I thrust my hand into my pocket—into my cheetah-print, thick and soft sweater with large hanging front pockets like Grandpa’s robe. It felt like Santa had come. I expected to find a hundred-dollar bill. Expected is too strong. Hoped for? Pleaded and cried out to the gods?
I must miss those days. Last night’s dream dropped me back into that shadowy life: chips clinking, a low hum of conversation, a muted TV looping ESPN highlights. The tables were full—six of them—and I was up next to deal. I saw the table numbers written on the whiteboard, just like my floor supervisor and friend Billy used to do. One number stacked atop the next, the one at the top indicating where I’d head first. At the bottom was a line—not the kind asking for totals, but the one announcing a break. And I was on break.
With a minute before I had to tap in—the literal tap on the dealer’s right shoulder signaling their shift was done—I looked for a tray. No one had made one up for me, but in the one I needed, there were tournament chips. The angst. Not only would I have to hunt down empty trays, but I’d also need to build a bank: five stacks of white chips, two stacks of yellow, one of blue. The realization of everything I still had to do, with the clock ticking toward the top of the hour and players waiting—players ready to tip—sent me into panic. I’d be late. I’d lose out on money. The usually empty tables, now packed, felt like a honeycomb bursting at the seams, desperate for a biscuit fresh from the oven.
So waking and finding my empty pocket this morning was a callback to the days when I’d accidentally find stashed bills in back jean pockets, in the zipper of my backpack, or buried two feet down in a glass jar in my garden.
That last one is real. Once, before hopping on a plane, I panicked about my house catching fire and my cash burning—whether hidden under the mattress or in my usual spot on the top shelf of the hall closet. So I chose the foolproof plan: the ground.
Often, in the early hours of the morning, I’d cash out my tips. The cashier—usually a friend—would grab a ring of keys, slide a small circular one into the hole on the black metal box with the cracked plastic window, twist, and lift the hinged lid. Chips spilled onto the table. I’d eye the greens and reds – the $25’s and $5’s. They’d sort quickly, filling plastic trays—one hundred white chips to a tray. With the surveillance camera pointed at us from overhead, their hands worked methodically: stacks of 100, then singles laid out like a waterfall so each one was visible.
I loved my time at Wizards. From 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. I worked—Thursday, Friday, Saturday—and sometimes picked up an extra shift. I could easily make $500 a night. Cash in my pocket. Right out the door.
The security guard—a Hawaiian ukulele player I once watched perform at a farmers market—escorted us to our cars. A precaution. People knew we carried money, and that could be dangerous. I never felt unsafe, but I appreciated the care.
I forget how the giant wad of cash ended up in my grandma’s hands on one visit. Maybe she’d been reminiscing about her years as a bank teller and how she loved laying out bills. I remember the thickness, the amount, her joy as she spread it across her marble kitchen island, even with her knobby knuckles.
I don’t carry cash these days. I miss it. It felt like security, power, invincibility—knowing I had thousands in my pocket, could buy whatever I wanted, and more would replace it.
A metaphor for youth: the unlimited potential, the endless open doors, the unknowns of tomorrow stretching into infinite sunsets.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 