Receipts, Rhythms, and Rack 'em Up

The rhythmic rustle of paper became the soundtrack to Kaizer's life for the next twenty-four hours. Monday evening bled into late night as he meticulously sorted Henderson Realty's chaotic invoices, fueled by lukewarm instant coffee pilfered from the kitchen and the singular goal of earning forty-two more dollars. His father, Tom, worked alongside him at the dining room table, the initial awkwardness settling into a surprisingly functional, if mostly silent, partnership.

This task was different from the receipts. Invoices required more attention – matching purchase orders (where they existed), verifying amounts, noting payment terms, checking for duplicates. It was mind-numbing, detail-oriented work that would have driven the average fifteen-year-old (including the original Kaizer Saint) to madness within minutes. But the sixty-three-year-old mind inhabiting this body found a strange sort of zen in it. It was a problem to be solved, data to be ordered, chaos to be tamed. Not unlike figuring out a complex run-out on a tricky table layout, just with lower stakes and significantly less adrenaline.

He developed a system, categorizing invoices by vendor, then date, flagging discrepancies with small sticky notes provided by his father. His movements became economical, efficient, mirroring the way he moved around a pool table. He saw patterns, recognized recurring vendor names, noticed inconsistencies in billing cycles that even his father might have missed on a cursory glance.

Tom, initially skeptical despite the successful receipt-sorting, couldn't help but be impressed again. He observed Kaizer's methodical approach, the neat piles growing steadily, the quiet focus. A couple of times, Tom asked Kaizer to pull a specific invoice, and Kaizer located it within seconds from his organized stacks, a feat that would have taken Tom long minutes digging through the original boxes.

"You're… surprisingly good at this," Tom admitted gruffly around eleven PM, peering at Kaizer's work over his reading glasses. "Where did you learn to organize like this?"

Kaizer just shrugged, not looking up from an invoice for questionable office supplies. "Just common sense, I guess. Trying to make it logical." He couldn't exactly say, 'Decades of tracking underground tournament buy-ins, payouts, travel expenses, and backer percentages tends to hone one's organizational skills.'

"Huh," Tom grunted, returning to his own ledgers, but the tone lacked its usual edge of disapproval. It was closer to bewildered curiosity.

They worked until past midnight before Tom finally called it quits, rubbing his tired eyes. "Alright, that's enough for tonight. You put in… what, four hours?" He glanced at the clock. "Impressive focus, Kaizer. Didn't think you had it in you for this kind of work."

"Just trying to help," Kaizer mumbled, stretching the kinks out of his young back. Four hours. At five bucks an hour, that was twenty dollars earned. Added to the eight from his earlier yard work, that brought his total earnings to twenty-eight dollars since Saturday afternoon. He still needed twenty-two more for the cue. Progress, but the deadline still felt tight.

"Get some sleep," Tom said, gathering a few key files. "School tomorrow. And… thanks. You actually made a dent in this nightmare." He hesitated, then added, almost awkwardly, "Good work."

Another "good work." Kaizer felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the stale coffee. It was a small thing, barely a crack in the decades-old wall between them, but it felt significant. Maybe this forced cooperation, this shared task in his father's world, could be a bridge, however narrow.

Tuesday at school felt like operating on autopilot after only a few hours of sleep. Kaizer drifted through classes, his mind split between algebraic equations, the lingering details of Henderson Realty's questionable expenses, and the upcoming 3 PM tryout at Mel's. He saw Mark in the hallways and at lunch, offering a quick, cautious nod. Mark reciprocated similarly, the easy camaraderie replaced by a polite distance. The GhostCue topic remained unbroached, an invisible barrier between them. Kaizer decided not to push it; let sleeping dogs lie, at least until after the tournament, after he had the cue, after he felt slightly less like his life was spinning precariously on the head of a pin.

The rumors about his pool playing seemed to have intensified slightly. He overheard his name mentioned by a group near the gym, someone mimicking a jump shot motion. He ignored it, keeping his gaze fixed ahead, projecting an air of bored indifference he hoped was convincing. The last thing he needed was more attention, especially the kind that might filter back to his parents or, worse, reach Vince.

Finally, the last bell rang. Freedom. But instead of the usual aimless drift towards the bus stop, Kaizer felt a knot of nervous anticipation tighten in his stomach. Mel's tryout. 3 PM sharp. He checked the clock on the wall – 2:45 PM. He had just enough time to walk over.

He bypassed the bus stop entirely, cutting across the school field towards the side street that led, eventually, to Rack 'em Up. He walked quickly, replaying his brief conversation with Mel. Wiping tables, emptying ashtrays, racking balls. Minimum wage. Tryout. It wasn't glamorous, but it was crucial. It represented more potential income for the cue, proximity to the tables for practice (maybe?), and a legitimate reason to be spending time at the pool hall, potentially placating his parents if they questioned his whereabouts.

He reached Rack 'em Up precisely at 3:00 PM, pushing through the door just as the cheap plastic clock behind the counter ticked over. The after-school rush Mel had mentioned hadn't fully materialized yet. A few tables were occupied, mostly by familiar high school faces, but it wasn't chaotic.

Mel stood behind the counter, arms crossed, watching the room like a hawk guarding its nest. He saw Kaizer enter and gave a curt nod, acknowledging his punctuality.

"Alright, Saint," Mel grunted, wasting no time on pleasantries. "You're here. Good." He gestured towards the back of the hall with his chin. "Grab that cleaning cart. Tables need wiping down, especially three and seven – look like somebody spilled soda. Ashtrays need emptying, all of 'em. Floor around the tables needs a quick sweep. Balls on tables four and eight need racking, tight. Got it?"

"Got it," Kaizer confirmed, spotting the battered metal cleaning cart parked near the restrooms. Wiping tables, emptying ashtrays (ubiquitous in 1995 pool halls), sweeping, racking. Basic grunt work.

"Don't just smear the soda around, clean it," Mel continued, his voice gravelly. "Ashtrays go out back in the dumpster, don't just dump 'em in the trash cans inside, stinks up the place. Sweep under the rail edges, that's where the chalk dust collects. And when I say rack 'em tight, I mean tight. No gaps. Head ball on the spot." He fixed Kaizer with his penetrating gaze. "Move efficiently. Don't get in the players' way. Don't stand around gawking. And keep your mouth shut unless somebody asks you something directly related to the table or a rack. Clear?"

"Clear," Kaizer affirmed. Mel ran a tight ship, even if the ship itself was slightly rundown.

"Alright. Clock's ticking. Let's see what you can do." Mel turned back to observing the room, effectively dismissing him to the tasks.

Kaizer grabbed the cart, which held a spray bottle of indeterminate cleaning fluid, a roll of paper towels that had seen better days, a small broom and dustpan, and a few cleaning rags. He headed first towards table three, where a sticky-looking dark ring marred the green felt near the side pocket.

He worked methodically, efficiently. He sprayed the cleaner onto a rag, not directly onto the felt (a rookie mistake), and carefully worked at the soda stain, lifting it without scrubbing too hard or spreading it further. He wiped down the rails, cleaned the pockets. He moved with a quiet economy of motion, navigating around the players at adjacent tables without disrupting their games.

He emptied the overflowing ashtrays, carrying the stinking contents out the back door to the dumpster as instructed, wrinkling his nose at the smell – a scent intrinsically linked to the pool halls of his past, yet one he found repulsive now after decades away from it. He swept around the tables, paying attention to the edges under the rails, collecting small drifts of blue chalk dust and assorted debris.

He racked the balls on tables four and eight, his movements precise, automatic. He set the triangle, tapped the balls tightly together, ensured the head ball was perfectly on the spot, and removed the rack smoothly, leaving a perfect, inviting spread for the next players. It was muscle memory refined over countless thousands of racks, applied now in the role of a cleaner instead of a player.

He finished the initial list of tasks in under thirty minutes, working at a steady, focused pace. He checked back towards the counter. Mel watched him, arms still crossed, his expression unreadable. Kaizer simply nodded slightly to indicate he was done with the initial tasks and waited for further instructions, not wanting to appear idle.

Mel gestured towards the front tables where the younger kids were playing, leaving balls scattered haphazardly after their games ended. "Keep the front tables clear and racked when they open up. Wipe 'em down between groups."

Kaizer nodded and moved towards the front, beginning the cycle again: wipe down, sweep around, rack tight. He worked steadily through the first wave of the after-school rush, keeping the tables clean and ready, moving quietly and efficiently through the room. He ignored the occasional curious glance from kids who recognized him from school, focusing solely on the tasks Mel had assigned.

He wasn't just cleaning tables; he was observing. He watched the players – the beginners flailing, the regulars practicing, even Spike and Tank who came in later and started a game, their play still sloppy and inconsistent. He noted the roll of the different tables, the condition of the felt, the way the light hit certain angles. Even while performing the most menial tasks, his pool mind was active, analyzing, absorbing information. This wasn't just a job; it was reconnaissance. And maybe, just maybe, Mel would let him use the tables during off-hours if he proved himself reliable. The thought added an extra spring to his step as he efficiently racked another set of balls. The tryout was underway.