My grandfather died in February, and he left me five dollars. That's not a metaphor. That's not me being poetic about inheritance. He literally left me five dollars, in an envelope, with my name on it in his shaky old-man handwriting, and when my mother handed it to me at the reception after the funeral, I laughed so hard I had to excuse myself to the bathroom. Everyone thought I was crying. I was. But I was also laughing, because that was exactly the kind of thing my grandfather would do. He was a practical man. A man who fixed his own plumbing and grew his own tomatoes and thought that most of the problems in the world could be solved with a good pair of work boots and a willingness to get your hands dirty. He was not a sentimental man. He did not believe in grand gestures. And yet, in that envelope, tucked behind the five-dollar bill, there was a small piece of paper with three words written on it. "Try your luck."
I was thirty-four years old when he died. I was working a job I didn't love, living in an apartment I didn't love, dating people I didn't love, and generally feeling like I was waiting for my actual life to start. My grandfather, on the other hand, had lived. He'd been a merchant marine. He'd traveled to forty-three countries. He'd been married for fifty-two years to a woman he still called "my bride" until the day she died. He'd built a house with his own hands. He'd seen things. And here he was, reaching out from beyond the grave, telling me to try my luck. I kept that five-dollar bill in my wallet for months. I couldn't spend it. I couldn't do anything with it. It just sat there, a little green rectangle of guilt and mystery.
Then one night in April, I couldn't sleep. I was lying in bed at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, thinking about my grandfather and about how I hadn't done anything with my life and about how maybe I never would. And I remembered the five dollars. And I remembered the note. And I thought, well, what the hell. What's the worst that could happen? So I got up, made myself a cup of tea, and sat down on my couch with my phone. I'd heard about online casinos, obviously. Everyone has. But I'd never tried one. I'd always thought of them as something for other people. People who were reckless. People who were bored. People who weren't me.
But that night, I downloaded the
https://vavada.uk/uz vavada app, mostly because it was the first thing that came up and I was too tired to do research, and I made an account, and I deposited five dollars. Exactly five dollars. Not a penny more. Because this wasn't about gambling. This was about my grandfather. This was about doing something with the gift he'd given me. This was about trying my luck, the way he'd told me to.
The first thing I noticed was how easy it was. I don't mean that in a dangerous way. I mean that the app was clean and simple and didn't make me feel like an idiot. I found a slot game with a fishing theme, which made me think of my grandfather, because he used to take me fishing when I was a kid. We'd sit on the edge of a lake for hours, not catching anything, and he'd tell me stories about the sea. I bet ten cents a spin. Ten cents. I was not trying to win money. I was trying to feel close to him. And for about twenty minutes, I did. I sat there on my couch, sipping tea, spinning the reels, remembering the way he used to bait my hook for me because I was too squeamish to touch the worms. I remembered the smell of his old truck. I remembered the way he'd say "patience, kiddo" whenever I got restless.
And then, on a spin I almost didn't notice, the screen lit up. Three fish. Then four. Then five. Then a bonus round I didn't understand, which led to another bonus round I understood even less, which led to a number on my screen that made me put down my tea and pick up my phone and hold it very close to my face. Two hundred and eighty-seven dollars. From five dollars. From ten-cent spins. From a fishing game I'd chosen because it reminded me of my dead grandfather.
I didn't sleep that night. I couldn't. I just sat there, replaying the moment, wondering if I'd imagined it. The vavada app kept showing me the number, so I knew it was real, but it didn't feel real. It felt like something my grandfather had arranged. Like he'd reached down from wherever he was and said, "See? I told you. Try your luck." I know that sounds crazy. I know that's the kind of thing people say when they win something and they want it to mean more than it does. But I don't care. That's how it felt. And I've decided that's how I'm going to remember it.
The next morning, I called my mother and told her what happened. She was quiet for a long time, and then she said, "Your grandfather used to play the lottery every week. Did you know that?" I didn't know that. She told me he'd buy one ticket every Friday, and he'd never win anything, and he'd never seem disappointed. He'd just say, "Well, there's always next week." And he'd keep the ticket in his wallet until it expired, and then he'd throw it away and buy another one. He did this for forty years. Forty years of losing. Forty years of trying his luck anyway. And I realized, sitting there on the phone with my mother, that the five dollars wasn't about the money. It never was. It was about the trying. It was about the refusal to give up on the possibility that something good might happen.
I didn't cash out right away. I played for a few more weeks, on and off, always on the vavada app, always with small bets, always with that fishing game. I won some. I lost some. I went up and down and around. And the whole time, I felt like I was spending time with my grandfather. I know how that sounds. I know it's weird. But grief is weird. Grief makes you do strange things. Grief made me download a casino app and play a fishing slot game at two in the morning, and I'm not ashamed of that. I'm grateful for it. Because it gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping away.
Eventually, I cashed out at four hundred and twelve dollars. I used some of it to buy a proper fishing rod, because I'd decided I wanted to start fishing again, for real, in actual lakes, with actual worms. I used some of it to buy my mother dinner at a nice restaurant, and we talked about my grandfather for three hours, and we laughed, and we cried, and it was one of the best nights I've had in years. And I kept five dollars in my wallet, just like before. I still have it. I'll probably always have it. It's not about the money. It never was.
The thing about luck is that it's not really about winning. My grandfather knew that. He bought lottery tickets for forty years and never won a thing, and he still believed in luck. He still believed that the next ticket might be the one. He still believed that trying was worth something, even if you failed. And I think that's what he was trying to tell me with that envelope. Not "go gamble." Not "get rich." Just "don't give up." Don't stop trying. Don't stop hoping. Don't stop believing that something good might be waiting around the corner. Because sometimes it is. Sometimes it's a fishing game on a casino app at two in the morning. Sometimes it's a memory of a lake and a worm and an old man saying "patience, kiddo." Sometimes it's five dollars that turns into four hundred and twelve, and sometimes it's just five dollars that reminds you that you're still here, and that's enough.
Twitter
Tumblr
Newsletter