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There's a special kind of humiliation that comes with being laid off from a job you were overqualified for. I had spent seven years earning my mechanical engineering degree, pulling all-nighters in the library, surviving on caffeine and sheer determination, only to graduate into a recession that made my degree feel about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. The only job I could find was at a small manufacturing plant, nothing close to engineering, just overseeing quality control on an assembly line. It paid the bills, barely, and I told myself it was temporary, just until the economy turned around and I could find something that actually used my education. That temporary job lasted three years, and then they eliminated my position entirely, a cost-cutting measure that left me with a severance check and a profound sense of failure.
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After about two weeks of playing for free, I decided to take a small risk. I deposited twenty dollars, money I really couldn't afford to lose, but I told myself it was the equivalent of a movie ticket, entertainment I was paying for. I chose a game I had gotten good at during my free play, a video poker variant that rewarded strategy as much as luck. I played slowly, carefully, making smart decisions based on the odds. The twenty dollars lasted me several hours, and by the end, I had turned it into thirty-five. It wasn't a fortune, but it was proof that I could win, that my brain still worked, that I wasn't completely helpless. I withdrew my original twenty and kept playing with the fifteen in winnings, telling myself it was house money and I could afford to be a little reckless.
That recklessness paid off in a way I never could have predicted. I switched to a progressive jackpot slot, one I had played for free many times, and I started spinning with small bets. The jackpot at the top of the screen was enormous, over a hundred thousand dollars, and I knew my chances of hitting it were minuscule, but it was fun to dream. I spun for maybe twenty minutes, losing small amounts, when the screen suddenly went dark. For a second, I thought my laptop had crashed, but then the music started, a dramatic orchestral swell, and the screen lit up with animations I had never seen before. I had triggered the super bonus round, the one that only happens once in a million spins, and my heart started pounding so hard I could feel it in my temples.
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It took another six months, but I finally found an engineering position, a good one, at a company that valued my skills and paid me what I was worth. I walked into that job with my head held high, knowing that I wasn't desperate, that I could afford to be patient and selective. Every time I walk past the manufacturing plant where I used to work, the place that laid me off and made me feel like a failure, I smile a little. I think about that night, about the treasure chests and the confetti and the number on the screen. I think about the vavada gaming site that gave me an escape when I needed one and ended up giving me so much more. I still play sometimes, just for fun, a few spins on a slot or a hand of video poker. It's a reminder that life can turn on a dime, that the worst moments can be followed by the best, that sometimes, when you least expect it, the universe decides to cut you a break.