B-One

Scanning the pile of saved newspaper sections on the ottoman of my favorite comfy chair, I recently came across one that had several articles of interest - details of a yoga practice for beginners, tips for indulging in a Caribbean Christmas, the controversy over full body scans at airport security, a look at the state of today's bingo halls.  It was no contest - bingo halls all the way.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/28/nyregion/28bingo.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=bingo%20in%20the%20blood&st=cse

The bingo hall experience is one from my childhood and it was given to me by my maternal grandmother, Elizabeth. Much to the chagrin of her husband and my grandfather, Vincent, Elizabeth was enamored with attending bingo games.  And to avoid Vincent's terse displeasure about her indulgence in this hobby, Elizabeth devised various shrewed tactics to get to the bingo table.  Elizabeth had many hobbies and led a very full, active life, but this one facet just fascinated me because her participation in bingo transformed her into a mischievous young girl whose eyes twinkled when she was among her fellow bingo babes.

And yes, the bingo hall was filled mostly with women and a smattering of daring men.   The men were either there out of boredom or attempting to make some money. They also could hold their own in a hall full of the other gender. While the game does not exude masculine traits, the location is, in my opinion, quite manly in its starkness.  Back then it was like a smoke-filled boxing arena minus the ring.  Blaring artificial lighting, monotonous rows of chipped-top tables, clanging metal chairs - nothing soft about it.  Yet, it was a haven mostly populated with female attendees. Talk about the feminine mystique! 

I do not recall how I came to be the partner in crime with Elizabeth, but it probably had something to do with being the youngest grandchild and providing a smokescreen for her stealthy departure.  I am sure Vincent was told we were heading to one location together, while the bingo hall was our real target. Elizabeth used to tell me not to utter the 'b-word' - she instead called it 'the secret.'  (She was light years ahead of author Rhonda Byrne's highly touted controversial book, "The Secret.")  Vincent was no fool.  He just could not compete with Elizabeth's focus.  They were quite a pair. I especially loved it when Elizabeth would attend church bingo, whose pedigree edged slightly above the pedestrian bingo hall.  Jesus and I both served as a cover for the ever clever, always motivated, Elizabeth. 

It makes me chuckle to recall our bingo hall moments. While playing the game of chance would seem to be a lighthearted endeavor as a little bit of gambling and some camaraderie blended into one austere setting.  But no.  It was a gathering of formidable players whose interest was twofold: hearing the next number and being the first one to yell the word, "Bingo!"   Simple. Direct. Primitive.

What fascinated me the most in those number-filled halls were the tabletops carpeted with seemingly limitless rows of bingo cards. The introduction of multi-colored bingo daubers (yes, that is their official name) revolutionized the speed of the game, yet it is one incident that occurred during the time when players covered the cards with plastic discs that is seared into my memory.  I did not witness this firsthand, but the story holds magnum opus status in my family.  It also explains Vincent's disdain for bingo.

He once attended a game with Elizabeth. Vincent, who emigrated from Italy early in the 20th century, could only write his name and never learned to read during his eighty-plus years on the planet. Incredibly, he did all of the food shopping and scanned the supermarket fliers, looking at the food photos and the numbers associated with them to discern the weekly prices of lettuce or chicken. He adapted magnificently. 

Except for bingo.  

Apparently, in the heat of a series of bingo games one evening, Vincent came close multiple times to having the needed numbers to win.  In his last game, he thought he heard his number which would have catapulted him to the winner's circle.  He was mistaken.  Embarrassed and frustrated, Vincent said nothing, but in an embittered gesture, swept his cards with one angry thrust of his arm and threw them along with their companion chips up toward the harshly lit bingo hall ceiling, creating a confetti shower of disappointment.   

With no words, Vincent acted out his final say about bingo. 

Elizabeth was mortified but undeterred.  I imagine this is the opening that ushered me on to the gambling scene.  I would sit next to my grandmother, fascinated by the many cards, the colored chips, daubers, the mixed scents of perfume and smoke, and the clarion call of numbers with their associated letters.  I sometimes would even get my very own card (well, really one of Elizabeth's, but I could pretend it was mine).  She and some of her nearby friends would rub my head often as a good luck gesture.  Playing a minor role in her theatrical past-time brought me such joy.  Feeling included in this seductive, mystifying effort where players could yell out one word of victory and momentarily be a winner hooked me.

Sitting alongside this strong, generous, and humorous woman was the real gift in our bingo hall forays.  Thank you Elizabeth.  In bingo terms, to B-One with you was sweet victory.