The Bookstore That Saved My Weekend

[choetmoa.m.t.hich]

I run a small used bookstore. It’s the kind of place where the floor creaks, the cat naps on the counter, and the regulars come in just to talk. I love it. But love doesn’t pay the bills when the roof starts leaking.

That’s what happened last fall. A heavy rain, a crack in the ceiling I didn’t know existed, and suddenly I had water dripping onto a shelf of first editions. The repair estimate came in at nine hundred dollars. I had maybe two hundred in the business account after paying rent and the electric bill.

I spent the next week stressed out of my mind. I’d already cut every corner I could cut. I was brewing coffee at home instead of buying it. I’d canceled my streaming services. I was eating rice and beans like a college student. But nine hundred dollars is nine hundred dollars. You don’t find that in the couch cushions.

It was a Saturday night. The store was closed. The cat was asleep on a stack of paperback thrillers. I was sitting in the back room with my laptop, staring at my bank account, trying to figure out a solution that didn’t exist. I’d already asked my brother for a loan. He said he’d help, but I hated asking. I hated the feeling of needing to be rescued.

I opened a browser out of habit. Something to stop the spiral. I started clicking through old bookmarks, looking for anything that wasn’t about money or roofs or first editions getting ruined. I landed on a casino site I’d used a few times before. Nothing regular. Just when I had downtime and wanted to play some blackjack.

I clicked the bookmark. The site wouldn’t load. I tried again. Nothing. I remembered that sometimes these sites had alternative addresses. A friend had mentioned it once. I scrolled through my messages, found a link he’d sent months ago, and clicked.

I was able to use the working Vavada mirror and the site loaded immediately. I logged in. My balance showed sixty-seven dollars. Leftover from a deposit I’d made last summer. I’d forgotten it was there.

I figured I’d play a little. Something to do while I sat in my bookstore, surrounded by books, trying not to think about the crack in the ceiling. I found a blackjack table with a five-dollar minimum and started playing.

The first few hands were nothing. I won one, lost one. My balance stayed in the sixties. I wasn’t paying close attention. I was looking at the shelf where the water had come through. The books were safe now, moved to a dry spot, but the stain on the ceiling was a constant reminder.

Then I won four hands in a row. Small wins, but consistent. My balance hit a hundred and twenty. I raised my bet slightly. Won another. A hundred and sixty. Raised it again. Won another. Two hundred. I started paying attention.

The dealer was showing low cards. Fives, fours, sixes. I kept playing basic strategy, doubling when I should double, standing when I should stand. The cards kept falling my way. I won two more hands. Balance at three hundred.

I played another hand. Dealer showed a five. I had a ten and a seven. Seventeen. I stood. The dealer flipped a nine, then drew a ten. Twenty-four. Bust. Win. Balance at three hundred and sixty.

Next hand. Dealer showed a four. I had a pair of threes. Six against a four. I hit. Got a five. Eleven. Double down. Got a ten. Twenty-one. The dealer flipped a queen, then drew a nine. Nineteen. Win. Balance jumped to four hundred and eighty.

I sat there for a moment. Sixty-seven dollars to four hundred and eighty. In maybe thirty-five minutes. I kept playing. I don’t know why. The streak was still there. I won another hand. Five hundred and forty. Another. Six hundred.

I played one more hand. Dealer showed a six. I had an ace and a four. Soft fifteen. I hit. Got a five. Soft twenty. I stood. The dealer flipped a ten, then drew a seven. Twenty-one. Push. No win, no loss.

I looked at my balance. Six hundred and twenty dollars. I cashed out. Every cent.

I closed my laptop, walked to the front of the store, and stood under the stain on the ceiling. Six hundred and twenty dollars. Combined with what I had in the business account, I was at eight hundred and twenty. Eighty short of the repair. I could cover eighty. I could borrow eighty from my brother without feeling like I was asking for everything.

The money hit my account three days later. I called the roofer the same day. They came the following week. The crack got fixed. The ceiling got patched. The stain disappeared under a fresh coat of paint. The first editions went back on the shelf where they belonged.

I told my brother I only needed eighty. He asked what happened to the rest. I told him I found a way. He didn’t ask any more questions.

I still use the working Vavada mirror sometimes. Not often. Maybe once a month when I have downtime. I don’t expect to repeat that Saturday night. I know better. But every time I walk into my bookstore and look up at that patched section of ceiling, I remember the night I sat in the back room with sixty-seven dollars and walked out with a roof over my head.

The cat still naps on the counter. The floor still creaks. The regulars still come in to talk. And every once in a while, when someone asks how I kept the place open during the hard months, I tell them I got lucky. Which is true. I just don’t tell them how.