I pour concrete for a living. Sidewalks, driveways, foundations. The kind of work that breaks your back before you're forty and leaves you with knees that know when it's going to rain. I've been doing it for twelve years. I'm good at it. I'm the guy they call when the job is complicated. When the slope is weird or the access is tight or the customer is the kind of person who measures things with a ruler after you're done.
The job that almost broke me was a driveway in the suburbs. A long one. Curved. With a stamped pattern that the homeowner had found on Pinterest. It was supposed to take three days. It took seven. The weather turned. The forms shifted. The concrete arrived late twice. The homeowner stood in her doorway every morning, watching me work, making suggestions. "Are you sure that's level?" "My neighbor said you should use rebar." "The pattern doesn't look like the picture."
I smiled. I nodded. I explained. I did the job. When it was finally done, it looked good. Better than good. It looked like something you'd see in a magazine. The homeowner walked on it. She nodded. She said she'd "think about" the final payment. The final payment was four thousand dollars. Four thousand dollars I needed for payroll. For my guys. For the truck payment. For the concrete I'd already ordered for the next job.
I waited a week. Nothing. I called. She said she was "still thinking." I called again. She said she'd "noticed a crack." There was no crack. I drove out there. I looked at the driveway. It was perfect. She stood in her doorway and said she'd "let me know." I drove back to my shop. I sat in my truck for a long time. The sun was going down. I had three guys who needed to get paid. I had a supplier who was calling every day. I had a bank account that was getting dangerously close to empty.
I started pouring concrete when I was twenty-four. My uncle had a company. He taught me everything. How to read the weather. How to mix for strength. How to finish so it looked like glass. He died five years ago. I bought the company from my aunt. I kept his guys. I kept his name on the trucks. I thought I was honoring him. Instead, I was slowly drowning.
The four thousand dollars was supposed to keep me afloat. Without it, I couldn't make payroll. Without payroll, my guys would leave. Without my guys, I had no company. I sat in my truck, in the dark, and did the math. I had fifteen hundred dollars in the business account. Payroll was three thousand. The truck payment was eight hundred. The concrete supplier was twelve hundred. The math didn't work. The math never worked anymore.
I went home. I sat on my couch. I had a beer. I had another beer. I opened my laptop. I don't know why. I was looking for something. Anything. A distraction. A way to stop thinking about the driveway, the homeowner, the four thousand dollars that was sitting in her bank account and should have been in mine. I scrolled through my bookmarks. I found one I'd saved a year ago. I'd never used it. I'd saved it because someone had mentioned it and I thought maybe someday I'd try it.
That night, with a beer in my hand and a failing business in my head, I did my
Vavada account login.
I'm not a gambler. I play poker once a year with my uncle's old crew. That's it. But that night, I deposited five hundred dollars. Money I didn't have. Money that should have gone to the concrete supplier. I told myself I'd play for an hour. I told myself I'd stop if I lost. I told myself a lot of things.
I played blackjack. It was the only game I knew. I'd learned from my uncle. He played cards every Friday at the VFW. He taught me basic strategy. Hit on sixteen. Stand on seventeen. Never take insurance. I played slow. Twenty-five dollars a hand. I lost the first four. Dropped to four hundred. I lost another. Three hundred. I was losing fast. The way people lose when they're desperate. The way I told myself I wouldn't lose.
I almost closed the laptop. But I didn't. I kept playing. I dropped to two hundred. Then a hundred. Then fifty. I was down to my last fifty 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 nine. Fourteen. Drew a seven. Twenty-one. I lost both hands. My balance was zero.
I stared at the screen. Five hundred dollars. Gone. In less than an hour. I closed the laptop. I sat on my couch. I had another beer. I thought about my uncle. I thought about his guys. I thought about the homeowner standing in her doorway, watching me work, telling me she'd "let me know." I thought about closing the business. Selling the trucks. Telling my aunt I couldn't keep his name alive.
I opened the laptop again. I don't know why. I deposited another five hundred dollars. The last five hundred in my personal account. The money I was going to use for groceries. For rent. For the things that kept me alive while the business died. I did my Vavada account login again. I played blackjack again. I bet small. Twenty-five dollars. I lost. Twenty-five dollars. I lost. Twenty-five dollars. I lost.
I was down to four hundred when I changed my bet. Fifty dollars. I won. Back to four fifty. Fifty dollars. I won. Five hundred. Fifty dollars. I won. Five fifty. I was on a run. A stupid, impossible run. I increased my bets. A hundred dollars. I won. Two hundred. I won. Three hundred. I won. My balance was climbing. Five hundred. Eight hundred. Twelve hundred. Eighteen hundred. Twenty-four hundred.
I played one more hand. Five hundred 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 three thousand dollars.
I cashed out. Every cent. I closed the laptop. I sat on my couch. I didn't move for a long time. The money hit my account two days later. I paid my guys. I paid the concrete supplier. I paid the truck payment. I had enough left to hire a lawyer. The lawyer sent a letter to the homeowner. The check arrived three days after that. Four thousand dollars. The driveway was perfect. She knew it. I knew it. The lawyer made sure she paid.
I still do my Vavada account login sometimes. Once a month. On the nights when the math doesn't work. When a job goes bad or a customer doesn't pay or the weather turns. I deposit fifty dollars. I play blackjack. I lose most of the time. That's fine. That's the deal. But sometimes I win. Not like that night. Small wins. A hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars. I cash out immediately. I use it for things the business needs. A new mixer. A set of forms. A tank of gas for the truck.
The homeowner called me last week. She wants me to do her patio. I told her my rate. She didn't argue. She wrote a check for the deposit. I cashed it the same day. I looked at the check for a long time. Then I put it in my pocket and went to work. The sun was out. The truck started. My guys were waiting. We poured a sidewalk that day. Straight. Level. Perfect. The way my uncle taught me. The way I still do it. The way I'll keep doing it until I can't anymore.
