My name is Evelyn, and for most of my life, I lived in the dark. The beautiful, purposeful dark just offstage. I was a stage manager for regional theatre. My world was a script in a binder, a headset crackling with whispers, and the exquisite pressure of calling the cues that made the magic happen: lights up, sound cue #4, fly in the backdrop. My life was a series of controlled, perfect timings. Then, the arthritis in my knees got bad. The constant standing, the quick dashes up and down iron staircases—it became impossible. The show, as they say, could not go on. Not with me calling it.
Retirement felt less like a curtain call and more like the house lights coming up to reveal an empty auditorium. The silence was absolute. No whispered "standby," no rustle of costumes in the wings. I tried community theatre, but watching from the audience made me ache. I was a ghost of my former self, haunting a craft I could no longer practice.
My nephew, Liam, is a video game designer. He saw me struggling. "Aunt Ev," he said one Sunday, "you need a new stage to manage. One that doesn't require you to stand up." He opened his laptop. "Look. This is a different kind of performance. Real people, real time. It's live theatre of chance." He showed me a website. Not flashy, but impeccably designed. Clear, intuitive. He called it the
vavada website. "See the live dealer section? That's your stage. The dealers are your actors. The players are your audience. And you," he said, pointing at me, "you're the director of your own experience. You call the shots. Hit, stand, bet, fold. Your cues."
It was a lifeline phrased in a language I understood. That night, I explored. The site was a relief. No jarring sounds or blinking lights unless you sought them out. It was a clean, well-lit digital theatre. I registered as "CueMaster." I deposited fifty dollars—the equivalent of two good theatre tickets. My "opening night" budget.
I went straight to the live blackjack. The dealer was a woman named Anya, in a studio in Riga. She had a crisp, professional demeanor and a slight accent that gave her calls a musical quality. "Cards are out." "Place your bets, please." It was a script. A beautiful, simple script. The other players' bets appeared as neat stacks. I placed mine—small, careful. The first "hit" I took felt like calling a cue. A tiny thrill of agency. The card appeared. A win. A soft, digital round of applause from my own heart.
This became my new production. Every evening, after dinner, I'd "go to the theatre." I'd sit in my favorite armchair, a blanket over my knees, tablet in hand. I'd join Anya's table. I learned the rhythms. The slow shuffle. The pause before the deal. The collective intake of breath you could feel through the screen when the dealer showed an ace. I started recognizing the other "regulars" in the seats: "BlitzKing," "CardSharkSofia." We were a company. A digital repertory theatre.
For months, my balance danced within a narrow range. Up twenty, down fifteen. It wasn't about profit. It was about the performance. The vavada website was my stage door. My connection to a live, unfolding drama where I had a part, however small.
Then, one night, I was feeling particularly nostalgic. It was the anniversary of the closing night of my last big production, The Seagull. A bittersweet ache. I logged on. Anya was off. I browsed the other "stages." I found a game I'd ignored: Dream Catcher. A giant, colourful money wheel. A host named Marco with an infectious smile. It was pure spectacle. The opposite of Chekhovian subtlety. On a whim, I decided to "direct" a different genre.
I moved my entire remaining balance, about forty dollars, to the game. I placed ten dollars on the number 7—the act in which Nina gives her monologue about becoming an actress. A tribute. Marco spun the wheel. The clunk-clunk-clunk was a deep, resonant sound. The pointer slowed, passed my number, and landed on 54. I lost. I placed another ten on "2:1 Odd." The wheel spun. Landed on an even number. Lost.
Down to my last twenty. The drama was turning tragic. I felt a director's stubbornness. I placed the final twenty not on a number, but on the "Bonus" segment, a thin, golden slice of the wheel. A long-odds bet. The equivalent of staging a hopeless, beautiful finale.
Marco gave the wheel a mighty spin. It whirred, a blur of colour. It slowed. The click-click-click of the pointer was agonizing. It crept past high numbers, past odd, past even… and with a final, soft tock, it settled squarely in the golden Bonus wedge.
A fanfare erupted. Marco cheered. "Bonus game!" The screen changed. A new wheel, with multipliers: 10x, 15x, 20x, 40x. He spun again. My heart was in my throat. This was the third-act twist. The pointer spun, slowed, and landed on the 40x segment.
The math happened instantly. My $20 bet, multiplied by 40 for the bonus win: $800. A clean, round, miraculous number.
I didn't move. I watched Marco celebrate. I watched the digital confetti. In the dark of my living room, I felt a sensation I hadn't felt in years: the clean, triumphant thrill of a perfectly executed, unexpected climax. I had called a cue on a whim, and the universe had answered with a standing ovation.
I cashed out $750. With the money, I didn't buy something for myself. I funded a small annual scholarship at the local community theatre for a promising young stage manager. "The Evelyn Grant," for technical excellence. The irony made me smile for days.
I still visit the vavada website most nights. I usually sit at Anya's blackjack table, my quiet, familiar stage. But sometimes, I venture to Marco's wheel. I place a small bet on the golden Bonus slice. Not to win, but to remember. To feel the curtain rise on pure, dazzling chance, and to know that even from my armchair, I can still call a cue that makes the world sparkle. The show, it turns out, never really ends. It just changes venues.
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