Friday night, 8 PM, and I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot of a grocery store, watching people load their trunks with bags of food and thinking about how I have seventeen dollars in my bank account until Tuesday. Seventeen dollars. That’s not “watch a movie” money. That’s not “grab a burger” money. That’s “buy a loaf of bread and hope it lasts” money.
The worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself. Two weeks ago, I had a perfectly good emergency fund. Three thousand dollars, saved over two years of careful budgeting, sitting in an account labeled “DO NOT TOUCH” in all caps. Then my check engine light came on, and my mechanic used words like “catalytic converter” and “unfortunately,” and suddenly my emergency fund was no longer an emergency fund. It was a car repair receipt.
So here I am, Friday night, broke and bored and too proud to call my friends and say “hey, can we do something that doesn’t cost money?” I’d rather sit in a parking lot and pretend I have plans than admit I have seventeen dollars.
I work at a coffee shop. Not the fancy kind with latte art and organic beans, the kind that’s always slightly dirty and sells lottery tickets behind the counter. My shift starts at 5 AM tomorrow, which means I should be home, asleep, preparing for the early wake-up. But my apartment feels small when I’m broke, like the walls get closer when my bank account gets lower. So I sit in my car, watch people buy groceries, and try not to think about it.
My phone buzzes. It’s my friend Marcus.
“You coming tonight?” he texts.
I’d forgotten. Marcus’s birthday party, some bar in the city, everyone’s going. I’d RSVP’d yes two weeks ago, back when I had money and plans and a functioning social life.
“Can’t,” I type back. “Work early.”
The lie sits in my throat even though I only typed it. I hate lying to Marcus. He’s the kind of friend who’d spot me money without blinking, who’d insist on covering my tab, who’d make me feel worse by being nice about it. Better to just not go.
I start scrolling through my phone, killing time until I feel less pathetic. Social media is a mistake—everyone’s at dinner, at bars, at parties, living lives that cost money. I switch to news, but it’s all bad. I switch to games, but I’m not in the mood.
And then I see the ad.
It’s for an online casino, which is weird because I don’t think I’ve ever clicked on a gambling ad in my life. But there it is, a video of someone spinning a slot machine and winning big, with text overlay that says “Maybe tonight’s your night.”
I almost scroll past. I really do. But then I think about the seventeen dollars. Seventeen dollars can’t do much. Seventeen dollars can buy a few gallons of gas, or a mediocre meal, or maybe one drink at Marcus’s bar if I nurse it all night. But seventeen dollars could also, theoretically, buy a chance at something more.
It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. But I’m sitting in a parking lot on a Friday night with nowhere to go and no one to see, and stupid feels better than nothing.
I click the ad.
The site loads slowly on my phone’s spotty connection, but eventually I’m looking at a lobby full of games. Slots with every theme imaginable—ancient Egypt, outer space, underwater adventures. Table games I don’t understand. Live dealers dealing real cards to real people somewhere in the world.
I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know where to start. I click on a slot game that looks simple, just reels and symbols and a big spin button. The game loads, but then it freezes. Just sits there, mocking me. I try another. Same thing. I’m about to give up when I notice a small banner at the bottom of the screen: “Having trouble accessing our games? Click here for alternative access.”
I click it. It takes me to a different page, a different address, and suddenly I’m in. The game loads perfectly. I make a mental note: if I ever do this again, I’ll remember that sometimes you need to look for Vavada casino games through a different door.
I deposit fifteen dollars. I keep two in my bank account because I’m not a complete idiot. Fifteen dollars, fifteen spins if I bet a dollar each, fifteen chances at something better than sitting in a parking lot.
The first ten spins are nothing. Small wins here and there, my balance hovering between twelve and sixteen dollars. I’m not winning, but I’m not losing fast either. It’s entertainment. It’s something to do.
Spin eleven: nothing.
Spin twelve: nothing.
Spin thirteen: a small win, back to fourteen dollars.
Spin fourteen: nothing.
I have one spin left. One dollar, one chance, and then I’m done. I press the button without expecting anything.
The reels spin. They stop. And for a second, I don’t understand what I’m seeing.
Three symbols, lined up perfectly. Not just any symbols—the special ones, the ones the game calls “jackpot symbols.” The screen starts flashing, animations playing, numbers appearing. I watch, frozen, as my balance ticks up. Twenty dollars. Fifty. One hundred. Two hundred.
