Baccarat Strategy for Fast-Paced Play

I’d been playing guitar since I was fourteen, long enough that my fingers knew the fretboard the way they knew the shape of a coffee cup, the way they knew the door of my apartment, the way they knew the hands of the woman who’d taught me to play. She was my grandmother, the one who’d raised me after my parents left, the one who’d worked at the factory for thirty years, the one who’d come home with grease on her hands and music in her head, the one who’d sit in her chair by the window and play the guitar her father had given her when she was fourteen, the same age I was when she handed it to me and said “this is yours now.” The guitar was old, older than she was, older than the house we lived in, older than the songs she played, the songs that had been passed down from her father to her, from her to me, the songs that were the only thing that connected us to the people we’d lost. I’d played it every day after she died, the way you play something when you’re trying to hold onto someone, the way you play something when the only thing you have is the sound of their hands on the strings, the way you play something when you’re not sure if you’re playing for them or for yourself. I’d played it through high school, through college, through the years when I was trying to be a musician, trying to make a living, trying to be the person who could play the songs that had been passed down to him. I’d played it in bars and clubs and the kind of places where people don’t listen, where they talk over the music, where they don’t know that the song you’re playing is the only thing you have, the only thing that’s yours, the only thing that’s keeping you from falling apart.

The guitar was with me when I moved to the city, when I got the job at the music store, when I met the woman who would become my wife, when I stopped playing in bars and started playing at home, when the songs became the thing I played for her, the thing she’d listen to when she was cooking, when she was reading, when she was falling asleep on the couch, the thing that was the soundtrack of a life that was supposed to be the one I’d been looking for. The guitar was with me when she left, the way people leave when they’ve been waiting for something that doesn’t come, when they’ve been listening to the same songs for years and they’re tired of them, when they’ve been waiting for you to be something you’re not. She left, and the guitar was the only thing that stayed, the only thing that was there when I came home, the only thing that didn’t look at me with eyes that said “you’re not enough.” I played it after she left, the way I’d played it after my grandmother died, the way you play something when you’re trying to hold onto something that’s slipping away, when you’re not sure if you’re playing for yourself or for the ghost of the person who taught you. I played it until my fingers bled, until the strings were worn, until the sound that came out of the guitar was the sound of something breaking, the sound of something that had been held together for so long that it didn’t know how to be anything else.

The guitar broke in the spring, the way things break when they’ve been holding on for too long, when they’ve been carrying something that’s too heavy, when they’ve been the only thing that’s kept you from falling apart. The neck cracked, the soundboard split, the strings lay slack against the fretboard, the way they’d lain when my grandmother handed it to me, the way they’d lain when she said “this is yours now.” I took it to the repair shop, the one on the corner, the one where the old man had been fixing guitars for forty years, the one where people brought the things that were broken and hoped that someone could make them whole again. He looked at it, the way you look at something that’s been through something, the way you look at something that’s been holding on for too long. He said it could be fixed, that it would cost more than I had, that it would take time, that it would take patience, that it would take the kind of money that I didn’t have because I’d spent it on the things that were supposed to make me a musician, the things that were supposed to make me someone who could play the songs that had been passed down to him. I stood in the shop, the guitar in my hands, the guitar that had been my grandmother’s, the guitar that had been her father’s, the guitar that had been the only thing that connected me to the people I’d lost, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to be the person who could fix it, who could keep it, who could be the one who passed it down, who could be the one who kept the songs playing when the only thing that could play them was broken.

I put the guitar in the closet, the way you put something away when you don’t know what else to do, the way you put something away when you’re not ready to let it go, the way you put something away when you’re hoping that someday you’ll have the money to fix it, that someday you’ll be the person who can keep it, that someday you’ll be the one who passes it down. I went back to the music store, the one where I worked, the one where I sold guitars to people who were just starting, who were just learning, who didn’t know that the thing they were holding could break, could be the only thing that held them together, could be the thing that they’d carry with them for the rest of their lives. I sold guitars to kids who were learning to play, to parents who were buying for their children, to old men who were replacing the ones they’d lost, to people who didn’t know that the thing they were buying was the thing that would be with them when everything else was gone. I sold them and I thought about my guitar, the one in the closet, the one that was broken, the one that was waiting for me to fix it, the one that was waiting for me to be the person who could keep it, who could pass it down, who could be the one who kept the songs playing.

I was at the store on a Thursday night, the kind of night that doesn’t feel like anything, the kind of night that feels like it’s going to be the same as every other night, which is to say empty and long and full of the kind of silence that makes you want to go home and sit in the dark and not come out. The store was empty, the way it was empty most nights, the way it was empty since the big shop opened on the other side of town, the way it was empty since the only people who came were the ones who didn’t know that the guitars they were buying were the ones that had been there for years, the ones that no one wanted, the ones that were waiting for someone to take them home. I was sitting behind the counter, the way you sit when you’re waiting for something to happen, when you’re not sure if it’s going to happen, when you’re not sure if you’re going to be there when it does. I opened my phone because I didn’t know what else to do. I’d been doing that a lot lately, opening my phone, scrolling through things that didn’t matter, looking for something that would tell me what to do next. I ended up on a site I’d heard about from a customer, someone who’d mentioned it in passing, the way people mention things they don’t expect you to remember. I’d never visited it before, had never thought about it, had never been the kind of person who did the kind of things that happened on sites like that. But that night, sitting in the empty store, the guitars on the wall, the guitar in the closet, the songs that weren’t playing, I found myself going through the motions. I decided to sign up on the Vavada casino site, because I’d heard the name somewhere, because I needed to do something that wasn’t sitting in the store, because I needed to be somewhere that wasn’t the place where I’d been waiting for something that wasn’t coming, because I needed to stop thinking about the guitar that was broken, the songs that weren’t playing, the grandmother who’d handed it to me, the woman who’d left, the life that was supposed to be the one I’d been looking for.

I deposited a small amount, the kind of money I’d spend on strings I didn’t need, the kind of money I’d spend on the things I’d bought because I thought they would make me a musician, the kind of money that was the only thing I had after paying for the things that were supposed to make me someone who could play the songs that had been passed down to him. I started playing a game that had a music theme, which felt like something I couldn’t look away from. There were guitars and amplifiers and the kind of sound that comes out of a guitar when it’s been played for years, when it knows your hands, when it knows the songs you’re trying to play, when it’s the only thing that’s been with you through everything. I spun the reels, watching the guitars appear, the amplifiers light up, the sound fill the space, the way it had filled my grandmother’s house when she played, the way it had filled my apartment when I played for the woman who left, the way it would fill the room if the guitar was fixed, if the songs were playing, if I was the person who could keep it, who could pass it down, who could be the one who kept the songs going. I wasn’t thinking about winning. I was thinking about the guitar in the closet, the neck that was cracked, the soundboard that was split, the strings that lay slack against the fretboard, the way they’d lain when my grandmother handed it to me, the way they’d lain when she said “this is yours now.” I was thinking about the old man at the repair shop, who’d said it could be fixed, that it would cost more than I had, that it would take time, that it would take patience, that it would take the kind of money that I didn’t have because I’d spent it on the things that were supposed to make me a musician. I played for an hour, maybe two, the spins becoming a rhythm that matched the beating of my heart, the way the guitar had matched it when I was playing, the way the songs had matched it when I was listening to my grandmother, the way things match when they’re the thing you’re supposed to be doing.

And then the screen changed. The music shifted, the colors deepened, and suddenly I was looking at a bonus feature I’d never seen before. The game told me I’d triggered something called the “acoustic feature,” a progressive prize that built over multiple spins, and I had the chance to reveal multipliers by selecting different guitars on a wall that looked like the wall in the music store, the wall where the guitars hung, the wall where the guitars waited for someone to take them home. I had ten picks. Ten chances. I started tapping, the way I’d started playing when I was fourteen, not knowing what would come, just knowing I had to keep going. The first three picks were small. The fourth revealed a symbol that doubled everything I’d accumulated. The fifth was another doubling. The sixth revealed a symbol that added five extra picks, and suddenly the wall expanded, more guitars, more chances. The seventh pick was a large multiplier. The eighth was another doubling. The ninth revealed a symbol that triggered a final multiplier based on the total number of spins I’d played. By the time I got to the fifteenth pick, I was crying. Not because of the number, not because of the win, but because I was looking at the guitars on the screen and they were the guitars on the wall, the ones that had been there for years, the ones that were waiting for someone to play them, the ones that were waiting for someone to take them home, and they were playing, the way my guitar had played when my grandmother handed it to me, the way it had played when I was learning the songs she’d taught me, the way it would play if I could fix it, if I could keep it, if I could be the person who passed it down, who kept the songs going, who was the one who played the guitar that had been in the family for three generations.

The game calculated the total, and I watched the number appear. It was the exact amount the old man had said it would cost to fix the guitar, the amount that would make it whole again, the amount that would let me be the person who kept it, who passed it down, who was the one who played the songs that had been passed down from her father to her, from her to me, from me to whoever came next. I cashed out immediately. I withdrew everything, watching the confirmation screen appear with a clarity that felt like the first time I’d played the guitar, the way the sound came out of the strings, the way my grandmother smiled, the way she said “that’s it, that’s the song, that’s the one your great-grandfather played, that’s the one that’s been in the family for a hundred years, that’s the one that’s yours now.”

I took the guitar to the repair shop the next day. I handed it to the old man, the one who’d been fixing guitars for forty years, the one who’d said it could be fixed, that it would cost more than I had, that it would take time, that it would take patience. I handed him the money, the money that had appeared on my screen, the money that was the thing that was going to make it whole again. He looked at me, the way you look at someone who’s brought you something that’s been broken, who’s brought you the thing that’s been in their family for three generations, who’s brought you the thing that’s been waiting for someone to fix it. He said “it’ll take a week.” And I said “I’ll wait.” And he said “it’ll be worth it.” And I said “I know.”

I picked up the guitar a week later, the way you pick up something that’s been gone, the way you pick up something that’s come back, the way you pick up something that’s been waiting for you to be ready for it. He’d fixed the neck, repaired the soundboard, strung it with the strings that were the same as the ones my grandmother had used, the ones her father had used, the ones that were the only thing that could make the sound that had been in the family for a hundred years. I held it in my hands, the way I’d held it when she handed it to me, the way she’d held it when her father handed it to her, the way we’d held it when we were learning to play the songs that had been passed down. I played it that night, the first song she’d taught me, the one her father had taught her, the one that had been in the family for a hundred years, the one that was the only thing that connected us to the people we’d lost. The sound came out of the guitar, the sound that had been waiting for me to play it, the sound that was the same as the sound my grandmother had played, the same as the sound her father had played, the same as the sound that would be played by whoever came next, whoever held the guitar, whoever learned the songs, whoever kept the thing that had been passed down for a hundred years.

I still play that guitar every day. I play the songs my grandmother taught me, the songs her father taught her, the songs that have been in the family for a hundred years, the songs that will be in the family for a hundred more. I play them for myself, for the person who was fourteen when she handed it to him, for the person who thought he’d lost it, for the person who found it again, for the person who learned that the things that are broken can be fixed, that the things that are lost can be found, that the things that are passed down are the things that are held, that are played, that are kept. I think about that night sometimes, the one in the empty store, the guitars on the wall, the guitar in the closet, the songs that weren’t playing. I think about the night I decided to sign up on the Vavada casino site, the night I did something I’d never done before, the night I was given back something I didn’t know I was asking for. I don’t think about it as luck. I think about it as the night I learned that the guitar wasn’t the wood, wasn’t the strings, wasn’t the neck that had cracked or the soundboard that had split. The guitar was the thing that was passed down, the thing that was played, the thing that was held, the thing that was kept. It was the song my grandmother played, the song her father played, the song I play, the song that will be played by whoever comes next, whoever holds the guitar, whoever learns the songs, whoever keeps the thing that has been passed down for a hundred years. I’m still playing it. I’m still holding it. I’m still keeping it. I’m still being the person who passes it down, who teaches the songs, who holds the thing that was given to me, that was broken, that was fixed, that was found, that was kept. That’s what I learned. That’s what I found. That’s what I’ll keep. The guitar. The songs. The thing that was passed down, the thing that will be passed down, the thing that will never break, that will never be lost, that will never stop playing, as long as there’s someone to hold it, to play it, to keep it. I’ll keep it. I’ll play it. I’ll pass it down. That’s what she taught me. That’s what I learned. That’s what I’ll do.