The Edgewater Exchange

Friday dragged its heels with agonizing slowness. Every tick of the clock in Northwood High felt like a deliberate act of temporal torture designed specifically to delay Kaizer's pilgrimage to Edgewater. He sat through his classes – English, Math, Chemistry – absorbing almost nothing, his mind consumed by a single, repeating loop: Get the cue. Get the cue. Get the cue.

The hundred dollars in his backpack felt like a lead weight, a constant, physical reminder of the transaction that awaited him. He found himself patting the bag reassuringly between classes, just to confirm it was still there, the product of garage gambles and accounting drudgery.

He managed to avoid any significant interactions with Mark Jessop beyond a mumbled "See ya" after lunch. Mark seemed content to maintain the cautious distance established earlier in the week, for which Kaizer was profoundly grateful. Deflecting his friend's suspicions took mental energy Kaizer needed to conserve for the evening's main event: meeting PoolShark88 and securing the McDermott.

The final bell felt like a starter pistol. Kaizer bolted from his last class, bypassed his locker entirely (he could retrieve forgotten textbooks Monday), and headed straight for the bus stop on the main road outside school grounds – not his usual neighborhood stop. He'd spent a precious hour the previous night huddled over a confusing paper bus schedule map borrowed from the library, plotting his route to Edgewater. It involved two transfers and what looked like at least an hour and a half of travel time each way, assuming the buses ran reasonably on schedule, which felt like a gamble in itself.

He squeezed onto the first bus, finding a seat by the window, his backpack clutched tightly on his lap. As the bus lurched through familiar Northwood streets, then into neighboring towns he barely recognized, Kaizer watched the scenery change from comfortable suburbia to slightly grittier urban sprawl. The journey felt symbolic, carrying him away from the constraints of his teenage life towards something tangible, something real from his past expertise – a proper tool for his trade.

The transfers were nerve-wracking, involving hurried dashes across busy intersections and anxious waits at unfamiliar stops, constantly checking the crumpled schedule map. He felt conspicuously young and out of place, a kid with a backpack likely assumed to be heading home from school, not on a clandestine mission to buy a pool cue from a stranger met on the internet.

Finally, just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and bruised purple, the last bus deposited him on a street corner in Edgewater. He consulted the scrap of paper where he'd scribbled PoolShark88's address. It was only a few blocks away, a residential street lined with older, multi-family homes.

His heart rate kicked up a notch as he walked, scanning house numbers. This was it. The moment of truth. How would PoolShark88 react? Would the guy even be home? What if the cue was damaged beyond the described cosmetic chip? What if this was some elaborate setup? He pushed the paranoid thoughts away. PoolShark88 had seemed reasonable online, and the transaction felt legitimate, a common way enthusiasts traded gear even back then.

He found the address – a slightly faded but well-kept two-family house with a small front porch. He double-checked the number against his paper. This was the place. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the short path and pressed the doorbell beside the indicated apartment number.

He heard movement inside, then the sound of locks turning. The door opened, revealing a man likely in his late thirties or early forties. He had thinning brown hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and wore a flannel shirt tucked into jeans. He looked… ordinary. Like someone's dad, or maybe a slightly nerdy uncle. Definitely not the intimidating image 'PoolShark88' might have conjured.

"Yeah?" the man asked, looking Kaizer up and down with mild curiosity.

"Uh, hi," Kaizer stammered slightly, caught off guard by the man's sheer normality. "I'm… GhostCue? From the BBS? Here about the McDermott cue?" He felt ridiculous saying his handle out loud.

The man's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "You're GhostCue?" he repeated, his eyes widening slightly behind his glasses. "Wow. Okay. Wasn't expecting… well, someone your age." He didn't sound accusatory, just honestly surprised. "Thought from your posts… never mind. Name's Frank, by the way," he said, extending a hand. "PoolShark88 is just my online stupidity."

Kaizer shook his hand, relieved by the friendly, if surprised, reception. "Kaizer," he offered his real first name, figuring anonymity was pointless now. "Nice to meet you, Frank."

"Kaizer, huh? Come on in," Frank said, stepping back to let him inside. The apartment was modest, comfortably cluttered with books, records, and what looked like components of disassembled electronics on a workbench in the corner. It smelled faintly of coffee and solder. "Didn't expect the guy schooling people on bank shots online to be… still in high school?"

"Something like that," Kaizer mumbled evasively, feeling his cheeks flush slightly. "Been playing a long time, though. Learned from… family." Another half-truth.

Frank just chuckled. "Hey, talent's talent, doesn't matter how old you are. Glad those bank shot tips worked out for CueBallWizard, by the way. Good stuff." He walked over to a corner where a couple of cue cases leaned against the wall. He picked up a simple, black hard-sided case. "So, the McDermott D-17. Right here."

He laid the case on a coffee table and opened it. Nestled inside on worn padding lay the cue. Kaizer's breath caught. It was exactly as described online – a classic 'sneaky pete' design, appearing like a simple house cue but made with quality maple, four dark points rising into the forearm, no flashy inlays, just clean lines. It spoke of function over form, a player's cue.

"Go ahead, check it out," Frank invited.

Kaizer carefully lifted the two pieces from the case. The balance felt immediately better than his cheap maple stick, more solid, more centered. He screwed the joint together – it turned smoothly, mating perfectly flush. He sighted down the shaft – perfectly straight. He ran his fingers along the maple; it was smooth, well-maintained, apart from the slight cosmetic chip Frank had mentioned near the butt cap, barely noticeable. He estimated the weight – felt like the 19oz Frank had guessed, a comfortable weight for him. The tip looked decent, maybe a standard Le Pro, recently shaped.

It wasn't a high-end custom cue from his later years, not by a long shot. But compared to the warped house cues and his own flimsy stick, this felt like a surgical instrument. This was a cue he could work with. This was a cue that could give him a fighting chance tomorrow.

"It's good," Kaizer said, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Feels straight, nice balance."

"Yeah, she served me well," Frank said with a touch of nostalgia. "Just upgraded to something with a lower deflection shaft, trying out that new tech everyone's talking about." He shrugged. "Hundred bucks, like we agreed?"

"Yeah, definitely," Kaizer confirmed. He reached into his backpack, pulled out the wad of bills, and carefully counted out five twenty-dollar bills. He handed them to Frank.

Frank took the cash, counted it quickly, and nodded. "Pleasure doing business with you, GhostCue… I mean, Kaizer." He smiled. "You playing in that junior tournament over at Rack 'em Up tomorrow?"

Kaizer looked up, surprised again. "Yeah, I am. How'd you know?"

"Word gets around, even on the BBSes," Frank chuckled. "Heard Mel's hosting it. Heard Riley's kid is the one to beat. You give him a run for his money with this." He tapped the McDermott. "It's got more magic left in it."

"Hope so," Kaizer said, carefully breaking the cue down and placing it into the case Frank had included. "Thanks again, Frank. For holding it, and for the deal."

"No problem. Always happy to see a good cue go to someone who appreciates it, regardless of age," Frank said sincerely. "Good luck tomorrow. Maybe I'll read about GhostCue taking down the competition on the forums next week." He winked.

Kaizer managed a small smile, slinging the cue case over his shoulder. The weight felt good, solid, real. "Maybe," he replied, heading for the door.

The journey back felt different. Lighter, despite the added weight of the cue case. He had the tool. He had the entry. All the pieces were in place. Now it was just down to execution. The bus ride seemed quicker this time, fueled by anticipation rather than anxiety.

He got home late, well after dinner. His parents were watching TV in the living room.

"Kaizer? That you? Where have you been?" his mother called out, her voice laced with concern.

He froze in the hallway, the cue case suddenly feeling heavy and conspicuous. "Uh… yeah, Mom. Just… library," he stammered, the lie tasting particularly stale tonight. "Lost track of time working on a big project."

"Library?" his father's voice questioned from the living room, suspicion evident. "This late? On a Friday?"

"Big project," Kaizer repeated, already backing towards the stairs. "Really gotta finish it. See you in the morning!" He practically sprinted up the stairs before they could interrogate him further, ignoring their calls behind him.

He closed his bedroom door, leaning against it, heart pounding. That was close. Too close. He needed to be more careful. But the immediate priority was the cue.

He laid the case on his bed and opened it again, lifting the pieces out under the glow of his desk lamp. He assembled it, feeling the smooth connection of the joint, the solid balance in his hands. He took a few slow, careful practice strokes in the cramped space of his room.

It felt… right. So much better than the cheap maple stick. Solid, responsive, true. It felt like an extension of his intention, amplifying his control rather than hindering it. He could feel the potential humming within the wood.

But he also felt the lack of time. It was late Friday night. The tournament started tomorrow morning. He had maybe twelve hours, most of which would be spent sleeping (if he could sleep), with zero chance for actual table practice with this new cue before walking into Rack 'em Up for the first match. He'd be going in cold, relying on decades of ingrained feel adapting instantly to unfamiliar equipment under tournament pressure.

It wasn't ideal. It wasn't even close to ideal. But holding the McDermott, feeling its potential, Kaizer felt a surge of defiant confidence. It would have to be enough. He was Kaizer Saint, after all. Adapting under pressure was what he did best. Tomorrow, the real game began.