Sweat Equity and Closing Costs

Kaizer spent the next hour and a half immersed in the unglamorous rhythm of Rack 'em Up's Tuesday afternoon shift. Wipe, sweep, rack. Wipe, sweep, rack. The initial wave of after-school players thinned out slightly, replaced by a few more serious league players starting their practice routines and some older regulars settling in for longer sessions. He kept his head down, moving efficiently, keeping the tables clean and the balls ready, just as Mel instructed.

He operated on a kind of autopilot, the physical tasks demanding little conscious thought, freeing his mind to drift. He watched the league players, analyzing their strokes, their break strategies, their patterns. He mentally critiqued their choices, ran phantom racks in his head, compared their execution to the flawless precision he remembered from his prime – and occasionally, to the surprising effectiveness of players like Jesse Riley or even the raw power of Vince. This wasn't just cleaning; it was intel gathering, studying the local ecosystem from the ground up.

He also kept a running tally in his head. He needed forty-seven dollars. Forty-seven dollars stood between him and the McDermott cue, between feeling like a real player again and walking into that tournament severely handicapped. Every table wiped, every rack tightened, felt like chipping away microseconds from the clock ticking down to PoolShark88's deadline.

Around 4:30 PM, Mel ambled out from behind the counter, ostensibly to inspect the condition of a notoriously finicky coin-operated table near the back. His path, however, took him past several of the tables Kaizer had recently serviced. Kaizer watched him peripherally, continuing to meticulously rack a set of balls on table two. Mel ran a hand along the rail of table seven – clean. He glanced at the floor beneath the edge – swept. He peered at the rack Kaizer was setting – tight, head ball perfectly on the spot.

Mel stopped beside Kaizer's table just as Kaizer finished setting the rack and slid the triangle away smoothly. The old man looked down at the perfect arrangement of balls, then up at Kaizer, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"Alright, Saint," Mel grunted, breaking the silence. "You move okay. Don't stand around like a lump. Tables look clean. Racks are decent." Coming from Mel, this was practically effusive praise.

Kaizer simply nodded, waiting. This felt like the verdict.

"Need someone Tuesdays and Thursdays," Mel continued, looking off towards the counter as if deciding something. "Three to six, maybe seven if league night runs late on Thursdays. And maybe Saturday afternoons for a few hours if you're free. Minimum wage, like I said. Cash end of the week."

Kaizer felt a surge of relief so potent it almost made him dizzy. He had the job. Not just a tryout, but an actual job. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays. Maybe nine, ten hours a week? At minimum wage (which he vaguely recalled being around $4.25 in 1995), that was… roughly forty bucks a week. Before taxes, if Mel even bothered with those formalities. It wasn't a fortune, but it was steady, legitimate income directly related to the world he loved.

"Yeah, Mel. I can do that," Kaizer said, keeping his voice even, masking his internal celebration. "Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays. I'm free."

"Good," Mel grunted again. "Don't be late. Don't slack off. And stay outta the players' pockets unless they ask for a rack or complain about the table." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And when things are dead slow, if you ain't got cleaning to do... table six in the back is usually open. Long as you don't interfere with paying customers."

Kaizer's breath caught. Table time. Free table time. It wasn't an explicit promise of unlimited practice, hedged as it was with conditions, but it was an opening. A chance to actually hit balls, groove his stroke, practice the shots swirling in his head, on a real table, even if it was the slightly worn table six. It was more than he could have hoped for.

"Understood, Mel," Kaizer said, genuine gratitude warming his voice this time. "Thanks."

Mel just waved him off again, already heading back towards his perch behind the counter. "Finish sweeping the front area, then you can head out for today. See ya Thursday."

Kaizer grabbed the broom, attacking the floor near the entrance with renewed vigor. He had a job. He had potential practice time. He had a path. Now, about that forty-seven dollars… The job wouldn't pay out until the end of the week, likely Friday or Saturday. PoolShark88 wanted pickup within a week – which meant ideally by next weekend. The timing was incredibly tight. He couldn't rely solely on Mel's paycheck to get the cue before the deadline might expire.

He finished sweeping just as the clock ticked past five PM. Two hours worked. At Mel's presumed rate, maybe eight or nine dollars earned towards his goal, payable at week's end. Still a long way to go. He put the cleaning cart away, gave Mel a nod, and headed out, ignoring the curious looks from Spike and Tank, who were still glued to their table.

Instead of heading straight home, he walked towards the payphone outside the corner store. He needed to check in with PoolShark88 again. Committing to the buy was one thing, but the timing and payment were crucial. He fished a quarter out of his pocket (part of his meager earnings from the odd jobs), dropped it in the slot, and awkwardly punched in the number for 'The Phreak Zone' BBS, holding the receiver tightly to his ear, enduring the familiar connection screech in public this time.

Once connected, navigating with the phone's keypad was even clunkier than using his keyboard, but he managed to get to his private messages. Nothing new from PoolShark88 since last night's confirmation. Time to address the payment timing head-on. He carefully composed a new message, conscious of the slow text entry via the phone keypad.

TO: PoolShark88

FROM: GhostCue

DATE: 10/10/95 (Tuesday Evening)

SUBJECT: Re: Cue Pickup Timing/Payment

PoolShark88 - Following up on pickup. Looks like Friday evening or Saturday afternoon next week should work for me to get to Edgewater. Just confirming the $100 payment - would it be okay if I paid in full cash upon pickup? Or were you looking for a deposit hold or something sooner? Let me know what works. Still definitely taking it. Thanks.

-GC

He sent the message, hoping PoolShark88 was flexible. Paying in full on pickup bought him precious extra days to earn the remaining cash through Mel's job and the ongoing accounting work for his dad. Sending a deposit now wasn't really feasible anyway. He hung up the phone, the quarter spent, the outcome uncertain.

He walked the rest of the way home, his mind calculating hours and dollars. He had earned twenty dollars from his dad Monday night. He'd worked two hours for Mel today (maybe 

8.50earned,payablelater).Hestillhadthefifty−threedollarscash(8.50earned,payablelater).Hestillhadthefifty−threedollarscash(

50 from Vince + $8 chores - $5 deposit?). No, wait. $75 total after Vince. Paid $25 entry -> $50 left. Earned $8 chores -> $58 left. Earned $20 from Dad -> $78 left. Worked 2 hours for Mel (let's estimate $8) -> $8 earned but not received. Needs $100 for cue. Has $78 cash. Needs $22 more cash before pickup. Okay, $22. That felt slightly more achievable than $47. His accounting needed to be as meticulous as his dad's.

He got home just before dinner. The scene was depressingly familiar: his father already migrating towards the dining room table, now slightly less chaotic thanks to Kaizer's previous efforts but still dauntingly piled high.

"You're late," Tom commented without looking up as Kaizer passed the archway. "Thought you were coming straight home?"

"Had to... uh... check something at the library for school," Kaizer lied, hating the reflexive deception. He quickly added, wanting to leverage his earlier success, "Ready to tackle more invoices tonight, Dad?"

Tom looked up, a flicker of surprise, then that now-familiar calculation. "Finished your actual homework?"

"Yep. All done," Kaizer fibbed again.

Tom considered him for a moment. "Alright. Henderson's supplier invoices this time. Box by the window. Same system." He gestured towards a new cardboard tomb of financial despair.

And so began another evening under the dim light of the dining room chandelier, Kaizer hunched over supplier invoices while his father wrestled with ledgers. The silence was punctuated only by the rustle of paper, the occasional sigh from Tom, and the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Kaizer worked diligently, his focus absolute. Every sorted invoice, every hour logged, was another dollar closer to the McDermott. Five bucks an hour. He needed just over four more hours of this to hit the remaining twenty-two dollars. He could do that tonight, easily.

Around ten PM, having meticulously organized the entire supplier invoice box, Kaizer stacked the neat piles. "Done with this box, Dad."

Tom looked over, verified the neatness, and nodded, clearly pleased but trying not to show it too much. "Good. Fast work." He pulled out his wallet, extracted two crisp ten-dollar bills and two ones. "That's... another four hours, roughly. Twenty-two dollars." He handed the money to Kaizer.

Kaizer took the bills, his heart doing a quiet leap. He now had $78 + $22 = $100. Exactly. He had the money for the cue. Earned through a combination of terrifying luck, nerve, tedious chores, and mind-numbing accounting work. He had done it. The relief was immense, a physical weight lifting off his shoulders.

"Thanks, Dad," Kaizer said, the words heartfelt.

"You earned it," Tom replied gruffly, but his tone was softer than usual. He actually looked at Kaizer, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, Kaizer… this focus, this attention to detail… if you applied even half of this diligence to your schoolwork…"

Kaizer braced himself for the inevitable lecture.

But Tom paused, then seemed to change tack. "…Never mind. You did good work helping me out. Saved me a lot of time. I appreciate it." He actually smiled, a small, tired, but genuine smile. "Maybe… maybe there's hope for you yet."

It wasn't exactly a declaration of approval for his life choices, but coming from his perpetually critical father, it felt like a seismic shift. Maybe, just maybe, sorting through Henderson Realty's financial wreckage had done more than just earn him cue money; maybe it had chipped away a tiny piece of the wall between them.

Kaizer mumbled a thanks, pocketed the cash, and made his escape before the moment evaporated or his father changed his mind. Back in his room, he counted the money again. One hundred dollars. He had it. PoolShark88's deadline was suddenly no longer a threat. He could message him tomorrow, arrange pickup for Friday or Saturday. The McDermott D-17 was his.

He felt a giddy sense of accomplishment, a feeling utterly alien to the cynical sixty-three-year-old he used to be. He had faced adversity – financial, social, parental – and overcome it, mostly through legitimate means (give or take the Benny's garage incident, which he mentally filed under 'necessary evil/temporary insanity'). He had a job, potential practice time, his tournament entry secured, and now, the funds for a real weapon. Things were looking up. Now all he had to do was actually learn how to play like a champion again.