Oh Darn…Did Someone Say Bingo?

    It is nice to do something you’ve never done before as long as it is within the letter of the law and not against a moral code…that is what I think…so when my friend Chris asked me to join him at the bingo hall, I thought it would be fun…I always loved Bingo as a kid, and it also meant that I would be able to enjoy his company as well…so I went. It was a learning experience.
    I asked Chris something about what happens at Bingo and first thing I learned was that there still are some public places in the state of California that still allow smoking…health laws do not apply. No it is not on an Indian Reservation. It’s right here in our wonderful valley. Surprise! I am a non-smoker, so I begged and pleaded and graveled, having received and accepted the invitation to the Bingo event, and said, “Please please Honey, Sweetie Pie, Baby…could you go in the non smoking for me? Huh…could- you- could -you huh? Cigarette smoke makes me sick. My heart does flip-flops. My strength leaves my body, I was exposed to too much as a kid…blah blah blah…I got super saturated!”
    Chris told me no…then he said yes and only one time it would never happen again…he cut his eyes and was not smiling…because smoking was pleasurable with Bingo. I understood, and appreciated his valiant sacrifice…he would smoke at break times only…so I went before him to the Bingo Hall and saved a seat directly across from his “Lucky Seat” in the non-smoking section. The not- so-lucky seat I saved and his lucky seat was separated by a pane of glass between the non-smoking and the smoking centers of the Bingo Hall five feet closer to the caller. Second thing I learned was that Bingo people have “special seats”…kind of like folks who have to sit in the same pew in church each Sunday. I could appreciate that. So I sat and waited for my special friend to arrive clinging to the closest chair I could find, per instructions, to the lucky one across the line of smoke/non-smoke demarcation.
    Finally Chris arrived. He would buy a book of cards and go half with me on my book, and we’d split the winnings. It seemed like a deal to me.
    We left jackets and the bingo bag behind at the table to save our places and got in line for the cards. He glanced back toward his “lucky chair” through the glass like a hungry dog does the window of a butcher shop.
It was then Chris looked at me and said, “It just doesn’t feel right. Let’s skip Bingo. Forget it. I can’t do this.”
    He looked like I’d not only rained on his parade…I hailed on it. I didn’t realize until that precise moment what a ritual this thing really was. I was starting to get the psychological profile of the Bingo enthusiast into perspective. Knowing that this was “his thing” and that it gave him great pleasure he was willing to sacrifice, I hugged him and said I would tough it out in the smoking section. I knew it was more about being compulsive at that point rather than being inconsiderate, and he had offered to simply not play; I would just shower and shampoo immediately when I got home. Having hashed all this out, we moved the Bingo Bag to the lucky chair area.
    Chris was patient and set up our books in order of different games and colors. He had borrowed his mom’s Bingo Bag that had various colors of ink in bottles called daubers with felt tips…much cooler than those little red round things that always fall off the cards I remembered as a kid. The Bingo Bag also had funny little gremlin type things with clips on them that held receipts and tickets for drawings. Because I was a “Newby” I got a consolation dauber when I paid for my card that was purple and shaped not unlike…believe it or not…a man’s appendage. I don’t know if that was for psychological purposes or not, but when I pointed it out to my friend, he laughed and agreed. Together we daubed out wild numbers in preparation for various games on our paper cards…all different colors for different games…it was almost like a scientific procedure doing set up.
    The games consisted of different arrangements… three bingos on one card, a six pack and one bingo…that is three and three side by side…black out which is all the numbers…four in the corners…where all the corners are done four in a row…and a four pack…it went on and on. I was in good hands and learning.
    Surprisingly there was great food at the Bingo Hall too. I was doing a special health detox diet, so I had brought along my concoction of limejuice, grade b maple syrup and cayenne pepper…hot…in a thermos. Gag me with a spoon someone! I looked around the room and party tables had been set up. Some people brought pic-nic baskets full of grand foods and cakes and feasts that looked like a protestant potluck. It was party time…I had to smile.
    Looking further, I saw little lucky statues, lucky charms, lucky stuffed animals and all kinds of “lucky things” put in front of the cards. Yep! Superstition was a common thread. I bet those folks took the same chair each time too like Chris. I plunked down a small stuffed lizard someone at work gave me as a lucky token at the last minute when I announced I was going to play Bingo that night.
    Soon the room was full. The air conditioner-smoke suckers were on full speed. I looked loathingly at the ashtrays on the table. My friend said as we were at the end of the table it was an advantage point to avoid the drift of cigarettes, which was true.
    The game began. Because my eyes are slow to track due to my medical condition, Chris helped me get going and looked over my shoulder a lot. He did have a vested interest, but bye and bye I go the knack of it.
    It is imperative to be quiet so the caller of numbers can be heard. As luck would have it, a party of four came in one row away from us at the last minute. One of them was an obnoxious birthday boy named Richie. Why Richie had to come to Bingo on his birthday is beyond me. It was obviouis he had never played before. He was a motor mouth and would not shut up. He obviously had a few beers before coming. My friend and I looked at each other. The lady three seats down from us yelled, “Shut up,” in Richie’s direction. My friend and I looked at each other. Richie was oblivious. He rambled on. “Go home!” she yelled this time. Richie rambled. Finally, after several more strong explanative that were not heeded the security guard, a young girl, giggled at Richie and asked him to be quiet. He still rambled on. It got to the point that my friend and I were paying more attention to Richie than Bingo because he was getting under our skin. Next thing we heard was a loud “BINGO!” Yep! It is an unfair world. Richie won $250.00. Happy Birthday Richie. Chris looked up at me from across the table in utter disgust and said, “Figures. Wouldn’t you know it!”
    We shook our heads and laughed at the irony of it all.
    Finally Richie shut up. “Thank God!” I said to Chris, whose back was to Richie. “He’s eating a plate of food. His mouth is busy chewing.”
    We laughed again.
    People began to smoke. Never mind the drift of smoke. We were in a cloud. There had to be a cigarette smoke pal over the city of Vacaville coming out of the vent of the smoke sucker. The smoke suckers sucked air out of the room but not fast enough. Some old boy sat down next to my friend and lit up. The palms of his hands looked like beef jerky. They were totally smoked out. There was no line of head or heart. A gypsy would be hard put to read it. He began to cough and wheeze. Several rows over some woman coughed out the last bit of air in her lungs…there was nothing left. Chris and I looked at each other once more and he mumbled something about calling 911. My chest started to feel tight and my heart started beating faster. Then my liver area started to hurt…next my kidneys. All the filters in my body were in overdrive. During the break I went outside and ventilated my system, breathing deeply like I did the ether when I was in third stage labor delivering my daughter.
    After break, back in the Bingo Hall the games continued. We had close calls, but no luck, despite the lucky chair and the little gremlin chomping the ticket and receipt in his grip in front of my friend or the small stuffed lizard in front of me. My friend Chris said I needed to concentrate on the numbers to win more…kidding…I think.
    There were people walking around the room in different colored aprons selling pull-tab tickets that are possible wins for different denominations of money. Most of them are just throwaways, but some have numbers too that co-inside with special Bingo plays. The prizes are big ones. These are called scratch. When a player wishes to buy scratch he will call out scratch. Pretty soon from different corners of the room one could hear “scratch” being called. Remember Richie the birthday boy? He had finished his spaghetti and bread and picked up on this. His mouth was ready to move again. He began quacking every time someone said “scratch”. My friend and I looked across the table at each other. “Quack”…”Quack”…went Richie.
    “It does sound like that,” Chris said looking up at me, choking back his laughter, his eyes tearing. I started laughing too. Soon we sounded like the lady several aisles over who had choked out the last bit of air with a puff of her cigarette. Our tears streamed. Our body’s shook. It was insane. You had to be there to appreciate this. “Scratch…quack….Scratch…quack.” Yes Richie, you were obnoxious, but you redeemed yourself in the end; thanks for the laugh. He gave the word scratch new definition; it will never be the same.
    That night we didn’t win anything, money-wise, unless you want to count a couple bucks on the game tickets, which we exchanged for more. We certainly were not alone. It got close…really close. We “sat”….that is the term for almost being there….one number off here…two numbers off there. The night’s game benefited the high school band. That was a good thing. We got some good laughs. I got an education in Bingo 101…or was that B-13. Whoops! Now I’m confused.

    Scratch that! “Quack!”

Jennifer Grant