they're talking about?" the guy asked, looking Kaizer up and down dismissively. "The one who supposedly got lucky against Spike down at Rack 'em Up?"

Kaizer took a slow bite of his questionable steak, chewed deliberately, and swallowed before answering. He met the guy's gaze, keeping his expression mild. "Maybe," he said evenly. "Depends who's talking."

The guy chuckled, nudging his friend. "Plays it cool. Look, I heard you can shoot. That true? Or was Spike just having an off day?"

This was the probe. The initial feeler from the wider school hierarchy. How he responded now could set the tone. Showing fear or weakness was fatal. Showing arrogance could be equally dangerous. He opted for calculated ambiguity.

"Spike's a good player," Kaizer said, his voice quiet but carrying easily over the nearby chatter. "Sometimes the balls roll your way, sometimes they don't." He gave a slight shrug, turning back towards Mark's table as if the conversation was over.

The older guy wasn't finished. "Yeah? Well, maybe they'll roll your way against someone better. Friday night. Benny's garage. Ten bucks a game, nine-ball. You in, or you just lucky against scrubs?"

An invitation. Or rather, a challenge disguised as one. Benny's garage – Kaizer vaguely recalled hearing about it. Off-site, unsupervised games. Higher stakes, probably rougher crowd. Exactly the kind of situation his father feared, and the kind of situation the old Kaizer would have thrived in.

The smart move was to decline. Keep a low profile. Avoid trouble. But the competitor in him, the part that had dominated tables for decades, stirred. Ten bucks a game wasn't much, but it was something. More importantly, it was a chance to play, to test himself against slightly better competition, perhaps.

Mark was watching him, wide-eyed. The other kids at the table had fallen silent.

Kaizer considered the older teen's challenging smirk. He thought about the worn felt on table six, the need for a better cue, the empty state of his pockets. He thought about the suffocating boredom of algebra.

"Maybe," Kaizer said again, letting the word hang. He didn't commit, didn't decline. He just left the possibility open, a dangling hook. He then deliberately sat down at Mark's table, turning his back on the challenger. "So, Mark," he said, forcing a casual tone. "This new X-Men issue... any good?"

The older guy lingered for a moment, baffled by the non-committal response, before snorting and swaggering off with his friends. Mark stared at Kaizer.

"Dude! What was that?" Mark hissed, leaning closer. "Benny's garage? That's where the serious players go! And guys bet real money there! You actually thinking of going?"

"Just listening," Kaizer said evasively, pushing mashed potatoes around his plate.

"And what was that about Rack 'em Up? You played Spike? And beat him?" Mark's voice was a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Since when do you play pool like that? I thought you barely knew how to hold a cue!"

The questions were piling up. The whispers were becoming direct inquiries. His carefully constructed anonymity was eroding faster than cheap felt under constant play.

"Learned a few things," Kaizer mumbled. He needed to change the subject. He needed to manage the narrative. But more than that, he needed resources. Benny's garage... ten bucks a game... it was a temptation, a dangerous shortcut.

He spent the rest of lunch deflecting Mark's questions and trying to appear normal, while his mind raced with calculations. How much could he potentially win at Benny's? What were the risks? Getting caught, getting hustled himself (unlikely, but arrogance was a killer), word getting back to his parents...

The afternoon classes passed in a blur. His thoughts kept circling back to the game, to the need for practice, for money, for a decent cue. As the final bell rang, releasing the flood of students into the hallways, Kaizer felt the pull. The magnetic lure of the green felt.

Mark caught up to him near the exit. "Hey, wanna come over? Got the new 'Mortal Kombat' on Sega."

Video games. Right. Normal teenage stuff. Kaizer hesitated. Part of him, the ghost of the fifteen-year-old he used to be, wanted to say yes. To just hang out, decompress, forget the impossible weight of his situation. But the sixty-three-year-old strategist knew he couldn't afford to drift. He needed focus. He needed to advance his plan.

"Can't tonight, Mark," Kaizer said, trying to sound apologetic. "Got... stuff to do. Homework."

Mark's face fell slightly. "Oh. Okay. See ya tomorrow then?"

"Yeah. See ya."

Kaizer watched Mark disappear into the crowd, another pang of guilt hitting him. He was isolating himself, just like before. He needed to manage that, find a balance. But right now, the priority was reconnaissance.

He didn't head home. He didn't head towards Benny's garage (wherever that was). Instead, he walked purposefully back towards 'Rack 'em Up' Billiards. Not to play, not yet. But to observe. To gather information. Maybe Mel would be there. Maybe he could subtly inquire about local tournaments, about places that sold decent equipment.

As he approached the familiar, slightly grimy facade of the pool hall, he slowed his pace. The neon 'OPEN' sign glowed weakly in the afternoon light. He saw a couple of familiar bikes leaned against the wall – Spike and Tank were probably inside already, licking their wounds or maybe spreading exaggerated tales of his prowess.

He paused across the street, partially hidden by a large oak tree, just watching the entrance. People drifted in and out. Mostly kids his age, a few older guys who looked like regulars. He needed a way in, a legitimate reason to be there often, without constantly raising red flags or facing challenges.

His eyes scanned the dusty windows, looking past the beer signs and faded posters. Taped crookedly to the inside of the glass, almost hidden behind a promotion for cheap wing night, was a flyer. It was hard to read from across the street, printed on cheap paper. He squinted, trying to make out the words.

Something about... "Junior." Something about... "Nine-Ball." Something about... "Tournament."

His pulse quickened. A junior tournament. Right here. That could be it. A legitimate venue. A chance to play, maybe win some money, establish himself properly without resorting to back-alley garages. He needed a closer look. He needed details. Entry fee? Dates? Age limits?

Taking a deep breath, Kaizer pushed away from the tree and started across the street, heading directly for the entrance of 'Rack 'em Up'. Caution warred with opportunity. He didn't know what waited inside – another challenge, Mel's scrutinizing gaze, or just the information he desperately needed. But standing still wasn't an option. The game was calling.