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The Waiting Room
I hate waiting rooms. The chairs are always uncomfortable. The magazines are always three years old. The clock on the wall moves slower than any other clock in existence. But there I was. A Thursday afternoon. My car was in the shop for an oil change and something they called “a slight shudder in the transmission.” The shudder was going to take two hours. The waiting room had six chairs, a coffee maker with no coffee, and a TV playing a home renovation show I didn’t care about.
I was the only person there. Just me, the ticking clock, and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights. I pulled out my phone. Scrolled through the usual apps. Nothing held my attention. I was bored in that deep, restless way where you’d rather do anything than sit still, but you have no choice but to sit still.
I opened my browser. Started typing random things. Nothing specific. Just killing time. At some point, I landed on a casino site I’d heard about. I’d never played there. Didn’t have an account. But the layout was clean. The colors were inviting. I sat there for a minute, looking at the lobby, listening to the home renovation show in the background.
I decided to sign up on the Vavada casino site. Why not? I had two hours. I had forty dollars in a Venmo account from selling an old jacket. Money I hadn’t budgeted for anything. Money that was just sitting there.
The registration took two minutes. Email. Password. A few details. I deposited the forty dollars. The balance appeared on the screen. Forty dollars. Waiting room money. Entertainment budget.
I started with slots. Something mindless. Something I could play while half-watching the TV. I spun at fifty cents a spin. Lost a few. Won a few. The balance stayed around forty. I wasn’t winning. I wasn’t really losing. I was just existing in the space between boredom and distraction.
After ten minutes, I switched to blackjack. I like the control. The decisions. The rhythm. I found a live table with a dealer who had a calm voice and a slow way of dealing. Perfect for a waiting room. No pressure. No rush. I bet ten dollars. Won. Balance hit forty-five. Bet ten. Lost. Back to thirty-five. Bet ten. Won. Back to forty-five.
I was hovering. The dealer was patient. The cards were fair. I played for another ten minutes. The balance crept to fifty-five. I was up fifteen dollars. The home renovation show ended. A news program started. Something about local politics. I didn’t listen. I was watching the cards.
I bet fifteen. Dealer showed a five. I had a king and a seven. Seventeen. I stood. Dealer flipped a nine. Fourteen. Drew a ten. Twenty-four. Bust. I won. Balance hit seventy.
I was up thirty dollars. The waiting room was still empty. The clock was still slow. My car was still somewhere in the garage, getting its transmission un-shuddered. I kept playing. Bet fifteen. Dealer showed a three. I had a pair of eights. Sixteen. I hit. Got a three. Nineteen. I stood. Dealer flipped a ten. Thirteen. Drew a king. Twenty-three. Bust. I won. Balance hit eighty-five.
I was on a run. Not a lucky run. A clean run. Smart decisions. Good cards. The dealer was calm. I was calm. The waiting room felt less like a prison and more like a place I chose to be.
I bet twenty. Dealer showed a six. I had a ten and a six. Sixteen. I stood. Dealer flipped a queen. Sixteen. Drew a five. Twenty-one. I lost. Balance dropped to sixty-five.
I bet twenty again. Dealer showed a four. I had a jack and a seven. Seventeen. I stood. Dealer flipped a ten. Fourteen. Drew a seven. Twenty-one. I lost again. Balance dropped to forty-five.
I was back where I started. Up five dollars. The run was over. The dealer’s voice was still calm. The cards were still fair. But the momentum had shifted. I could feel it. I bet fifteen. Dealer showed a seven. I had a nine and a two. Eleven. I doubled down. Put thirty on the table. Got a queen. Twenty-one. Dealer flipped a ten. Seventeen. Drew a three. Twenty. I won. Balance hit sixty.
I was up twenty dollars. Not a fortune. But something. The waiting room door opened. A guy came in with a coffee and sat down. The news program was still playing. My car was probably almost ready.
I closed the game. I went to the cashier page. I confirmed the withdrawal. Sixty dollars. Twenty more than I came with. I closed the browser. Put my phone in my pocket. Sat there for a minute, listening to the news, watching the clock. It was still slow. But it didn’t feel as heavy.
The guy with the coffee asked if I knew what time the shop closed. I told him I didn’t. He nodded. We sat in silence. It was fine. The waiting room was still a waiting room. But I had a small win in my pocket. A secret. A Thursday afternoon that turned into something better than I expected.
The mechanic called my name twenty minutes later. The car was ready. The oil was changed. The shudder was fixed. I paid. Drove home. The drive was quiet. The sun was setting. I thought about the dealer with the calm voice. The doubledown that worked. The two losses that told me it was time to go.
I used the twenty dollars to buy gas. Not exciting. But practical. Every time I filled up that week, I thought about the waiting room. The empty chairs. The home renovation show. The sixty dollars that came from forty and a couple hours of nothing.
I haven’t played since. I don’t plan to. That afternoon was specific. A car repair. A waiting room. A run of cards that went just right. I know better than to chase it. Some things are meant to be moments. You take the win. You buy the gas. You remember the feeling.
The sign up on the Vavada casino site registration is still active. I don’t use it. I don’t need to. I had my afternoon. A slow clock. A calm dealer. A clean exit. That’s the part I’m proud of. Not the twenty dollars. The knowing when to close the app. When to put the phone in your pocket. When to sit in the waiting room and wait for your car and feel like you did something right.
I still go to that shop for oil changes. The waiting room hasn’t changed. Same chairs. Same magazines. Same slow clock. But every time I sit there, I smile. I think about that Thursday. The cards. The doubledown. The small win that made a boring afternoon into something I still remember. And I hope the transmission doesn’t shudder again. But if it does, I’ll be ready. I know how to wait now. And I know when to walk away.
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