Table Time Travails

Thursday felt agonizingly long. Each tick of the clock in his high school classrooms seemed to mock Kaizer's desperate need for the day to end. History lectures blurred into geometric proofs, English literature discussions faded into the background hum of fluorescent lights – all of it mere static interfering with the signal broadcasting constantly in his head: Practice. Table time. 3 PM.

He navigated the social currents of Northwood High with the detached caution that was rapidly becoming his default setting. He saw Mark Jessop between classes, offering a quick, neutral nod which Mark returned with equal reservation. The easy banter, the shared jokes about teachers or video games, felt like artifacts from a different era – which, for Kaizer, they literally were. The GhostCue issue remained dormant, an unexploded ordinance lying between them, but the lack of direct confrontation did little to ease Kaizer's underlying anxiety about his friend's lingering suspicions.

He consciously avoided the areas where Jake Miller or his cronies usually hung out, and thankfully, saw no sign of Spike or Tank during lunch. The rumors about his pool prowess seemed slightly less intense today, perhaps overshadowed by some other fleeting teenage drama. He clung to anonymity as best he could, just another face in the crowded hallways, counting down the minutes until the final bell.

When that bell finally rang, Kaizer was out the door like a shot, bypassing the bus stop without a second thought. His backpack, containing his schoolbooks, the precious one hundred dollars for the cue, and his own cheap maple cue stick broken down into two pieces, felt both heavy with responsibility and light with anticipation. Today wasn't just about fulfilling his duties for Mel; it was his first real chance at dedicated practice since returning to the past.

He arrived at Rack 'em Up a few minutes before 3 PM, his heart thrumming with a nervous energy that wasn't entirely unpleasant. The pool hall had its usual mid-afternoon scattering of players – a couple of older guys methodically running balls on a back table, a few teenagers likely skipping their last period class huddled around another. It wasn't dead quiet, but it wasn't packed either. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a lull.

Mel was behind the counter, polishing glassware with a frown that suggested deep philosophical contemplation, or perhaps just irritation at a stubborn water spot. He acknowledged Kaizer's arrival with a curt nod. "Right on time, Saint. Good. Cart's where you left it. Front tables need wiping again, look like the lunch crowd left sticky fingerprints everywhere. Check the chalk holders, refill 'em if they're low. Empty the trash cans by the door."

"Got it, Mel," Kaizer replied, stashing his backpack behind the counter where Mel indicated, feeling a slight pang leaving the hundred dollars unattended, but trusting Mel's taciturn oversight more than leaving it potentially exposed elsewhere. He grabbed the cleaning cart and got to work immediately.

He moved with the same efficiency he'd displayed on Tuesday, wiping down tables, polishing the wooden rails, carefully cleaning fingerprints off the balls themselves before racking them tightly. He refilled the small metal chalk holders bolted to the walls near each table, ensuring each had usable cubes of blue chalk. He emptied the trash cans. He worked quickly but thoroughly, wanting to get his assigned duties completed flawlessly before even considering the possibility of practice. He needed to demonstrate reliability, earn Mel's trust – or at least, his tolerance.

As he worked, his eyes kept drifting towards Table 6 in the back corner. It remained stubbornly occupied by two league players engaged in a serious-looking practice match, their quiet conversation punctuated by the sharp clicks of well-struck balls. Disappointment flickered. So much for an immediate lull.

He finished the initial tasks and checked back with Mel, who merely grunted and gestured towards a stack of clean bar rags that needed folding. Kaizer resigned himself to folding rags, positioning himself behind the counter where he could still observe the tables, particularly Table 6. Patience, he told himself. He was technically getting paid (minimum wage, cash end of week) to be here, folding rags and waiting. It beat sorting Henderson Realty's invoices.

Around 4:00 PM, the two league players on Table 6 finished their match, packed up their expensive-looking cues, exchanged a few words with Mel, and left. Table 6 sat empty, bathed in the slightly dimmer light of the back corner, looking incredibly inviting. Several other tables were still occupied, but the initial after-school surge had passed, and the evening league crowd hadn't fully arrived yet. This was it. The lull.

Kaizer finished folding the last rag, stacking the pile neatly. He glanced towards Mel, who was ringing up a transaction for one of the regulars. Kaizer took a breath. Now or never. He walked casually, deliberately, towards the back of the hall, retrieved his backpack, and extracted the two pieces of his own maple cue stick. He screwed them together, the simple action feeling both routine and profoundly significant.

He didn't ask Mel directly. He just walked over to the now-empty Table 6, placed his cue case on a nearby chair, and started arranging the balls for a simple stop-shot drill, placing the cue ball and one object ball in a straight line at center table. He moved quietly, without fanfare, projecting an air of someone just naturally transitioning to practice during downtime, implicitly following Mel's earlier conditional permission.

He half-expected Mel to bark at him from the counter, tell him to get back to work, that it wasn't slow enough. He braced himself, lining up the first shot of the drill. But no shout came. He glanced towards the counter; Mel saw him, his expression unchanged, but he didn't intervene. He just turned back to wiping down his counter. Permission granted, it seemed, through silence.

Kaizer let out a slow, internal sigh of relief and focused entirely on the table. Finally. He settled into his stance, feeling the familiar alignment of bone and muscle. The cheap maple cue felt light, slightly whippy in his hands compared to the solid heft he craved, the tip worn and needing chalk frequently. But it was his. And the table, despite its minor imperfections, was real.

He executed the first stop shot. Aim center ball, smooth stroke, firm impact, stop the cue ball dead upon contact. Clack. The object ball dropped. The cue ball stopped… almost. It drifted forward maybe half an inch. Not perfect. Compensation for the cue's flex? A slight imperfection in his stroke after so long without real practice?

He set it up again. Focused on absolute stillness, perfect levelness. Clack. Better. The cue ball stopped dead this time. He repeated the drill, over and over, grooving the basic stroke, feeling the connection between intent and execution solidify. Stop shot. Follow shot (aim higher, smooth follow-through, cue ball rolling forward). Draw shot (aim lower, sharp acceleration, cue ball spinning back).

He moved through the fundamental drills methodically, ignoring the few curious glances from players at nearby tables. This wasn't about showing off; it was about rebuilding the foundation. He felt rusty, the absolute precision demanded by his internal standards just slightly out of reach. Shots he could once make with his eyes closed required conscious effort now. The feedback loop was slower – the cue felt less responsive, the table rolled slightly differently than memory suggested, his younger body hadn't yet fully integrated the decades of ingrained muscle memory.

Frustration warred with the sheer joy of simply playing. He loved the geometry, the physics, the click of the balls, the challenge of controlling three objects with one precise strike. Even with the subpar equipment, even just running basic drills, it felt like breathing again after being submerged for too long.

He worked on his positional play, setting up simple three-ball sequences, focusing not just on pocketing the balls but on leaving the cue ball in the perfect spot for the next shot, using spin and speed control. Sometimes it flowed beautifully, the cue ball obeying his command, landing exactly where intended. Other times, it would roll six inches too far, or take an unexpected deflection off a rail, leaving him awkward. The inconsistency gnawed at him. Against Jesse Riley, 'almost perfect' wouldn't cut it. Against Vince, if he ever encountered him again, inconsistency could be fatal.

He became so engrossed in a particularly challenging positional drill – trying to navigate the cue ball around several blocking balls after pocketing an object ball – that he didn't immediately notice Spike and Tank wander over, drawn by the sound of repeated shots from the usually quiet back corner.

"Practicing for the big tournament, Saint?" Spike asked, his voice carrying its usual sneering undertone, though perhaps slightly less aggressive than before. Tank just watched silently, arms crossed.

Kaizer didn't look up immediately, finishing his stroke – pocketing the ball but leaving the cue ball slightly out of line. He straightened up, chalking his cue deliberately. "Something like that," he replied evenly, not inviting further conversation.

"Heard you were at Benny's last night," Spike pressed, nudging Tank. "Heard things got… interesting. Heard Vince showed up."

Kaizer met Spike's gaze coolly. "Heard wrong," he lied flatly. Admitting anything about Benny's garage, especially Vince, felt incredibly unwise. Deny everything. Plausible deniability.

Spike looked momentarily confused, clearly having heard differently from the rumor mill, but Kaizer's deadpan denial gave him no opening. "Right," Spike mumbled, shifting his weight awkwardly. He glanced at the balls Kaizer had set up for his drill. "Working on position, huh? Think that fancy stuff's gonna help you against Riley?"

"Guess we'll find out Saturday," Kaizer said, turning back to the table, effectively dismissing them. He leaned down to attempt the positional shot again, focusing intently, shutting them out.

Spike lingered for another moment, then seemed to lose interest, muttering something to Tank before they both wandered off towards the front tables, likely looking for easier prey or just wanting to gossip further. Kaizer let out a quiet sigh. Another minor hurdle navigated.

He practiced for another solid hour, moving through drills, working on consistency, trying to wring every ounce of potential out of the cheap cue and the worn table. He felt incremental improvement, a gradual sharpening of his senses, a better connection between mind and body. But the gap between his current execution and his remembered peak felt vast. The McDermott cue arriving tomorrow suddenly felt less like a luxury and more like an absolute necessity.

As 6:00 PM approached, Mel gave him a curt nod from the counter, signaling the end of his shift. Kaizer reluctantly unscrewed his cue, packing it away. He'd gotten maybe ninety minutes of solid practice time in total, sandwiched between his work duties. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was infinitely better than nothing. He'd take it.

He collected his backpack (the hundred dollars still safely inside) and headed out, giving Mel another nod. "See ya Saturday, Mel." (His next scheduled shift wasn't until Saturday afternoon, after the tournament).

Mel just grunted in reply.

Walking home in the gathering twilight, Kaizer felt a familiar mix of exhaustion and restless energy. He'd put in the work – sorting invoices late into the night, cleaning tables and racking balls today, squeezing in precious practice. Tomorrow was Friday. Cue day. The final piece of the puzzle before the tournament crucible on Saturday. He just had to get through one more day of school, one bus ride to Edgewater, and one potentially awkward meeting with PoolShark88. The final countdown had begun.