Earning His Keep (And Table Time)

Tuesday afternoon crawled by with the same agonizing slowness as Monday, each minute feeling like an obstacle between Kaizer and his 3 PM start time at Rack 'em Up. School felt even more like a distant, irrelevant obligation now. The tournament victory, while satisfying, had only sharpened his hunger for improvement, for bridging the vast gap between his current abilities and the near-perfect execution he remembered from his peak. The McDermott cue, leaning innocuously in his locker, felt like a promise waiting to be fully unlocked, and that required hours upon hours of dedicated table time – something his upcoming shift with Mel represented, however conditionally.

He navigated the social landscape of Northwood High with continued caution. His conversation with Mark after school yesterday had eased the immediate tension, but Kaizer could still feel a subtle distance, a watchful curiosity in his friend's demeanor when they passed in the hallways or sat near each other during lunch. Mark didn't bring up GhostCue or pool again, sticking to safe topics like upcoming movie releases and comic book plotlines, but the unspoken questions lingered. Kaizer played along, forcing himself to engage, trying to rebuild the semblance of normalcy, but the effort felt draining. Maintaining the facade was becoming a significant part of his daily grind.

The rumors about his tournament win continued to circulate, though with less intensity now. He received a few more impressed nods, even a "Hey, Champ!" from a random upperclassman, which he deflected with an awkward shrug. He noticed Spike and Tank seemed to be actively avoiding him, disappearing quickly whenever he entered a room, which suited him just fine. He had bigger things to worry about than their bruised egos.

His main focus remained singular: getting to Rack 'em Up, starting his job, and hopefully, hopefully, getting some time on Table 6. He also had the looming task of more accounting work for his father tonight – Tom had been pleased with his Sunday efforts and had already set aside another box labeled "Operating Expenses." The five dollars an hour was crucial for rebuilding his savings (after depositing the prize money) and maybe eventually upgrading equipment further or covering future tournament entry fees, but the thought of deciphering more of Henderson Realty's financial mess after a shift at the pool hall filled him with a weary resignation. This second chance involved a lot more tedious labor than his first life ever did.

Finally, the last bell rang. Kaizer grabbed his backpack (containing the McDermott, carefully broken down) and practically ran out of the building, skipping the bus entirely and walking the familiar route to the pool hall at a brisk pace. He arrived ten minutes early, wanting to show Mel he was serious, punctual.

Rack 'em Up had its usual mid-afternoon quietude. Only a couple of tables were occupied by solitary regulars quietly practicing drills. Mel was behind the counter, reading a folded newspaper, looking as permanently unimpressed as ever. He glanced up as Kaizer entered, checked the clock on the wall, and gave a single, curt nod. No greeting, just acknowledgment of arrival.

"Alright, Saint," Mel grunted, folding his newspaper precisely. "Same routine as Thursday. Wipe down tables five and two – look clean but do 'em anyway. Check chalk. Sweep the area around the front tables. Empty the outside ashtray bin, looks full." He paused, then added, "League players start drifting in around five for practice. Make sure tables one through four are clean, racked, and ready for 'em by then. Don't want complaints."

"Got it, Mel," Kaizer confirmed, dropping his backpack behind the counter and retrieving the cleaning cart. He got to work immediately, moving with the quiet efficiency he'd established during his tryout. He wiped down the tables, refilled chalk holders, swept methodically, took the overflowing, disgusting ashtray bin out back. The tasks were mindless, repetitive, but Kaizer didn't allow himself to slack off. He knew Mel was watching, assessing. Every cleanly wiped rail, every tightly racked set of balls, was an investment in potential practice time later.

As he worked, he let his pool mind roam free. He analyzed the stroke of the regular practicing on Table 8, noting a slight timing flaw in his draw shot. He observed the way the sunlight slanted through the front windows at this time of day, calculating how the glare might affect shots on the tables near the entrance. He mentally ran pattern drills, visualizing the McDermott cue moving through the balls, the cue ball landing precisely time after time.

Around 4:15 PM, he finished the initial tasks. The front tables were gleaming, racked, and ready. The floor was clean. He checked back with Mel.

Mel surveyed the room, his critical eye finding no immediate fault. "Alright," he grunted. "Looks quiet for now. League guys won't be here for another half hour, forty-five minutes probably." He hesitated, then gave a almost imperceptible jerk of his chin towards the back of the hall. "Table six is open. Keep an ear out for customers. If someone comes wanting that table, you give it up immediately, understand? And if I need you for anything, you drop the stick and come running."

Kaizer felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated joy, quickly masked by a neutral expression. "Understood, Mel. Thanks."

He didn't waste a second. He retrieved his backpack, pulled out the McDermott case, and walked quickly but calmly back to Table 6. He assembled the cue, the smooth click of the joint locking into place feeling deeply satisfying. He took a moment just to hold it, feeling the balance, the solid weight, the potential.

He racked the balls himself, taking extra care to get them perfectly tight. No drills just yet. First, he needed to simply hit balls with this cue under non-tournament conditions, get a baseline feel, continue the calibration process he'd started on Saturday.

He executed a simple break shot, focusing on control rather than power. CRACK. Clean hit. One ball dropped. Cue ball rolled nicely into center. He surveyed the open layout.

He started pocketing balls, not worrying excessively about perfect position yet, just focusing on the feel of the cue striking the ball, the feedback traveling up the shaft into his hand. Stop shots felt crisp, the cue ball halting with minimal vibration. Follow shots were smooth, the cue generating easy roll with less effort than his old maple stick. Draw shots required a slightly different touch – the stiffer shaft seemed to demand a more precise hit point on the cue ball to generate maximum spin, but the result was more predictable, less likely to squirt offline.

He cleared the first rack, feeling a growing sense of connection with the cue. It wasn't just a tool; it felt like a partner, responding accurately to his input. He racked again, this time focusing on positional drills. A simple follow drill: pocket the object ball, follow the cue ball forward two diamonds. A draw drill: pocket the object ball, draw the cue ball straight back three diamonds. A stun-across drill: pocket the object ball, stun the cue ball directly sideways across the table.

He worked through the drills methodically, repeating each one until the cue ball landed consistently within the target zone. He noted the subtle adjustments needed – slightly less power on follow, a cleaner hit for maximum draw. The McDermott was less forgiving of sloppy mechanics than his old cue, demanding precision, but rewarding it with far greater accuracy and control.

He lost track of time, completely absorbed in the familiar, comforting rhythm of practice. The feel of the chalk on his fingers, the sight of the balls rolling true across the green felt, the satisfying thump as they dropped into the pockets – it felt like coming home. This was where he belonged. Not buried in invoices, not navigating teenage social anxieties, but here, solving the endless geometric puzzles presented by the table.

He was deep into practicing tricky bank shots – visualizing the contact points, experimenting with different speeds and spins – when Mel's voice cut through his concentration.

"Saint! Front counter!"

Kaizer immediately stopped mid-stroke, laying the cue carefully on the rail. He glanced at the clock – nearly 5:30 PM. The league players must be arriving. He walked quickly towards the counter.

"Guy wants to rent table six," Mel said, nodding towards a burly man in a bowling-style league shirt holding a fancy cue case.

"No problem," Kaizer said, suppressing a sigh of disappointment at the interrupted practice. He grabbed a set of rental balls and the timer. Work came first. He handed them to the league player, who grunted thanks and headed back towards the table Kaizer had just vacated.

So much for extended practice tonight. He'd gotten maybe forty-five minutes of solid table time. Better than nothing, far better, but nowhere near the hours he truly needed.

He spent the next hour and a half helping Mel manage the influx of league players. Assigning tables, providing racks, wiping down tables as matches finished, fetching drinks (sodas and water, Mel didn't serve alcohol) from the small cooler behind the counter. He moved quickly, efficiently, staying out of the way but keeping the tables running smoothly.

He watched the league players when he could. The skill level varied wildly. Some were clearly serious players, with smooth strokes and smart strategies. Others were more casual, inconsistent, prone to errors. He filed away mental notes, recognizing styles, identifying strengths and weaknesses. Even watching others play was a form of learning, keeping his analytical mind sharp.

He saw Spike and Tank come in, presumably for their league night, looking less confident now amidst the more experienced players. They avoided eye contact with Kaizer as he efficiently wiped down their assigned table.

Around 7:00 PM, Mel gave him the nod. "Alright, Saint. Looks like things are handled here. You can knock off for the night." He reached into the register and pulled out some cash. He counted out seventeen dollars. "Two hours today, four yesterday helping your Dad... wait, no, that was Monday. Tryout Tuesday was two hours. So, two hours today. Here's... call it ten bucks even for today." He handed Kaizer a ten-dollar bill. (Minimum wage complexities and exact hour tracking weren't Mel's strong suit, apparently, but rounding up slightly seemed fair).

"Thanks, Mel," Kaizer said, taking the ten dollars. Added to the seventy-eight he had, that made eighty-eight. Twelve dollars short for the cue now? No, wait, the math was still off somewhere. Focus, Kaizer. He had exactly $100 after getting paid by his dad Tuesday night. This $10 was extra. So he now had $110. Enough for the cue, plus ten bucks leftover. Okay. That felt better.

"See ya Thursday?" Kaizer asked, packing his cue.

"Three sharp," Mel confirmed, already turning his attention to a flickering fluorescent light overhead.

Kaizer headed home, the ten dollars feeling like a bonus on top of the successful practice session. He still needed to arrange the cue pickup with PoolShark88 for Friday, but the financial pressure was completely gone now. He had the money. He had the job. He had access, however limited, to practice time.

He still had the Henderson Realty invoices waiting for him, a project for his father he felt obligated (and slightly motivated by their improving dynamic) to continue. He still had Mark's lingering suspicions to manage. He still had Jesse Riley to worry about in future tournaments. And he still had the phantom threat of Vince lurking somewhere.

But tonight, walking home under the cool autumn stars, the solid weight of the McDermott cue case reassuring on his shoulder, Kaizer felt a sense of grounded optimism he hadn't experienced before in this second life. He was earning his keep, honing his craft, taking control. The path ahead was long, but for the first time, it felt entirely his own.