The Grind

Walking away from Rack 'em Up for the second time that Saturday, Kaizer felt a complex cocktail of emotions swirling within him. Relief, primarily – securing the job tryout with Mel felt like grabbing a solid handhold on a slippery slope. Hope, too – it was a legitimate path, a connection to the pool world that didn't involve dimly lit garages and menacing strangers. But underpinning it all was the persistent thrum of anxiety about the fifty dollars still needed for the McDermott cue, and the less immediate, but potentially more damaging, issue of Mark Jessop's online suspicions.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in a somewhat futile echo of his earlier efforts, trying to hustle up more cash the old-fashioned, teenage way. He found Mrs. Gable surprisingly amenable to having her recycling bins taken out to the curb early for two dollars. He helped Mr. Henderson stack some firewood for another three. Five dollars closer. Forty-five dollars to go. The progress felt glacial, almost insulting compared to the stakes he was used to. He could practically hear the ghost of his sixty-three-year-old self scoffing at the idea of stacking logs for less than the price of a cheap beer at the Midnight Cue.

But this was the reality now. This was the grind. This was part of doing it differently. He clung to that thought, repeating it like a mantra as he pushed wheelbarrows and sorted recycling, the physical labor a strange counterpoint to the complex mental calculations constantly running in his head – pool shots, financial deficits, social navigation.

By the time the streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the suburban lawns, he'd managed to scrape together an additional eight dollars through sheer persistence and a willingness to take on minor chores others couldn't be bothered with. Total cash on hand: fifty-eight dollars. Still forty-two dollars short for the cue. The deadline PoolShark88 had implicitly set – pickup within a week – felt like a ticking clock counting down far too quickly. His job tryout with Mel wasn't until Tuesday afternoon, and even if Mel hired him on the spot (which felt unlikely given the man's perpetually skeptical nature), two or three shifts at minimum wage before the end of the week wouldn't bridge that gap.

He returned home subdued, the initial euphoria of the job prospect tempered by the harsh reality of his financial situation. Dinner was a quiet affair. His father, Tom, was preoccupied with tax forms spread across the dining table even on a Saturday night, occasionally grunting questions about Kaizer's afternoon without really listening to the vaguely mumbled answers about "helping out neighbors." His mother, Sarah, watched him with her usual concerned gaze, commenting that he looked tired, thinner maybe. Had he eaten lunch? He assured her he had, avoiding the details of his five-dollar firewood-stacking "lunch break."

The conversation felt stilted, distant. He was living under their roof, eating their food, yet operating in a completely separate universe defined by pool physics, digital aliases, and underground economies they couldn't begin to imagine. The guilt gnawed at him, sharper than usual after the genuine relief of securing Mel's job offer. He wanted, fleetingly, to confide in them, to explain the impossible situation, the second chance, the pressure. But how could he? They'd think he was crazy, delusional. His father would likely double down on his anti-pool stance, convinced his son was truly losing his grip. No, the secret had to remain his burden alone.

After dinner, he retreated to his room, the sanctuary that felt increasingly like a command center. The first order of business was another check-in with the digital world. He endured the modem's shriek, connecting again to 'The Phreak Zone'.

He checked his private messages first. A reply from PoolShark88! His heart leaped.

FROM: PoolShark88

DATE: 10/07/95 (Saturday Evening)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your WTB Post

GhostCue - Sounds good, consider it held for you. I'm usually around weekends, evenings work too. Edgewater address is [PoolShark88 provided an address]. Just give me a heads up maybe a day before you plan to come pick it up so I can make sure I'm home/have the cue ready. Looking forward to meeting the guy behind the bank shot advice!

Kaizer breathed a sigh of relief. PoolShark88 seemed reliable, accommodating. The cue was secured, waiting only on Kaizer's ability to produce the remaining funds. The casual mention of meeting "the guy behind the bank shot advice," however, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through him. PoolShark88 likely expected GhostCue to be… well, not a fifteen-year-old kid. Would meeting him in person shatter the illusion? Would PoolShark88 balk at selling the cue to someone so young, assuming he couldn't possibly be the knowledgeable GhostCue from the forums? Another potential complication. He decided to cross that bridge when he came to it. Securing the funds was the immediate hurdle.

He quickly typed a reply:

TO: PoolShark88

FROM: GhostCue

DATE: 10/07/95 (Saturday Night)

SUBJECT: Re: Your message - Cue Pickup

PoolShark88 - Got it. Address noted. Will definitely give you a day's notice before heading over. Probably looking at later next week, maybe Friday or Saturday, just need to finalize timing. Thanks again for holding it.

He kept it brief, professional. No need to elaborate on his financial scramble.

Next, the dreaded check of the main Billiards forum. Had MarkJ replied to his deflective message? He scrolled down the thread list, his stomach tightening. There it was. A new reply in the thread Mark had started.

Subject: Re: GhostCue - You wouldn't happen to be from Northwood, would you?

From: MarkJ

Date: 10/07/95 (Saturday Afternoon)

@GhostCue - Heh, okay, okay. Message received. Keeping it mysterious ;) No worries, was just curious. Definitely appreciate the tips you've been sharing though. Good stuff.

Kaizer read it twice, then a third time. Mark seemed to be backing off. The tone was light, accepting the deflection at face value. Or was it? Mark was smart; maybe he was just playing along online, waiting to observe more in person? The smiley face felt slightly forced. Still, for now, it seemed the immediate online threat had subsided. Mark wasn't pressing the issue publicly. Kaizer let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. One less fire to juggle, at least for the moment. Monday at school would be the real test.

With the Mark situation seemingly neutralized online, Kaizer turned his attention back to the money problem. Forty-two dollars needed. He spent another hour browsing the classifieds sections on both BBSes. More cues for sale, mostly out of his price range or too far away. People looking to buy rare collector's cues – nothing he possessed. No obvious opportunities for quick cash jumped out. The digital well remained dry for immediate financial relief.

He logged off, the reality sinking in deeper. The job at Mel's was his best bet, but it wouldn't pay out before the cue deadline. Unless… could Mel give him an advance? Highly unlikely, given Mel's perpetually skeptical nature and the fact that Kaizer hadn't even worked his first shift yet. Asking felt like pushing his luck too far.

What else? Could he offer paid coaching now on the BBS? Post a message saying GhostCue was available for detailed analysis or lesson plans via email for a small fee? It felt slightly desperate, potentially undermining the 'low profile' image he'd cultivated. But desperate times…

He almost logged back on, fingers itching to type out a coaching offer. But he stopped himself. Too risky. It could attract the wrong kind of attention online, maybe even reach people locally who might connect GhostCue back to him. And there was no guarantee anyone would bite in time anyway.

He was left with the slow grind. Raking leaves, stacking firewood, hoping Mel's job came through and maybe, just maybe, offered enough hours quickly. It felt anticlimactic, almost demeaning, after the high-stakes drama of the previous night. But it was the path he'd chosen.

He stood up and went to his closet, pulling out his own cheap maple cue. He hadn't really had a chance to practice properly since waking up in this past, aside from the sessions at Rack 'em Up which were more about rediscovering his touch and dealing with challenges. He needed deliberate practice, drills, reinforcing the connection between his mind's eye and his body's execution, especially if he was going to face Jesse Riley.

His bedroom was too small to swing the cue properly. He couldn't risk practicing downstairs where his parents might see or hear. He resorted to what many aspiring players did: stance and stroke practice without hitting a ball.

He cleared a small space, assumed his stance – the familiar, balanced posture feeling natural even in this younger body. He practiced his bridge hand formations, ensuring stability. He took slow, deliberate practice strokes, focusing on keeping the cue perfectly level, moving straight back and straight through an imaginary cue ball. He visualized shots – stun shots, follow shots, delicate draws, the spin required for complex position plays. He felt the ghost of the perfect stroke, the muscle memory tingling in his arm and shoulder.

Even without a table, the ritual was calming, focusing. It reminded him of his core identity, stripped bare of the hustling, the regrets, the complications. He was a pool player. The feel of the cue, the geometry of the game – this was his language, his art.

He practiced for nearly an hour, until his arm began to feel the pleasant ache of repetitive motion. It wasn't the same as table time, not even close. But it was something. Preparation. Honing the instrument, even if the instrument itself (both the cheap cue and his teenage body) wasn't yet perfectly tuned.

He put the cue away, feeling slightly more centered. The path ahead was still uncertain, the fifty dollars a significant hurdle. But he had a plan, however imperfect. Sign up: done. Cue deal pending: progressing. Job prospect: secured. Mark situation: temporarily defused. Vince situation: hopefully avoided. Tournament opponent: identified.

The week ahead would be crucial. Balancing school, navigating Mark, proving himself to Mel, finding the remaining cash, and somehow preparing for the tournament. It was a tall order. But as he finally climbed into bed, the weariness pulling him towards sleep, Kaizer felt a flicker of something that had been absent for a long time, even in his previous life: a fragile, hard-won sense of hope. The grind was on, but maybe, just maybe, he could make this second chance count.