Cha-Ching!

My first time gambling, with my dad...

My father died on the last day of June in 2011, during Pride month. I’m mentioning it was Pride because my father was gay. He officially came out in midlife, when I was 16 years old, around the same time that I came out. My parents divorced and they began new lives, both of them living more honestly, and finally getting what they needed and had been unable to provide for each other.

I was devoted to my father in healthy ways and not so healthy ways. We had a classic codependent relationship. He needed me to love him the most of anyone in the world, and I needed that from him just as much. It was challenging––and I’m saying that in retrospect––because it was only after he died that I began to fully understand the price I paid to meet his expectations. I witnessed his mood fluctuations and his low opinion of himself, and tried to convince him, repeatedly, that he was the most special person that ever lived. It didn’t change anything for him, but I never stopped trying.

I loved him deeply, though the part of me that longed to grow up came to resent him. There were so many things I appreciated about my dad. He was talented, creative, very smart, and had the capacity for great kindness and humor.

As his death neared, he made it clear to his boyfriend, me, and my brother that there was to be no funeral, no shiva, and he demanded cremation. It felt like he wanted to be forgotten. But we’re Jewish. We’re supposed to be buried, it’s the rule! We’re expected to sit shiva––a seven-day mourning period––with friends and relatives. Shiva is the initial mourning period for the ones who remain, to carve out a niche to grieve and to celebrate the memory of the ones we’ve lost. And no burial? If he was scattered, how would I visit him? Or feel guilty about NOT visiting him?

Even with my reservations we respected his wishes. Well, except for one. I sat shiva. Not for seven days, just for one. There was no way I wasn’t going to say the Mourner’s Kaddish in memory of my dad. It’s a comforting prayer that I needed to recite for myself, so that I could begin making my way forward into my life without him.

Then, his ashes arrived from the crematorium. I’d never seen human ashes before. Pets, yes. People no. Sifting the ashes through my fingers, I was rapt with wonder that this gray powder had once been my dad, the man that I loved.

Months passed, and it felt incomplete to me that we hadn’t had a ceremony. His ashes sat on a bookshelf in a utilitarian green plastic box. I’d look at the box from time to time, and wonder what the hell I was going to do with them. I wanted to create some kind of ritual that he would have approved of. That codependent streak was still there. Old programming dies hard.

One day I was sitting at my desk, reading an article on my laptop, and an ad for the Atlantic City casinos popped up on my screen. In that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do. I got on the phone, called my brother, then my dad’s boyfriend and proposed my idea. They were both enthusiastically in.

Years before, my dad’s boyfriend took him to a casino for the first time, and dad adored it. No blackjack or craps for him. He loved the slots, and only played the nickel machines. He could be a very prudent man. I’d never been to a casino. Gambling scared me. I was wary of becoming addicted––because my tendency is to go all in when I’m excited about something new. And I rarely had cash to burn. Up until that point, I’d avoided the temptation. My brother loved to gamble though, so we set a date.

In preparation for the big day, I bought three small round cardboard boxes each in a different color. I measured out some of the ashes into each box, so we’d be able to express our goodbyes in our own way. 

We rented a car and on a windy fall day, we drove to the Jersey shore to say goodbye to Dad.

When we arrived, I handed out the ashes and we went our separate ways. I walked to the water’s edge.  My dad always loved the beach. Opening my little purple box, I said a few things to the Universe, even though I thought it might be a little woo-woo. A part of me hoped he could hear my words. I scattered some ashes into the surf. That’s what I was supposed to do, right? The gesture felt a little empty, so I kept the rest. We met up on the boardwalk, and headed to the Borgata, Dad’s favorite casino.

The noise, the smoke, the scantily clad cocktail waitresses were all overwhelming. I made my way to the slot machines, where I was disappointed to discover that one-armed bandits are extinct. No handle to pull. Just a big button to push. I had no idea how to play, so my companions gave me pointers. I budgeted $200 for the day.

I picked a machine, sat down, and was about to feed a token into the slot when it hit me. In the midst of what was a somewhat somber occasion, a playfulness rose up in me, and I reached into my bag and pulled out the small box of ashes. I placed it on the ledge of the machine, carefully removed the lid, pinched some ashes between my fingers, and gently and discretely sprinkled a bit of my father onto the slot machine screen. Setting aside my doubts about speaking to the great beyond and being heard, I whispered “Come on Daddy, Nan needs a new pair of shoes!” and I pushed the button. A winner! It spit out $25 in tickets, and I was hooked. I played one more time on that machine. Same routine. A pinch of Dad, and a sprinkle. I won again!

I moved from game to game, and kept winning. Every machine, a pinch and a sprinkle. I didn’t win every time, but I was way ahead.

My brother found me on the gambling floor, his money gone. I was still winning, but I was running low on my magic ingredient.

Not only did I recoup the original $200, I walked away with an extra $700.

My brother noticed the almost empty box, cocked his head, and looked at me, a question in his eyes.

I turned to him, and with a giddy smile, said,

“You know what I’ve got here?”

His eyebrow raised and I replied,

“It’s fairy dust.”

My father would have loved it.

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