The day after my return from Harrah's Casino in Biloxi, I began receiving phone calls from the casino. I answered because I hoped it was about my lost glasses. The first call went like this:

"Hello, may I speak to Barbara Wolf?"

"This is she."

"I'm your money. I was wondering if you meant to leave me at the casino."

"Well, no, but I lost you in a slot machine and wasn't allowed to bring you home. You are only allowed to bring home the money you won."

"What kind of person leaves this much money at a casino?"

Click.

After my money called, I received a flurry of calls from my favorite slot machines: Reel Rush, Wish Upon a JackPot, Moola Rouge, etc. Each said they missed me, wondered when I would return and promised me a big win. I began to think they received a commission from my losses, but then I remembered they were just machines.

In reality, I didn't receive a call from my money or the slot machines. It was my guilty conscience reminding me of my foolish decision to continue playing while losing my shirt and good panties. To be honest, I didn't know how much I lost until it was time to pay my credit card bill, and I was short of funds in my checking account.

Everyone with a bad habit has a moment of truth. This was my moment of truth, although I had to admit, I love playing the slots. In fact my friends affectionately call me Slot Slut. I can sit at the machines for 12 hours and never get tired.

Baby boomers, like me, are the fastest-growing group playing the one-armed bandits. I find it fascinating to watch boomers playing the slots. Many have specific rituals they practice, and, like baseball players prior to making a pitch or stepping up to the plate, they run from the ridiculous to the religious. I call it the Gambler's Hokey Pokey. Some lovingly run their hand over the face of the machine, some tap the bet button a specific number of times, some kiss their two fingers and touch the bet, some religiously cross themselves, and some close their eyes and make a silent plea. Others just mechanically punch the button and watch the machine gobble up their money.

Why are so many boomers at the slots? Is it because we retired and now have the leisure time? Are we socially isolated and find it comforting to be near others with that common interest? Or like me, maybe we just love the whirling lights, the sound of the machines clinking, the smell of stale smoke, and the stupid hope that each pull will result in a jackpot win.

A 2001 study by Hans Breiter confirmed that the machine's nickname- "electronic crack" -is fitting. He found that in subjects playing slots, the brain's neural circuits fired in a way that was actually similar to those activated when using cocaine.

In the 2016 AARP Bulletin, John Rosengren reports that slots are the most addictive form of casino gambling, with the machines designed to maximize your "time on device" until you're out of money. To capitalize on that tendency, the slots have been altered to only accept bills. After placing your dollar in the feeder, you punch a button to spin the dials. The machines pay your winnings via paper receipts that can be put directly back into the machine to cover another game or redeemed at electronic banks. This leaves virtually no time to stop and consider if taking a break might be a good idea before the electronic bank automatically invites you to indulge in more games.

When I first began playing the machines were not like this. The machines accepted coins and paid winnings in coins. Games requiring three quarters meant you had to deposit the coins one at a time and then pull the lever. Your winnings were dispensed in the same type of coin you used and had to be scooped by hand into a large cup and taken to the cashier. Then you had to wait in line to receive your converted-from-coins-to-paper money. All this took time away from actual gambling, even offering a few minutes for a bathroom break. ATMs are now all over the casino- your cash is easily accessible. And if you hit your limit from the ATM, the cashiers are always ready to dispense more dough.

My gambling habit snuck up on me like a summer cloud burst. My first trip to the casino occurred after my aging parents had been living with me for about six months. My husband had a meeting in Las Vegas and I accompanied him. While he was working, I had time on my hands and wandered into the casino. Upon entering, I noticed a woman celebrating in front of a machine that had just paid her a jackpot of $1,000. I immediately went to the change machine and withdrew $100 in quarters and dragged the heavy load of coins back to the bandit.

Now, as a veteran player, I know to never play a machine that just paid out a jackpot. But as an innocent, I sat down on a stool and began shoving money into that bottomless pit. As I began to play, I realized I had finally stopped thinking about my parents' issues and neediness. I was working full time and managing all their medical appointments, medications and food. Their care had taken over my life, not to mention that I also had two teenage kids at home.

But even after my parents died and my children were in college, I continued to visit the casino when the opportunity arose. Usually it was on vacations or work trips with my husband. Years passed before my money decided to call my habit into view. After my money made that surprising call, I decided to only allow myself a biannual trip to the casino.

So far, I'm sticking to my agreement, although I am trying to go a step further and aim for no visits because of my fear of backsliding. I don't want to end up like those old women wheeled into the casino by grandchildren and left at a machine with an oxygen tank and their Social Security money. If I do, I say a little prayer that my grandchildren will, at least, stay and play the machine next to mine. It would be nice to have someone nearby to wheel you to the bathroom every few hours. I am surprised that casinos don't offer this service to the elderly via a service light on the top of each machine. After all, they already bring you drinks and will, on occasion, deliver a snack.

And even if my grandkids won't go with me, I still have a plan. I told my family that when I die, my wish is to be cremated, and my ashes sprinkled at Caesars Palace in Vegas. If anyone wants to visit my grave, they will have to go to Caesars and play my favorite machine, Wheel of Fortune. In honor of me, please drop some quarters on the carpet.

BARBARA WOLF lives in Birmingham, AL, where she spent decades running nonprofit programs to benefit low-income families. The bachelor's and master's degrees she earned at the University of Alabama and University of Georgia focused on human development. In retirement, she turned to creative writing to capture her richest experiences. Barbara's short story, Love Letter to Barbecue, was selected as a finalist for Preservation Foundation's 2025 story competition.