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I got laid off on a Tuesday. Not the dramatic kind of layoff where they call you into a conference room and a security guard walks you out. The quiet kind. An email. Sent at 9:17 AM to fifteen people in the marketing department. "Due to restructuring, your position has been eliminated." The email came from HR. The HR person was someone I had never met. She worked in a different state. I sat at my desk. I read the email three times. I looked at the people around me. Some of them were reading the same email. Some of them were crying. Some of them were packing boxes.
I worked at a tech company. A startup that had become a mid-size company that was now becoming a smaller company. I had been there for four years. Four years of late nights. Four years of missed birthdays. Four years of telling myself that the stock options would be worth something someday. The stock options were worth nothing. The company was worth less. I was worth nothing. I packed my desk. A coffee mug. A photo of my dog. A plant that was already dying. I walked out. No security guard. Just me and the dying plant and the coffee mug with a logo that didn't mean anything anymore.
I drove home. I sat on my couch. My dog, a terrier mix named Olive, sat next to me. She didn't know I had been laid off. She just knew I was home in the middle of the day. She was happy. I was not. I did the math. I had three months of savings. Three months of rent. Three months of groceries. Three months of dog food. Three months to find a new job. Three months before I lost everything.
I applied for jobs. I updated my resume. I sent it to fifty companies. Ten companies. One company. I heard nothing. I sent it to fifty more. I heard nothing. I sat on my couch. I watched TV. I walked Olive. I applied for more jobs. I heard nothing. The first month passed. The second month passed. My savings were shrinking. I stopped buying coffee. I stopped buying anything. I ate rice. I ate beans. Olive ate the same dog food she had always eaten. I made sure of that.
On the first day of the third month, I woke up and checked my email. Nothing. I checked my bank account. Eight hundred dollars. That was it. Eight hundred dollars for rent. For groceries. For dog food. For everything. I sat on my couch. Olive sat next to me. She put her head on my knee. I scratched her ears. I thought about the email. The HR person I had never met. The stock options that were worth nothing. The four years I had given to a company that eliminated my position in a sentence.
I opened my laptop. I didn't know what I was looking for. A job. A sign. A miracle. I scrolled through job listings. The same listings I had seen for two months. I closed the browser. I opened it again. I had a bookmark I'd saved a long time ago. I don't remember saving it. I don't remember why. I clicked it. The site loaded. I looked at it for a while. I had never gambled before. Not once. I had a friend in college who lost his tuition money playing poker. I had a coworker who talked about his sports bets like they were investments. I told myself I would never be that person. But I was sitting on my couch with eight hundred dollars and a dog who didn't know I was running out of time. I found a Vavada mirror link.
I deposited two hundred dollars. A quarter of what I had. Money that should have gone to rent. I told myself I'd play for an hour. I told myself I'd stop when I lost. I told myself a lot of things. I played blackjack. I knew the rules. I had read a book about probability once. I played slow. Twenty dollars a hand. I lost the first five. Down to a hundred. I lost another three. Down to forty. I was losing the way people lose when they're desperate. The way I was losing. Thinking about the email. Thinking about the eight hundred dollars. Thinking about the rent that was due in two weeks.
I was down to twenty dollars when I got a hand. A pair of eights against a dealer five. I split. First hand: a three. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. Second hand: a ten. Eighteen. The dealer turned over a ten. Fifteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-four. Bust. I won. My balance was sixty. I played another hand. Twenty dollars. I was dealt a nine and a two against a dealer four. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. The dealer turned over a ten. Fourteen. Drew a seven. Twenty-one. Push. I stayed at sixty. I played another hand. Forty dollars. I was dealt a natural blackjack against a dealer six. The dealer turned over a ten. Sixteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-five. Bust. I won. My balance was a hundred.
I was back. Not winning. Not losing. Just back. I played another hand. Fifty dollars. I was dealt a pair of nines against a dealer three. I split. First hand: a ten. Nineteen. Second hand: a ten. Nineteen. The dealer turned over a ten. Thirteen. Drew a ten. Twenty-three. Bust. I won. My balance was two hundred. I played another hand. A hundred dollars. I was dealt a seven and a four against a dealer two. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. The dealer turned over a ten. Twelve. Drew a ten. Twenty-two. Bust. I won. My balance was four hundred. I played another hand. Two hundred dollars. I was dealt a pair of tens against a dealer six. I stood. The dealer turned over a ten. Sixteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-five. Bust. I won. My balance was eight hundred. I played another hand. Four hundred dollars. I was dealt a nine and a two against a dealer five. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. The dealer turned over a ten. Fifteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-four. Bust. I won. My balance was sixteen hundred. I cashed out. Every cent. I closed the laptop. I sat on the couch. Olive put her head on my knee. I scratched her ears. I didn't move for a long time.
The money hit my account two days later. Sixteen hundred dollars. Not a fortune. But enough. Enough for rent. Enough for groceries. Enough for dog food. Enough for another month. I paid the rent. I bought groceries. I bought Olive a new toy. A squeaky thing shaped like a bone. She carried it around the apartment for a week. I applied for more jobs. I heard back from one. An interview. I went. I wore the suit I had worn to the startup four years ago. It still fit. I got the job. A marketing job. At a company that had been around for thirty years. A company that wasn't going anywhere. A company that sent layoff emails to no one.
I still play sometimes. Once a month. On the nights when I think about the email. The HR person I never met. The four years I gave to a company that gave me nothing. I find a Vavada mirror link. I deposit fifty dollars. I play blackjack. I lose most of the time. That's fine. That's what I expect. But sometimes I win. Not like that night. Small wins. A hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars. I cash out immediately. I use it for Olive. For her food. For her toys. For the vet bills that come when you love something that can't tell you where it hurts.
I think about that night sometimes. The couch. The dog. The eight hundred dollars. I think about the hand that brought me back. The run that came when I was down to nothing. I don't believe in luck. I believe in being there. In sitting on the couch when the world tells you to leave. In scratching the ears of a dog who doesn't know you're running out of time. In playing one more hand when the math says stop. In finding a link. A mirror. A way back. I have a job now. I have a paycheck. I have a dog who still puts her head on my knee when I sit on the couch. I have a story. A story about an email and a layoff and a night when I had nothing left. A story I don't tell. But I remember. I remember every time I see Olive's toy. The squeaky bone. The one I bought with money I didn't have. The one I have now. The one I'll always have.
I worked at a tech company. A startup that had become a mid-size company that was now becoming a smaller company. I had been there for four years. Four years of late nights. Four years of missed birthdays. Four years of telling myself that the stock options would be worth something someday. The stock options were worth nothing. The company was worth less. I was worth nothing. I packed my desk. A coffee mug. A photo of my dog. A plant that was already dying. I walked out. No security guard. Just me and the dying plant and the coffee mug with a logo that didn't mean anything anymore.
I drove home. I sat on my couch. My dog, a terrier mix named Olive, sat next to me. She didn't know I had been laid off. She just knew I was home in the middle of the day. She was happy. I was not. I did the math. I had three months of savings. Three months of rent. Three months of groceries. Three months of dog food. Three months to find a new job. Three months before I lost everything.
I applied for jobs. I updated my resume. I sent it to fifty companies. Ten companies. One company. I heard nothing. I sent it to fifty more. I heard nothing. I sat on my couch. I watched TV. I walked Olive. I applied for more jobs. I heard nothing. The first month passed. The second month passed. My savings were shrinking. I stopped buying coffee. I stopped buying anything. I ate rice. I ate beans. Olive ate the same dog food she had always eaten. I made sure of that.
On the first day of the third month, I woke up and checked my email. Nothing. I checked my bank account. Eight hundred dollars. That was it. Eight hundred dollars for rent. For groceries. For dog food. For everything. I sat on my couch. Olive sat next to me. She put her head on my knee. I scratched her ears. I thought about the email. The HR person I had never met. The stock options that were worth nothing. The four years I had given to a company that eliminated my position in a sentence.
I opened my laptop. I didn't know what I was looking for. A job. A sign. A miracle. I scrolled through job listings. The same listings I had seen for two months. I closed the browser. I opened it again. I had a bookmark I'd saved a long time ago. I don't remember saving it. I don't remember why. I clicked it. The site loaded. I looked at it for a while. I had never gambled before. Not once. I had a friend in college who lost his tuition money playing poker. I had a coworker who talked about his sports bets like they were investments. I told myself I would never be that person. But I was sitting on my couch with eight hundred dollars and a dog who didn't know I was running out of time. I found a Vavada mirror link.
I deposited two hundred dollars. A quarter of what I had. Money that should have gone to rent. I told myself I'd play for an hour. I told myself I'd stop when I lost. I told myself a lot of things. I played blackjack. I knew the rules. I had read a book about probability once. I played slow. Twenty dollars a hand. I lost the first five. Down to a hundred. I lost another three. Down to forty. I was losing the way people lose when they're desperate. The way I was losing. Thinking about the email. Thinking about the eight hundred dollars. Thinking about the rent that was due in two weeks.
I was down to twenty dollars when I got a hand. A pair of eights against a dealer five. I split. First hand: a three. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. Second hand: a ten. Eighteen. The dealer turned over a ten. Fifteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-four. Bust. I won. My balance was sixty. I played another hand. Twenty dollars. I was dealt a nine and a two against a dealer four. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. The dealer turned over a ten. Fourteen. Drew a seven. Twenty-one. Push. I stayed at sixty. I played another hand. Forty dollars. I was dealt a natural blackjack against a dealer six. The dealer turned over a ten. Sixteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-five. Bust. I won. My balance was a hundred.
I was back. Not winning. Not losing. Just back. I played another hand. Fifty dollars. I was dealt a pair of nines against a dealer three. I split. First hand: a ten. Nineteen. Second hand: a ten. Nineteen. The dealer turned over a ten. Thirteen. Drew a ten. Twenty-three. Bust. I won. My balance was two hundred. I played another hand. A hundred dollars. I was dealt a seven and a four against a dealer two. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. The dealer turned over a ten. Twelve. Drew a ten. Twenty-two. Bust. I won. My balance was four hundred. I played another hand. Two hundred dollars. I was dealt a pair of tens against a dealer six. I stood. The dealer turned over a ten. Sixteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-five. Bust. I won. My balance was eight hundred. I played another hand. Four hundred dollars. I was dealt a nine and a two against a dealer five. Eleven. I doubled. Got a ten. Twenty-one. The dealer turned over a ten. Fifteen. Drew a nine. Twenty-four. Bust. I won. My balance was sixteen hundred. I cashed out. Every cent. I closed the laptop. I sat on the couch. Olive put her head on my knee. I scratched her ears. I didn't move for a long time.
The money hit my account two days later. Sixteen hundred dollars. Not a fortune. But enough. Enough for rent. Enough for groceries. Enough for dog food. Enough for another month. I paid the rent. I bought groceries. I bought Olive a new toy. A squeaky thing shaped like a bone. She carried it around the apartment for a week. I applied for more jobs. I heard back from one. An interview. I went. I wore the suit I had worn to the startup four years ago. It still fit. I got the job. A marketing job. At a company that had been around for thirty years. A company that wasn't going anywhere. A company that sent layoff emails to no one.
I still play sometimes. Once a month. On the nights when I think about the email. The HR person I never met. The four years I gave to a company that gave me nothing. I find a Vavada mirror link. I deposit fifty dollars. I play blackjack. I lose most of the time. That's fine. That's what I expect. But sometimes I win. Not like that night. Small wins. A hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars. I cash out immediately. I use it for Olive. For her food. For her toys. For the vet bills that come when you love something that can't tell you where it hurts.
I think about that night sometimes. The couch. The dog. The eight hundred dollars. I think about the hand that brought me back. The run that came when I was down to nothing. I don't believe in luck. I believe in being there. In sitting on the couch when the world tells you to leave. In scratching the ears of a dog who doesn't know you're running out of time. In playing one more hand when the math says stop. In finding a link. A mirror. A way back. I have a job now. I have a paycheck. I have a dog who still puts her head on my knee when I sit on the couch. I have a story. A story about an email and a layoff and a night when I had nothing left. A story I don't tell. But I remember. I remember every time I see Olive's toy. The squeaky bone. The one I bought with money I didn't have. The one I have now. The one I'll always have.