I work overnights at a gas station. Not because I love the hours—nobody loves 10 PM to 6 AM. But because the shift differential adds two dollars an hour, and two dollars an hour is the difference between affording my son’s asthma medication and playing math games at the pharmacy counter.
My name is Leo. I’m thirty-four. I’ve been working the graveyard shift for eleven months, and in that time I’ve seen approximately three interesting things happen. A guy tried to pay for taquitos with a handful of loose batteries. A raccoon got stuck in the dumpster and I had to call animal control. And last Tuesday, a woman in a wedding dress bought a single banana at 3 AM and cried in the parking lot for twenty minutes.
Most nights are just silence and the hum of the cooler and the same eight songs on the store’s ancient radio.
That particular night started like every other. I mopped the floors. I stocked the cigarettes. I watched a man in a pickup truck circle the parking lot three times before deciding not to come in. My phone battery was at twelve percent. My back hurt from standing on concrete for six hours. And I was thinking about rent—specifically the three hundred dollars I was short because my hours got cut the week my son had pneumonia and I stayed home for four days.
No sick days. No pity from the landlord. Just a note taped to my door that said "Late fee applies after the 5th."
I pulled out my phone during the slow stretch—usually between 2 AM and 4 AM, when even the drunks have gone home and the early birds haven't woken up yet. I wasn't looking for anything specific. Just scrolling. Distracting. A buddy from high school had posted something about a "nice little hit" earlier that week, and I remembered him being the most careful spender I knew. Guy used coupons for everything. If he was playing, it couldn't be that dangerous.
I found the site he mentioned. Simple layout. No flashing nonsense. I poked around for a minute, then typed in my email and clicked through the registration. Within thirty seconds, I was logged into vavada and staring at a wall of games I'd never heard of.
I didn't deposit anything at first. I just watched. There was a game with fruit, a game with pirates, a game with some sort of Egyptian theme that looked like a movie poster from the 90s. I almost closed the app twice. This felt stupid. I was a thirty-four-year-old gas station clerk with calloused hands and a kid who needed breathing treatments. I wasn't a gambler.
But I was tired. And tired makes you do things you wouldn't do at noon.
I deposited five dollars. That's it. Five. The cost of a sandwich I wouldn't eat. I told myself if I lost it in two minutes, I'd go back to mopping and forget the whole thing.
I picked a game called "Book of Ra." Old school. Simple. Three reels. I set my bet to ten cents a spin. Fifty spins. Enough to kill twenty minutes. I spun once. Lost. Twice. Lost. Ten times. Lost eight, won two tiny crumbs. My balance dropped to three dollars and change.
I kept spinning. Fifteen spins in, I hit a small combo—three ankh symbols. Won two dollars. Balance back to five. Eighteen spins in, another small win. Balance at six. Twenty-two spins in, the screen flickered and a book symbol appeared on the first, third, and fifth reels. A bonus round triggered. Ten free spins with an expanding symbol.
I didn't understand the mechanic. Still don't, honestly. But I watched as the free spins played automatically. First spin: nothing. Second: a small win. Third: the expanding symbol—some kind of scarab beetle—stretched across the middle reel. The multiplier climbed. Fourth spin: twelve dollars. Fifth spin: eighteen. Sixth spin: the beetle expanded again, this time across two reels. My balance jumped from forty dollars to ninety-three in a single breath.
I actually laughed. A real laugh. The kind that echoes in an empty gas station and makes you feel slightly insane.
Seventh spin:
My name is Leo. I’m thirty-four. I’ve been working the graveyard shift for eleven months, and in that time I’ve seen approximately three interesting things happen. A guy tried to pay for taquitos with a handful of loose batteries. A raccoon got stuck in the dumpster and I had to call animal control. And last Tuesday, a woman in a wedding dress bought a single banana at 3 AM and cried in the parking lot for twenty minutes.
Most nights are just silence and the hum of the cooler and the same eight songs on the store’s ancient radio.
That particular night started like every other. I mopped the floors. I stocked the cigarettes. I watched a man in a pickup truck circle the parking lot three times before deciding not to come in. My phone battery was at twelve percent. My back hurt from standing on concrete for six hours. And I was thinking about rent—specifically the three hundred dollars I was short because my hours got cut the week my son had pneumonia and I stayed home for four days.
No sick days. No pity from the landlord. Just a note taped to my door that said "Late fee applies after the 5th."
I pulled out my phone during the slow stretch—usually between 2 AM and 4 AM, when even the drunks have gone home and the early birds haven't woken up yet. I wasn't looking for anything specific. Just scrolling. Distracting. A buddy from high school had posted something about a "nice little hit" earlier that week, and I remembered him being the most careful spender I knew. Guy used coupons for everything. If he was playing, it couldn't be that dangerous.
I found the site he mentioned. Simple layout. No flashing nonsense. I poked around for a minute, then typed in my email and clicked through the registration. Within thirty seconds, I was logged into vavada and staring at a wall of games I'd never heard of.
I didn't deposit anything at first. I just watched. There was a game with fruit, a game with pirates, a game with some sort of Egyptian theme that looked like a movie poster from the 90s. I almost closed the app twice. This felt stupid. I was a thirty-four-year-old gas station clerk with calloused hands and a kid who needed breathing treatments. I wasn't a gambler.
But I was tired. And tired makes you do things you wouldn't do at noon.
I deposited five dollars. That's it. Five. The cost of a sandwich I wouldn't eat. I told myself if I lost it in two minutes, I'd go back to mopping and forget the whole thing.
I picked a game called "Book of Ra." Old school. Simple. Three reels. I set my bet to ten cents a spin. Fifty spins. Enough to kill twenty minutes. I spun once. Lost. Twice. Lost. Ten times. Lost eight, won two tiny crumbs. My balance dropped to three dollars and change.
I kept spinning. Fifteen spins in, I hit a small combo—three ankh symbols. Won two dollars. Balance back to five. Eighteen spins in, another small win. Balance at six. Twenty-two spins in, the screen flickered and a book symbol appeared on the first, third, and fifth reels. A bonus round triggered. Ten free spins with an expanding symbol.
I didn't understand the mechanic. Still don't, honestly. But I watched as the free spins played automatically. First spin: nothing. Second: a small win. Third: the expanding symbol—some kind of scarab beetle—stretched across the middle reel. The multiplier climbed. Fourth spin: twelve dollars. Fifth spin: eighteen. Sixth spin: the beetle expanded again, this time across two reels. My balance jumped from forty dollars to ninety-three in a single breath.
I actually laughed. A real laugh. The kind that echoes in an empty gas station and makes you feel slightly insane.
Seventh spin:
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