Hiding out in the 'Zarks (Nov 07)

The quintessential elderly American pastime: Bingo. While in self-imposed seclusion at my family’s lake house in rural mid-Missouri working on a graduate school research paper, I found myself craving a little human interaction with a bit of local flavor. A gentlemen’s club you say?-No. I was thinking of something a little more scandalous and a lot less expensive. I remembered seeing about a half dozen signs on my way through the various small towns surrounding the area all advertising Bingo sponsored by one of the many “clubs” in the community. I quick Google search provided the Bingo schedule for the week—The Lion’s Club not far from where I was staying was hosting tonight and a quick call there produced the start time: 6pm. “Do you have to be there right at the start?” I asked hoping to see if I could show up later and still play. “Oh no, you can come as early as 4:30pm if you like,” the sweet old lady on the phone responded, clearly misinterpreting my request. Or was it I who was mistaken about what exactly I was beginning to get myself involved in. Not having a clue about whom or what the Lion’s Club was or stood for, I took a chance that they weren’t the local fundamentalist group and headed to their hall. Hell, they might even have beer!
I arrived there at approximately a quarter ‘til 6pm and was immediately greeted by one of my soon to be new friends, Bob. “How you doing neighbor?” he chimed. He must have sensed that I was lost among the sea of people (ok, maybe 40). Or was it that he saw a 25 year old man walk into the Bingo hall filled with no one under 55 years old? He probably remembered that the last time this scenario played out, the till was robbed and Betty Lou fainted at the sight of a gun. No, I wasn’t there to rob the place I assured and proceeded to tell him that I was here to get in on the hot Bingo action. Seeing that his club was now in the running for having one of the nation’s youngest Lion’s Club recruits, he eagerly helped explain the rules for Bingo. “Rules,” I thought? 5 in a row---down, across, or diagonal—this isn’t rocket science, right?” Wrong. He then proceeded to list the 150 types a Bingo that were to be played that night along the numerous and incomprehensible rules for each game. My head started to spin and I looked around the room wondering how NASA had managed to have its retired employees all living in one small town. Just as I was about to bolt for the door, Bob said “Oh, and the progressive pot for game #12 has reached $1,700 and someone is sure to win it tonight.” “Bingo!” I thought (pun intended) as visions of Vegas danced in my head. So, still not knowing even a quarter of the rules, I decided to buy several of the various Bingo sheets required to play and Bob and his cronies assured me that they would help me along if I became confused during the games. A female Lion’s Club member asked if I had a Bingo marker and I replied “no..” while looking around and seeing every player in possession of at least 2 of each of the 15 different colors of ink marking sticks that were sold at the hall (used to blot out the number called). I would later surmise that this had to be some sort of status indicator in the Bingo hierarchy as only one marker was needed to play but almost everyone (or mostly the ladies) had at least 20 along with their glittery marker carrying case.
Right before the commencement of the games, a Lion’s Club member made an announcement that anyone under 16 years old was not allowed to play or be in the hall in accordance with Missouri gaming laws. I stared around in disbelief at the notion that someone of that age would be caught dead here anyway. Maybe the announcement meant anyone with less than 16 years of AARP membership was not allowed to play? If that was the case, they made an exception for me, probably due my prospective status as a Lion’s Club pledge (I heard they haze terribly). And so the games began and I began to scramble to scan my one sheet, which consisted of 6 Bingo cards. It was nearly impossible to scan and mark accurately before the next number was called. I had one sheet while most of the nearby players were playing at least 3sheets at time. I saw several look my way with smirks and I swear I saw one older lady with a beau font hairdo laugh and mutter “rookie…” “Oh, it’s on now,” I thought while picturing myself walking out of the hall with their precious $1,700 progressive pot. This bubble burst when I vaguely recalled a news article I had previously read that described the brutal beating a Bingo newcomer received by disgruntled regulars after he won the highly desired jackpot. This scenario seemed even more plausible in my head after I recalled a conversation I had minutes before with Bob when he explained or should I say stressed that if I win a game I should not yell “Bingo” until after the number is called, even though it is displayed 30 seconds earlier on the TV monitor (yes, there is a TV monitor for those hard of hearing—which incidentally was everyone but me). I then realized that I should have asked Bob about the penalty for such an infraction of Bingo rules, although it was inferred later on when I saw more than one player with an arm amputated at the wrist. Seeing my overwhelmed and frustrated look as I tried to keep up with the game, another new friend, Joan, sat down next to me to play and help me out. Joan and her husband were regulars on the Bingo circuit and she stated boastfully that her husband “called” Bingo 6 nights a week. And speaking of which, the bingo caller is like the alpha male of the group or the king in the Bingo hierarchy. It is said in elderly circles that this coveted position is obtained either with the death of the present caller or with the challenge of a duel (with canes that is) by a prospective player. And at the hall that night, the caller was relishing his position of power and seemed to use an exaggeratedly deep voice as if he was trying to beckon the female players and convey the vibe “hey ladies, the best parts of me still work.” An elderly mating call if you will.
As the different games rolled on, none of which I won, I noticed that one lady had already won several games. Joan, who up until now carried the face of a saint and was a sweet as apple pie, snidely said “that’s because she plays 6 Bingo sheets at once.” “There’s no way she wins as much money as she spends buying all those cards,” a nearby white-haired lady concurred. “Ladies, ladies,” I thought while contemplating about how this avid Bingo player was just playing the odds. I briefly considered defending Crazy Bingo Lady’s strategy but decided against it lest I fall into the ill graces of Joan and the gang. The competitive nature of the players was evident in the silence that accompanied the games. Been thinking that your dear old grandmother has been going to the Rotary Club to socialize and fundraise? No, she has been most likely involved in high stakes Bingo, where cutthroat play and threats of violence is the norm. Well, that may be overstating it, but regardless this hall carried a vibe that made me wary to win. Even the lady playing near me kept chastising the Bingo caller to “shake it up, shake it up!” whenever he called the same number twice in a short amount of time. As if this mattered in this competitive but glorified game of chance. During another game, I noticed a gentleman come up to my sweet Joanie and whisper (which in the elderly world is more like a softened yell) “do you have any L-120’s?” I was beginning to wonder if Joan was involved in some sort of back alley contraband dealing (I later found out this was a hearing aid battery type). Man, this place had everything I liked in a night out on the town: fun, excitable women, shady dealings, and a shot at unearned money. The only thing the place was missing was booze. I later found out that not long ago the Lion’s Club sold beer at their Bingo Night, but all that ended when Mary Helen and Betty slugged it out over a simultaneous Bingo win and Old Creepy John earned his nickname. Unfortunately, the night ended without a win and I found myself about $45 lighter. I definitely think the FBI should look into Bingo halls as the number one launderer of Social Security money as I’m positive that the regulars dropped around $75-$100 that night. All in all, I felt lucky to be part of the elderly gambling underworld and my new friends were sure to have my back in future encounters around town—should say I need advice on which stores take double coupons or which restaurants give unlimited coffee refills. I’m not sure if I will be back on the Bingo circuit soon, but for the money and for the preview of what the last 20 years of my life has in store for it, it was well worth it.