Fifty Bucks or Bust

The rest of Saturday passed in a blur of restless energy and mounting anxiety. The satisfaction of signing up for the tournament, of taking that concrete step towards legitimacy, warred constantly with the pressing, practical problem of the remaining fifty dollars needed for the McDermott cue. PoolShark88's one-week deadline loomed large in Kaizer's mind – less than seven days now to bridge the gap between his current fifty bucks and the hundred needed for a cue that felt increasingly vital after seeing Jesse Riley's quiet confidence.

His brief, awkward encounter with Mark outside Rack 'em Up also replayed in his thoughts. Mark's probing questions, his barely concealed suspicion… Kaizer knew his deflective BBS message hadn't solved the problem, merely delayed it. He'd have to face Mark at school on Monday, and navigating that interaction without giving himself away felt like lining up another impossible bank shot.

But the immediate, burning priority was cash. Fifty dollars. Legitimately. Quickly.

His first instinct, born more of desperation than genuine hope, was to scour the neighborhood for more odd jobs. He spent an hour walking familiar streets, eyes peeled for overgrown lawns, cluttered gutters, or any other sign of work a teenager could plausibly solicit. He knocked on a few doors, offering his services. Mostly, he got polite refusals or promises to "keep him in mind." He managed to convince old Mr. Henderson to let him rake the thick carpet of leaves blanketing his front yard for five dollars. Five bucks for nearly ninety minutes of sweaty, back-straining work.

He pocketed the crumpled bill, feeling a profound sense of discouragement. At this rate, he'd need to rake ten more yards, or mow five more lawns, all within the next few days, while somehow juggling school, avoiding parental suspicion, and maybe even finding time to actually practice pool. It felt impossible. The contrast between this slow, laborious grind and the swift, adrenaline-fueled fifty dollars he'd won off Vince last night was stark and deeply unsettling. The memory of Benny's garage, the easy money (however dangerous), whispered like a devil on his shoulder, a temptation he had to actively fight down. No. Not again.

Back in his room – his teenage time capsule – he surveyed his meager possessions, looking for anything remotely valuable. Comic books? He had a few dozen stacked haphazardly on his bookshelf, mostly mainstream X-Men, Spider-Man, nothing that screamed 'rare collectible' even by 1995 standards. He vaguely remembered Mark mentioning a local comic shop, but he doubted his small collection would fetch more than a few dollars, certainly not the fifty he needed.

Video games? He had a handful of cartridges for the Sega Genesis collecting dust under his bed. Mortal Kombat II, Sonic the Hedgehog, maybe a couple of sports games. Again, common titles, likely worth next to nothing used. Selling them would barely make a dent.

His eyes fell on the computer. Could GhostCue generate cash now? He fired up the Packard Bell, endured the modem's screeching handshake with 'The Phreak Zone', and checked his messages again. Nothing new from PoolShark88 – the deal for the cue stood, waiting for Kaizer to come up with the cash. He scanned the Billiards forum. His vague reply to MarkJ sat there, unanswered. No new coaching inquiries had magically appeared. CueBallWizard hadn't posted again asking for paid lessons. The digital well remained stubbornly dry for immediate income.

He logged off, frustrated. The online strategy was a long game, about building reputation, making connections. It wouldn't solve his immediate fifty-dollar crisis before PoolShark88's deadline expired or the tournament arrived.

He paced his small room, feeling trapped. He had the skills of a world champion, the knowledge accumulated over decades, yet he was stymied by the lack of fifty dollars. It was infuriating. Humiliating. He thought back to his former life – the easy flow of cash, sometimes thousands changing hands over a single game, the ability to buy any cue he desired, fly to any tournament. Now, he was contemplating raiding his piggy bank (if he even still had one) or selling worn-out video games for pocket change.

What else? Ask his parents for an advance on allowance? Given their explicitly stated disapproval of pool and his recent suspicious behavior (late nights "researching" online, the pool hall visit), asking for money now, especially a significant sum like fifty dollars, felt like waving a giant red flag. His father would demand explanations Kaizer couldn't give, likely leading to restrictions, maybe even grounding, which would torpedo his tournament plans entirely. Too risky.

He sank onto his bed, running a hand through his unruly teenage hair. Think, Kaizer, think. There had to be another way. Some angle he was missing. He mentally retraced his steps through the town, through the school hallways, through the dim corners of Rack 'em Up.

Rack 'em Up. Mel. The counterman knew things. He saw things. And while he wasn't exactly friendly, he hadn't seemed overtly hostile either. He'd even offered the unsolicited intel about Jesse Riley. Mel ran the place; maybe he needed help? Part-time work? Cleaning tables, racking balls, working the counter? It was a long shot – Mel seemed like a one-man operation – but working at the pool hall offered proximity, maybe even free table time for practice when things were slow. And, most importantly, a potential paycheck.

The idea felt promising, more plausible than striking gold online or finding ten neighbors simultaneously desperate for leaf-raking services. It required swallowing his pride – the legendary Kaizer Saint asking for a job racking balls? – but pride was a luxury he couldn't afford right now. The McDermott cue, the tournament, proving himself against Jesse Riley – those were the priorities.

He checked the clock. Mid-afternoon on Saturday. Rack 'em Up would be busy, but Mel would definitely be there. It was worth a shot. A direct approach.

He stood up, squaring his shoulders again. New plan. He wouldn't mention money directly at first. Just inquire about potential work, helping out. Gauge Mel's reaction. It was better than pacing his room or knocking on more unresponsive doors.

He headed downstairs, trying to project casualness as he passed his mother, who was reading in the living room.

"Just going out for a bit, Mom," he called out.

"Where to?" Her voice held that familiar note of maternal vigilance.

"Uh... just gonna walk around. Maybe see if Mark's home," he lied, hating the ease with which the deceptions came now.

"Okay. Be back before dinner," she replied, her eyes briefly flicking up from her book before returning, seemingly satisfied.

He escaped out the front door this time, walking briskly back towards the pool hall, a different kind of nervous energy buzzing within him now. This wasn't the adrenaline of a high-stakes game, but the low-level anxiety of asking for help, of potentially facing rejection, of humbling himself for the sake of his larger goal.

As Rack 'em Up came into view again, he saw the usual Saturday afternoon crowd milling about. He pushed through the door, the jingle barely audible over the clatter of balls and the murmur of conversations. He scanned for Mel, spotting him behind the counter, dealing with a queue of kids trying to rent tables.

Kaizer waited patiently off to the side, observing. Mel handled the transactions with his usual gruff efficiency, taking cash, handing out timers and balls, answering basic questions with monosyllabic grunts. He didn't look like a man actively seeking help.

Finally, the queue cleared. Kaizer stepped up to the counter. Mel glanced at him, wiping down the already clean surface with his perpetually damp rag.

"Yeah?" Mel grunted.

Kaizer took a breath. "Mel," he began, trying to sound casual but earnest. "I was wondering... you ever need any help around here? Part-time? Cleaning tables, racking, whatever needs doing?"

Mel stopped wiping. He looked at Kaizer, really looked at him, his gaze sharp and penetrating, as if trying to see the angle. The silence stretched for a long moment. Kaizer held his ground, meeting the older man's gaze steadily.

"Why?" Mel finally asked, his voice flat. "Need cash for that tournament?"

The direct question caught Kaizer off guard. He hadn't expected Mel to cut straight to the chase. He hesitated, unsure how much to admit. "Tournament entry's covered," he said truthfully, deciding against mentioning the cue. "Just... looking for some work. Like the atmosphere here." It sounded weak, even to his own ears.

Mel snorted softly, a sound devoid of humor. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter. "Kid, I been running this place damn near thirty years. I seen kids come and go. Seen hustlers, wannabes, guys with real talent, guys with nothing but air in their pockets and dreams in their eyes." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "You ain't like the usual kids hanging around here. You play different. You think different. Saw it yesterday. Saw it when you handled those two clowns, Spike and Tank. So, cut the crap. Why do you really want to work in a rundown pool hall?"

Trapped. Mel wasn't buying the casual interest routine. The old man saw too much. Kaizer realized he had two choices: double down on the flimsy lie, or risk a measure of honesty. Given Mel's apparent perception, honesty seemed the smarter, if riskier, play.

"Okay," Kaizer admitted, lowering his voice slightly. "You're right. It's not just the atmosphere. I need money for a decent cue. And yeah, maybe some extra practice time wouldn't hurt before facing Riley's kid." He left out the part about Benny's garage, Vince, and the source of his current funds.

Mel considered this, his expression unreadable. He tapped his fingers on the counter for a moment, then grunted again. "Might need someone for a few hours next week. Tuesday, Thursday maybe. After school rush. Wiping down tables, emptying ashtrays, racking for the league guys if they get lazy. Minimum wage. Nothing glamorous."

Kaizer felt a surge of hope. It wasn't a guaranteed fifty bucks by next weekend, but it was something. A legitimate source of income directly related to his passion. And potential practice time... "I can do that," he said quickly, eagerly. "Reliable. Hard worker."

Mel just nodded slowly. "We'll see. Show up Tuesday after school. Three o'clock sharp. Don't be late. We'll call it a tryout." He straightened up, picking up his rag again, the conversation seemingly concluded.

"Thanks, Mel," Kaizer said, genuine gratitude in his voice. "Really appreciate it."

Mel just waved a dismissive hand, already focused on polishing a spot on the counter only he could see.

Kaizer turned away, a wide grin finally breaking across his face, one he quickly suppressed before anyone else saw it. It wasn't the whole fifty dollars, not yet. But it was a concrete opportunity. A job. A path forward that didn't involve dark garages or desperate measures. Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to look up. He still had to figure out the remaining cash for the cue before the week was out, but this felt like a major step in the right direction.