The Same Old Numbers
Perhaps no one is more fascinated by Bingo than me. I can’t say that I’ve ever played a game of bingo at a parlor in my life, but I sure have worked many sessions. During that time I’ve come to loathe the game and the smoke-saturated environment that always permeates every hall. Yet despite my intense dislike, there’s something innocent and raw about both the game and the players that draws me. What follows is part two of a look at “Beano”, as it used to be known.
In part one, I looked at the organizational structure along with a brief history of Bingo. I gave a brief overview of Bingo in the Roanoke Valley. In this edition, I will delve into the unique world of the players.
Last Sunday, they were all there ready to play right as the clock struck 1:30. Some had warmed up by playing one of our instant scratch games. Others simply sat and organized the bingo sheets as they casually smoked one cigarette after another.
A gaggle of blue haired ladies, elegantly dressed with neat handbags and large bird broaches plastered on their solid colored turtleneck shirts, occupied the back row of the expansive room. Rumor had it among the players that the bingo hall is going to be torn down soon and a Lowe’s put in its place. Many, including the blue-haired ladies, were worried about where they would go to play Bingo if this place closed. One theory was that my charitable organization would head across town and get an unattractive Wednesday night spot at a rather dumpy bingo hall. The ladies didn’t much care for following us there if this place were torn down.
Certainly, as I hopped from table to table selling instant card game tickets in mostly $20 increments; this was the hot topic of conversation of the day. The thing I noticed most as I went from table to table was that even though these people rarely speak to one another, they seem to consider everyone there as members of the same family, and they even seem to share the exact same thoughts and bits of wisdom.
Bamboo Lady was there. This older gal with tangely, gray-streaked hair is a person you can count on. She is always there sitting in the same seat and with the same little potted bamboo plant beside her cards. I asked her how long she had been bringing her lucky plant with her and she told me that she wasn’t rightly sure, but maybe two or three years.
Two or three years of playing Bingo several times a week would have to exert some kind of financial impact on these players, yet they seem to arrive each week with wads of cash. I don’t really understand how they can afford to play. They must be millionaires. I’m a fairly modest middle class person, and I can’t imagine spending more than $100 on my entertainment in any single month. Yet these players all drop hundreds of dollars on their game every time they play. Many of them play several times a week. As much as they play, they really don’t win very often because what usually happens is that one of the players gets hot and wins multiple games. I’m not sure why that is.
Sunday, this one large black man with a short graying hairstyle won time after time. In one game, he won on two different cards at the same time. Pretty amazing stuff. Earlier in the afternoon before the action got all cranked up, I was visiting the restroom when this very man walked in. He found a spot beside me and began carrying on a conversation with me. Now usually men are not very chatty with strangers as they are relieving themselves. But this guy immediately started in by wishing me good luck in the afternoon’s games. When I explained to him that I was a worker, he immediately became curious about our organization. So I told him we represented a local athletic booster club, and he immediately had a story to tell me about the ex-football team’s coach. It seems he used to work in the same place as the ex-football team’s coach’s wife back in the early 70’s “…and man was she something to look at back then. I mean that lady was mighty fine.” We talked a few minutes more in that empty bathroom before I wished him good luck and went about my business. Later when he’d won, I told him that he owned me a percentage of his winnings for wishing him good luck.
I remember one young man from another parlor I worked who would come in absolutely stuffed with cash. He’d then proceed to buy instant ticket after ticket. Sometimes, he’d even buy the whole box, guaranteeing himself to be a winner. Of course, you can’t win that way, because a box has about a $200 dollar profit built in to it, maybe more. So when the guy would buy a box, he’d be losing money. That didn’t seem to faze him. He’d just whip out wad after wad of cash. All tens, twenties, and fifties. I often wondered if this was some scheme to pass counterfeit bills or to launder drug money.
Withered old man was there. He or someone just like him always shows up. In fact most afternoons, many withered old men dot the room. You can always spot them. They are always so thin they could slide through the crack of a slightly opened door with ease. They always wear worn jeans and tired t-shirts. Covering their slightly balding heads and crowning their Elvis sideburns are some type of mine worker hats, usually those softball type hats with the plastic adjustment tabs on the back. These guys always look as if they have scored their last breath upon this world before they exit for the hereafter. The cigarettes they draw toward their toothless faces seem longer than their hard pointed chins. These men are both brittle and everlasting. They don’t have much to say; they just stare straight ahead with their beady coal eyes.
Sitting on one side about midway back from the front of the room sat a man who was out of place. He was a fairly tall and trim mid-30’s white man who was wearing a nice pair of blue jeans, a freshly pressed Arrow pinstriped shirt, and a large expensive looking wristwatch. He studied his bingo sheets from behind his stylish wire rim glasses as a bookie might pour over horses at a horse race. This man exuded class and fine standing. He didn’t seem to fit in. In fact, he sat there throughout the whole afternoon without smiling or saying anything at all. I was very suspicious of him. Perhaps he was from the Bingo Commission.
Probably the most interesting conversation I eavesdropped on as I went about my business involved two real characters, a mother and a daughter-I think. The mother-like person was one decrepit old lady who looked to be barely clinging to life. I had seen her many times before at the bingo halls I’ve worked. I didn’t actually see her arrive, and although she had a cane beside her, I can’t believe that she actually walked in. I think she was just plastered to the chair from the previous night’s game. She was dressed in a nice holiday red sweatshirt and had giant ball shaped earrings stretching her old ear lobes to the ground. Her wild, matted gray hair almost covered the huge vertical scar that ran from her right ear to just above her collarbone. I can only imagine what hideous surgery she must have experienced. Yet that didn’t keep her from sucking down her menthol Virginia Slims one smoky stick after another.
Her “daughter” was a different looking lass. She was of indeterminate age. Back when I was a weight/age guesser at an amusement park, she would be the type of person you could never accurately guess their age. This gal looked about forty-five, but she was probably much younger. She had a butch haircut covered by a Firehouse Subs hat. This rather chunky, block-shaped miss sported a worn pair of bib overalls that covered a nice plaid shirt.
Once as I was walking behind them, I stopped to watch a little of one of the games. I don’t think either of these ladies noticed that I was standing right behind them when the Firehouse Sub gal leaned over to her mother and said, “Man, I sure know why my luck stinks lately.”
[pause/inhale]
“Why’s that?” grunted her mother.
[pause]
“Cause I ain’t had me no sex lately.”
[pause]
“ Know whatcha mean.” The mother replied solemnly.
That’s about when I silently walked away from that very dangerous couple. Later, I was standing some distance from them when I happened to see that the old mother was having some type of conniption. I was about to go over to her when I saw her start to throw up. She immediately put her hand to her mouth and caught the whole wad of foamy white stuff, mostly saving her cards from a smelly soaking. Then she threw what she could in the trash can beside her and wiped her hands clean on a napkin. As a true bingo professional, she continued to play. I decided I had better check on her, so I went over and asked the daughter if she needed anything? The mother immediately and proudly interjected, surprising me by asking for $20 in instant cards. Then she reached into her bra and pulled out a wad of bills and passed me the money with her contaminated hand.
You just have to love bingo players. They’re so down to earth. I was just a little repulsed by this old lady’s actions and immediately went off to tell my co-workers about the duo and their sexual frustrations. Everyone had a good chuckle. That’s when one lady told me about a guy who used to come in to the hall every Sunday. Each Sunday, the VA (Veterans’ Administration) van would drop this old coot off at the hall and he would play. This, of course, is a fairly normal thing except the wounds with which this man was burdened kept him from swallowing food. Yet, he would order massive quantities of food from the snack bar anyway and would sit there nibbling on his meals throughout the afternoon. He’d take a bite, chew it up, then spit it out on his plate. At the end of the session, the workers would have to clear away his pile of chewed food.
My absolute all time favorite bingo player had to be this old blue haired lady who would visit another bingo hall I worked a few years ago. Before each session, she would waddle in to the room with her walker, rolling oxygen bottle, and lit cigarette dangling from her mouth like a character from an Andy Capp comic strip. I was always amazed to see her fire up smoke after smoke in between breaths of pure, flammable oxygen. Frankly, I anticipated seeing her simply ignite one day, a spontaneous combustion, perhaps taking a few of her nearest competitors with her when her bottle exploded.
Sadly, that lady stopped coming after a while. Same is true with Mr. and Mrs. L. I haven’t seen them for some time now. That’s the case with most bingo players. In reality, it’s a dying game played by dying contestants. One wise player told me Sunday, “You know what it is?...”
“What’s that?”
[pause/inhale]
“It’s the same old numbers over and over again.”
In part one, I looked at the organizational structure along with a brief history of Bingo. I gave a brief overview of Bingo in the Roanoke Valley. In this edition, I will delve into the unique world of the players.
Last Sunday, they were all there ready to play right as the clock struck 1:30. Some had warmed up by playing one of our instant scratch games. Others simply sat and organized the bingo sheets as they casually smoked one cigarette after another.
A gaggle of blue haired ladies, elegantly dressed with neat handbags and large bird broaches plastered on their solid colored turtleneck shirts, occupied the back row of the expansive room. Rumor had it among the players that the bingo hall is going to be torn down soon and a Lowe’s put in its place. Many, including the blue-haired ladies, were worried about where they would go to play Bingo if this place closed. One theory was that my charitable organization would head across town and get an unattractive Wednesday night spot at a rather dumpy bingo hall. The ladies didn’t much care for following us there if this place were torn down.
Certainly, as I hopped from table to table selling instant card game tickets in mostly $20 increments; this was the hot topic of conversation of the day. The thing I noticed most as I went from table to table was that even though these people rarely speak to one another, they seem to consider everyone there as members of the same family, and they even seem to share the exact same thoughts and bits of wisdom.
Bamboo Lady was there. This older gal with tangely, gray-streaked hair is a person you can count on. She is always there sitting in the same seat and with the same little potted bamboo plant beside her cards. I asked her how long she had been bringing her lucky plant with her and she told me that she wasn’t rightly sure, but maybe two or three years.
Two or three years of playing Bingo several times a week would have to exert some kind of financial impact on these players, yet they seem to arrive each week with wads of cash. I don’t really understand how they can afford to play. They must be millionaires. I’m a fairly modest middle class person, and I can’t imagine spending more than $100 on my entertainment in any single month. Yet these players all drop hundreds of dollars on their game every time they play. Many of them play several times a week. As much as they play, they really don’t win very often because what usually happens is that one of the players gets hot and wins multiple games. I’m not sure why that is.
Sunday, this one large black man with a short graying hairstyle won time after time. In one game, he won on two different cards at the same time. Pretty amazing stuff. Earlier in the afternoon before the action got all cranked up, I was visiting the restroom when this very man walked in. He found a spot beside me and began carrying on a conversation with me. Now usually men are not very chatty with strangers as they are relieving themselves. But this guy immediately started in by wishing me good luck in the afternoon’s games. When I explained to him that I was a worker, he immediately became curious about our organization. So I told him we represented a local athletic booster club, and he immediately had a story to tell me about the ex-football team’s coach. It seems he used to work in the same place as the ex-football team’s coach’s wife back in the early 70’s “…and man was she something to look at back then. I mean that lady was mighty fine.” We talked a few minutes more in that empty bathroom before I wished him good luck and went about my business. Later when he’d won, I told him that he owned me a percentage of his winnings for wishing him good luck.
I remember one young man from another parlor I worked who would come in absolutely stuffed with cash. He’d then proceed to buy instant ticket after ticket. Sometimes, he’d even buy the whole box, guaranteeing himself to be a winner. Of course, you can’t win that way, because a box has about a $200 dollar profit built in to it, maybe more. So when the guy would buy a box, he’d be losing money. That didn’t seem to faze him. He’d just whip out wad after wad of cash. All tens, twenties, and fifties. I often wondered if this was some scheme to pass counterfeit bills or to launder drug money.
Withered old man was there. He or someone just like him always shows up. In fact most afternoons, many withered old men dot the room. You can always spot them. They are always so thin they could slide through the crack of a slightly opened door with ease. They always wear worn jeans and tired t-shirts. Covering their slightly balding heads and crowning their Elvis sideburns are some type of mine worker hats, usually those softball type hats with the plastic adjustment tabs on the back. These guys always look as if they have scored their last breath upon this world before they exit for the hereafter. The cigarettes they draw toward their toothless faces seem longer than their hard pointed chins. These men are both brittle and everlasting. They don’t have much to say; they just stare straight ahead with their beady coal eyes.
Sitting on one side about midway back from the front of the room sat a man who was out of place. He was a fairly tall and trim mid-30’s white man who was wearing a nice pair of blue jeans, a freshly pressed Arrow pinstriped shirt, and a large expensive looking wristwatch. He studied his bingo sheets from behind his stylish wire rim glasses as a bookie might pour over horses at a horse race. This man exuded class and fine standing. He didn’t seem to fit in. In fact, he sat there throughout the whole afternoon without smiling or saying anything at all. I was very suspicious of him. Perhaps he was from the Bingo Commission.
Probably the most interesting conversation I eavesdropped on as I went about my business involved two real characters, a mother and a daughter-I think. The mother-like person was one decrepit old lady who looked to be barely clinging to life. I had seen her many times before at the bingo halls I’ve worked. I didn’t actually see her arrive, and although she had a cane beside her, I can’t believe that she actually walked in. I think she was just plastered to the chair from the previous night’s game. She was dressed in a nice holiday red sweatshirt and had giant ball shaped earrings stretching her old ear lobes to the ground. Her wild, matted gray hair almost covered the huge vertical scar that ran from her right ear to just above her collarbone. I can only imagine what hideous surgery she must have experienced. Yet that didn’t keep her from sucking down her menthol Virginia Slims one smoky stick after another.
Her “daughter” was a different looking lass. She was of indeterminate age. Back when I was a weight/age guesser at an amusement park, she would be the type of person you could never accurately guess their age. This gal looked about forty-five, but she was probably much younger. She had a butch haircut covered by a Firehouse Subs hat. This rather chunky, block-shaped miss sported a worn pair of bib overalls that covered a nice plaid shirt.
Once as I was walking behind them, I stopped to watch a little of one of the games. I don’t think either of these ladies noticed that I was standing right behind them when the Firehouse Sub gal leaned over to her mother and said, “Man, I sure know why my luck stinks lately.”
[pause/inhale]
“Why’s that?” grunted her mother.
[pause]
“Cause I ain’t had me no sex lately.”
[pause]
“ Know whatcha mean.” The mother replied solemnly.
That’s about when I silently walked away from that very dangerous couple. Later, I was standing some distance from them when I happened to see that the old mother was having some type of conniption. I was about to go over to her when I saw her start to throw up. She immediately put her hand to her mouth and caught the whole wad of foamy white stuff, mostly saving her cards from a smelly soaking. Then she threw what she could in the trash can beside her and wiped her hands clean on a napkin. As a true bingo professional, she continued to play. I decided I had better check on her, so I went over and asked the daughter if she needed anything? The mother immediately and proudly interjected, surprising me by asking for $20 in instant cards. Then she reached into her bra and pulled out a wad of bills and passed me the money with her contaminated hand.
You just have to love bingo players. They’re so down to earth. I was just a little repulsed by this old lady’s actions and immediately went off to tell my co-workers about the duo and their sexual frustrations. Everyone had a good chuckle. That’s when one lady told me about a guy who used to come in to the hall every Sunday. Each Sunday, the VA (Veterans’ Administration) van would drop this old coot off at the hall and he would play. This, of course, is a fairly normal thing except the wounds with which this man was burdened kept him from swallowing food. Yet, he would order massive quantities of food from the snack bar anyway and would sit there nibbling on his meals throughout the afternoon. He’d take a bite, chew it up, then spit it out on his plate. At the end of the session, the workers would have to clear away his pile of chewed food.
My absolute all time favorite bingo player had to be this old blue haired lady who would visit another bingo hall I worked a few years ago. Before each session, she would waddle in to the room with her walker, rolling oxygen bottle, and lit cigarette dangling from her mouth like a character from an Andy Capp comic strip. I was always amazed to see her fire up smoke after smoke in between breaths of pure, flammable oxygen. Frankly, I anticipated seeing her simply ignite one day, a spontaneous combustion, perhaps taking a few of her nearest competitors with her when her bottle exploded.
Sadly, that lady stopped coming after a while. Same is true with Mr. and Mrs. L. I haven’t seen them for some time now. That’s the case with most bingo players. In reality, it’s a dying game played by dying contestants. One wise player told me Sunday, “You know what it is?...”
“What’s that?”
[pause/inhale]
“It’s the same old numbers over and over again.”
No comments:
Post a Comment