Digital Echoes and Desperate Measures

Days bled into one another with the monotonous rhythm of school bells and awkward family dinners. Kaizer existed in a strange dual reality. By day, he was a fifteen-year-old sophomore navigating crowded hallways, enduring mind-numbing lectures, and offering vague excuses to a slightly concerned Mark Jessop about why he couldn't hang out after school. He aced quizzes without studying, answered questions in class with insights that occasionally made teachers pause, and generally tried to fade into the background – a ghost in the educational machine.

But by night, after the house fell silent, after his parents thought he was asleep or dutifully studying theorems he'd mastered decades ago, Kaizer Saint came alive in the flickering blue light of the CRT monitor. The agonizing shriek of the dial-up modem became his clandestine call to arms. His 'GhostCue' persona was his armour, the primitive BBSes his hunting ground.

Each night followed a similar pattern. Dial into 'The Phreak Zone'. Check messages. Scan the Billiards forum. Log off, tying up the phone line for precious minutes. Dial into 'The 8-Ball Corner'. Repeat. Check other, smaller local BBSes he'd discovered. Repeat. The process was tedious, the yield frustratingly low.

His post offering advice on bank shots had garnered a few replies. A simple "Good tips, GC!" from one user. Another handle argued pedantically about cushion physics, clearly missing the practical application Kaizer had described. But then, finally, a breakthrough – of sorts.

Handle: CueBallWizard

Date: 10/01/95

Subject: Re: Help! Stuck on cross-side banks!

@GhostCue - WOW! Tried focusing on center ball and speed like you said. HUGE difference. Still need practice but finally seeing the path. That tip about visualizing the contact point *after* the cushion... mind blown! Where'd you learn this stuff? You teach professionally? Thanks man!

Kaizer allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Validation. CueBallWizard's enthusiastic response was exactly the kind of feedback he needed. It positioned GhostCue not just as someone knowledgeable, but as someone capable of providing effective help.

He quickly typed a reply:

Handle: GhostCue

Date: 10/01/95

Subject: Re: Help! Stuck on cross-side banks!

@CueBallWizard - Glad it helped. Experience is the best teacher, just paid attention along the way. Keep working on feeling the speed and the table roll. Consistency comes with mileage. Good luck.

He kept it humble, slightly mysterious. Let them wonder. He didn't immediately offer paid coaching – too soon, too eager. Let the reputation build organically. Perhaps someone else would see CueBallWizard's success and inquire further.

But organic growth took time, and time was a luxury Kaizer didn't have. October 14th loomed, now less than two weeks away. The $25 entry fee deadline (October 12th) was even closer. He needed cash, and his digital panning for gold was yielding dust. The used cues he spotted for sale remained too expensive or too distant. He'd even posted a cautious 'Want To Buy' message seeking a straight, affordable cue, but received no replies.

The pressure mounted, a familiar weight settling in his chest – not the physical agony of the heart attack, but the gnawing anxiety of dwindling options. He started noticing things he might have ignored before. Flyers tacked to telephone poles advertising lawn mowing services. Help Wanted signs in shop windows – 'Dishwasher needed', 'Stock Clerk, part-time'.

He even briefly considered asking Mark if he had any old video games Kaizer could try selling, but quickly dismissed it. Mark was already looking at him strangely, sensing the distance, the secrets. Asking to sell his friend's possessions felt like crossing a line, exploiting a connection he was already neglecting.

The temptation of Benny's garage lingered at the back of his mind like the smell of stale cigarettes. Easy money. Fast money. Ten bucks a game, nine-ball. Against kids he could likely dismantle with his eyes closed, even with his cheap cue. He could probably earn the entry fee, maybe even enough for the better cue at Mel's, in a single night.

He pushed the thought away, disgusted with himself. That was the old path. The path paved with quick wins and long-term destruction. He wouldn't – couldn't – go back there. Not if this second chance meant anything. But the need remained, a persistent ache.

One afternoon, trudging home from the bus stop, backpack slung over one shoulder, he saw them. Spike and Tank, along with the cocky junior who'd challenged him in the cafeteria, were huddled near the corner store, laughing loudly. As Kaizer passed on the opposite side of the street, trying to remain inconspicuous, the junior spotted him.

"Hey! Pool Boy!" the junior called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Still planning on gracing Benny's with your presence Friday? Or you gonna hide behind that tournament flyer?"

Spike and Tank snickered. Kaizer ignored them, kept walking, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

"Maybe he's broke!" Spike yelled after him. "Maybe Mommy won't give him allowance for the big tournament!"

The taunt stung, mostly because it hit uncomfortably close to the truth. He gripped the strap of his backpack tighter, his knuckles turning white. He forced himself not to react, not to give them the satisfaction. But the encounter solidified his resolve. He had to make the tournament. He had to play, and he had to win. Not just for the money or the cue, but to shut them up, to prove something – though proving things to idiots like Spike felt increasingly pointless compared to the internal battle he was waging.

That evening, the tension at home was palpable. His father was hunched over spreadsheets at the dining table, muttering about quarterly reports. His mother was quieter than usual, glancing at Kaizer frequently with worried eyes. He knew his nocturnal BBS sessions hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. The phone line had been busy when his dad tried calling home from work yesterday, leading to a terse inquiry Kaizer had deflected with excuses about research for a school project. The lie felt thin, fragile.

"Kaizer," his father said suddenly, not looking up from his papers. "Mrs. Gable down the street called your mother today. Said her lawn hasn't been mowed in two weeks. Thought you usually handled that."

Kaizer froze. Right. Mrs. Gable. Sweet old lady, paid him ten bucks every other week to mow her small lawn. A chore he'd completely forgotten about in the whirlwind of his temporal displacement and pool obsession. Ten dollars. It wasn't much, but it was something. Legitimate earnings.

"Uh, yeah, Dad. Sorry," he stammered, feeling his cheeks flush. "I... lost track of time. School's been busy."

His father finally looked up, peering over his glasses, his expression stern. "Losing track of time seems to be a habit lately. Along with tying up the phone line for hours doing 'research'. See that you take care of Mrs. Gable's lawn tomorrow after school. Immediately after school. Understand?"

"Yes, Dad. I understand." The ten dollars felt like a lifeline, however small. It wouldn't cover the entry fee, but it was a start. More importantly, it was a reminder of the simple responsibilities he'd let slide, the normal life demanding attention outside his pool-focused tunnel vision.

The next day after school, pushing Mrs. Gable's ancient, sputtering lawnmower across her slightly overgrown yard, Kaizer felt a strange sense of normalcy. The physical labor, the smell of cut grass, the simple satisfaction of completing a task – it was grounding. Mrs. Gable paid him with a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a glass of lukewarm lemonade, thanking him profusely.

Holding the ten dollars, Kaizer felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he could pick up more yards? Ask around the neighborhood? It would be slow, hard work, but it was clean money. Combined with whatever might eventually materialize from his GhostCue persona... maybe it was possible.

That night, after logging onto 'The 8-Ball Corner', he found a new private message waiting. His heart leaped.

FROM: PoolShark88

DATE: 10/03/95

SUBJECT: Re: Your WTB Post

Hey GhostCue, saw your post looking for a decent cheap cue. You the same guy giving bank shot advice? Good stuff.

Listen, that McDermott D-17 I listed... $150 is maybe high. Realized it's got a small chip in the butt cap, purely cosmetic, doesn't affect play. Tell you what, if you're serious and can pick up locally (I'm in Edgewater), I'll let it go for $100. It's a solid cue, hits way better than its price. Let me know.

One hundred dollars. Edgewater. Kaizer quickly visualized a map. Edgewater wasn't next door, but it was reachable by bus, maybe an hour or so ride each way. And a hundred dollars for a McDermott, even an older one with a chip... that was a very good deal. Significantly better than the basic starter cue Mel had for eighty.

But it still required one hundred dollars. He had ten. The entry fee deadline was barely a week away. Earning another ninety dollars mowing lawns in that time seemed impossible.

He stared at the message, conflicted. It was a great opportunity for the equipment he desperately needed. The cue was almost as important as the entry fee itself; showing up to the tournament with his cheap closet cue against players like Jesse Riley felt like bringing a knife to a gunfight.

He typed a cautious reply:

TO: PoolShark88

FROM: GhostCue

DATE: 10/03/95

SUBJECT: Re: Your WTB Post

Thanks for the offer, PoolShark88. Appreciate the price drop. $100 is fair. Edgewater is possible for me. Let me think on it for a day or two - need to confirm funds. Yes, same guy on the bank shot advice. Glad you found it useful. Will be in touch soon.

He logged off, the modem's dying screech echoing the turmoil in his mind. One hundred dollars for the cue. Twenty-five for the entry. One hundred twenty-five dollars needed. He had ten. Time was running out.

He sat in the dark, the computer screen fading to black. The memory of Spike's taunt – "Maybe Mommy won't give him allowance!" – echoed, mixing with the lure of Benny's garage. Ten bucks a game. Against kids he could fleece. How many games would it take? Ten? Fifteen? An hour or two of work, max. The entry fee covered. Money towards the McDermott.

He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. No. He wouldn't.

But as he crawled into bed, the phantom click of balls and the allure of easy money whispered seductively in the darkness. The ghosts of his past weren't just memories; they were active temptations, pulling him back towards the life he was trying desperately to escape. The pressure was building, forcing him towards a choice he didn't want to make.