When I was 15, my dad came out his closet and my parents got divorced. He was creative, kind, and funny. I was very attached. We were joined at the hip. I adored him.
Before he died, he let us know he didn’t want a funeral. No sitting shiva. No memorial service. He wanted to be cremated. We’re Jewish. We’re supposed to be buried. It’s the rule! If he was scattered, how would I visit him? Or feel guilty about NOT visiting him?
The ashes come back from the funeral home and I divvy them up. My brother Steven and I each get half. My dad’s boyfriend, Robert, doesn’t want any. He wants us to have enough. Enough?
We can keep his ashes. Or scatter them.
I have no idea what to do, but I need to do something to celebrate my father.
Then, it comes to me.
I share my idea with Robert and Steven. Robert introduced dad to gambling and he loved it. He only played the nickel slots.
I’ve never been to a casino. Gambling scares me. I have an addictive personality and never have cash to burn. My brother loves to gamble, so we make a plan.
I measure out some of the ashes into 3 little round boxes. When we arrive in Atlantic City, I give each of the guys their box and we go our separate ways.
I walk to the water.
My father loved the beach. I open the little box and scatter some ashes into the surf. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. The gesture feels empty, so I keep the rest. We regroup on the boardwalk and head to the Borgata, Dad’s favorite.
The noise, the smoke, the crowds are overwhelming, but I make my way to the slot machines. I discover that one-armed bandits are extinct. No handle to pull. Just a big button to push. What a rip-off.
I have $200 to lose.
I pick a machine and I’m about to feed a token into the slot when I get an idea. I reach into my bag and pull out the box of ashes. I place it on the ledge of the machine, remove the lid, and sprinkle a bit of my father onto the game. I whisper, “Come on Daddy, Nan needs a new pair of shoes!” Because that’s what I’m supposed to say. I push the button. A winner! It spits out $25 in tickets, and I’m hooked. I play one more time. Same routine. A pinch of dad and a sprinkle! I win again.
I move from game to game and keep winning. Every machine, a pinch and a sprinkle. I don’t win every time, but I’m way ahead.
Steven and Robert find me; their money’s gone. I’m still winning, but I’m running low on my secret ingredient.
I’m going home with $900.
My brother notices the almost empty box, cocks his head, and looks at me, a question in his eyes.
I turn to him, and with a giddy smile, say,
“You know what I’ve got here, Steven?”
His eyebrow arches.
“It’s fairy dust.”
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