Bingo

We wanted to let her sit with us, but the extra folding chair would have required a substantial shift in the make-up of our bingo table.

As is our preference, the table is kept to three and three with nobody on the ends, because the rules of the St. Alma Hall dictates that “no one may sit on either end of a table while a game is in session.” We don’t know who came up with the rule, and it certainly wasn’t us, but it’s there, and there’s no hemming about it, not that we’re hemmers anyhow.

When Francine Elizabeth Martin approached the table that first Saturday in December, we had just decorated our cards with Christmas stickers--Rudolph and Frosty and Santa all along the green and red cards that are given out to each player. It’s one free card for the five dollar admission, and three dollars for each additional card. Most of us just take the one card, but Dolores Portnoy always gets two, but we don’t say anything about that. Let her do what she wants.

We don’t tell anybody how to play, the same way we don’t tell Dolores that she doesn’t need twenty-five different little doo-dads and what-not’s in front of her when she plays, and she also doesn’t need to touch each one at the start of a game for good luck. She buys most of them at yard sales and swap meets, and who knows if she washes them after she buys them, and even if she does, that doesn’t mean they’re lucky. If they were so lucky, they wouldn’t have wound up on the “Buy the Lot” table at the flea market next to Marie Patterson’s table where she sells the bowls she makes out of hermit crab shells.

That first Saturday in December, each of us had our little red hat on, and our Christmas sweaters, which always gets us compliments from everyone else in the hall. Not vocal compliments, mind you, but looks and tut-tuts that let us know people privately appreciate the effort we make to honor our Lord and Savior with some festive attire. We wear the sweaters all month long, except for Dolores, who has a different sweater for every Saturday, which we all think is a little much, but Dolores likes the holidays and not much else, so keep our mouths shut, because why not let her have a little joy in her life, especially with that thing growing out of her cheek that she refuses to have a doctor look at?

We had heard that there was a new woman at the church. A widow who had just moved here from Buffalo, but most newbies don’t show up at bingo until after they’ve been properly introduced to everyone after service over coffee and snacks. We hadn’t seen Francine Elizabeth Martin at service, even though she’d been in town since October, because she preferred the Friday night service rather than the traditional Sunday morning one.

Well, we all knew why.

The Friday night service is run by the younger priest, Father McCreevy, aged seventy-four, as opposed to the senior priest at the church, Father Donovan, anywhere between ninety and a hundred and twelve. The Friday night service moves along more quickly than the Sunday morning service, Father McCreevy being a fast talker and the volunteers at that service all the young husbands, who can collect donations faster than you can say ‘Peace Be With You.” Going to Friday service is considered cheating, since everybody knows the only real service is on Sunday, and Francine steadfastly attending the Friday service meant she might as well be part of another church.

That was fine with us, however, as we didn’t need another person at bingo. The game’s popularity already made winning at our table a rare occasion, although we did have the reputation of being luckier than most. Dolores had won a total of fifteen times in the course of a year, which was all right, since she’d certainly need the money now that her husband had run off with that plucky fifty-six year-old who lived next door and always watered her lawn with shorts on, if you can imagine such a thing.

Thelma had won seven times by that first Saturday in December. Margaret’s tally was eleven. The Other Thelma’s score was five. Patty had won twice, poor thing, she can’t catch a break. Her son has lupus and her other son never calls. It’s horrible. We can’t even talk about it. It’s just awful. Mary Elaine has won five times, same as the Other Thelma.

That would make us the most winning-est table at St. Alma’s Hall, but the table next to us was hot on our heels. They were a Bible Study group that had spun-off into their own table, and they were always honking and making a fuss whenever anybody at their table won, which we find so absolutely distasteful. One of them even had one of those hooters like you get at a child’s birthday party, and she’d blow into it whenever one of them called out “Bingo!” and the rest would laugh, and you know, we wouldn’t be surprised at all if it turned out some of them were drinking a bit before coming to the game. We don’t know if drinking is permitted at Bible Study, but even if it’s not, we wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what they did before they rolled into the hall like they were big-shots on the walk, strolling along their campus, or what have you. 

Margaret said she could smell liquor coming from their table one night, but when we reported it to Father Donovan, he asked us to please just worry about our own table, as there had been several complaints given to him about us sneering at other players.

Why, we had half a mind to move ourselves over to the Italian church on the other side of town. Of course, we never would do such a thing, but we had half a mind nonetheless.

Sneering?  Us?

You won’t find a friendlier group of people than the ones who sit at our table, and we’re sure all that love and kindness is oozing out of us for everyone to see, because why else would Francine Elizabeth Martin, finding herself at her very first game, feel like she could walk right up to our table and set down a folding chair next to the Other Thelma, who looked like she was going to have her third heart attack right there with her Santa hat on.

We all gave each other a look, and then we all looked at Mary Elaine, because while we don’t have a “leader” per se, if we did have one, Mary Elaine might be the de facto one, as she was the first female foreman at the bottling plant in town, and she doesn’t mind asserting herself, let me tell you that. It’s not that she isn’t friendly, but her voice does have a bark to it, and she’s been called on by the local library to come scare away the teenagers off the lawn when they get a little too rowdy.

Mary Elaine informed Francine Elizabeth Martin that there wasn’t enough room at the table for her, as we had three-and-three, and there can’t be anyone on the ends. Before Francine Elizabeth Martin could respond, Thelma, never able to censor herself after she had that stroke, asked Francine why she was only going to Friday mass when everybody knew that mass wasn’t a real mass and that the communion wafers at that one were left-overs from the previous Sunday, and why would you want to put a left-over wafer in your mouth?

Well, Francine Elizabeth Martin stood up just like Jesus on the Mountain, and said she had never been treated so rudely in her life. She raised up her voice in that hall loud enough for everyone to hear, and told us that she had been--quote-- “warned” about our table, but that she wanted to give us a chance, and now she could see that was a mistake, and she’d go sit somewhere else.

And wouldn’t you know it, after speaking to us that way, the elders of the church, those who in other, more savage societies would be worshiped, some of those other bingo-playing Judases actually clapped. We thought poor Patty would crawl under the table, she turned so red. Of course, that could just be her skin condition which keeps acting up, because she won’t use the skin cream Margaret keeps gifting her every Christmas as a hint that it might help her not look like the backside of a baboon every time something embarrasses her, which is nearly always.

But in this instance, we were all Poor Patty, except without the basement that’s riddling with mold and the car that’s never going to be paid off, because Lord knows she can’t afford it. We were mortified.

We watched as Francine Elizabeth Martin took her folding chair, barely sat in, and moved it to the Bible Study table, where she was met with their standard brand of obnoxious cheering and hugs, as though she were the Prodigal Daughter, returning home to waste more of her father’s money and probably drink up all his wine.

That night, the Bible Study table eclipsed us as they won game after game. Francine Elizabeth Martin, herself, won seven games alone, and by the seventh time she yelled “Bingo!” I was ready to take that hooter and shove it down her throat like those five-day old communion wafers she was so happy to eat.

We decided after that to move our Saturday bingo game to the new casino half an hour away. None of us like to drive at night, but the Other Thelma says her sister can take us, because she’s there every night anyway (Don’t ask) and we figure we’ll get a better welcome there and not have to put up with the kind of affront we were faced with at St. Alma’s.

Perhaps we’ll even make some new friends--provided we have room for them.

We hear the tables at the casino are so small. 

We may even have to cut loose Patty.

Poor thing.