by Dawn Dumont
Around six pm, Mom, Grandma and assorted aunts and uncles would feel compelled to crowd into a car together. No matter that they spent the day fighting over who stole whose hoe or who hocked whose television, at the end of the day they were all willing warriors in the same noble fight. They would hurry one another into the car with their little margarine containers filled to the brim with red, blue, and green button markers and head to the nearest bingo.
Us kids would see the bingo players off as we sat on the front steps, a dog or cat tucked between our legs as we inspected them for wood ticks. We’d interrupt our picking to wave at the grown-ups. Then, as soon as the car was out of sight, we’d squash the fat bloated ticks into bloody mush under our sneakers and head to the backyard to do stuff we weren’t supposed to. Having a bonfire and chasing each other around with fire-tipped sticks was always a relaxing way to spend the evening.
If we complained to Mom about how much she went to bingo, she would remind us that our dad was off somewhere drinking to his heart’s content. Others of his ilk surrounded him, and at the moment they were draining our bank account dry. “Would you like me to be like that, a drunk who never comes home and never helps out with his kids?”
Presented with the other choice, bingo seemed to be the correct one. Besides, a mom only got in the way during our busy schedule of dangerous evening activities.
The first bingos our family attended were held in band halls, scheduled between the chief’s meeting and the first aid training. Our bingo players dutifully travelled from one reserve to another in their crowded car.
Their need for different games and bigger jackpots drove them to try different bingos. First they branched out to Catholic Church bingos, then, disappointed by the lack of high jackpots and the prowling nuns in the aisles, they added Protestant bingos to their schedule. When they ran out of those, they expanded their area to include bingos held in small towns. At first it was awkward sitting next to the same white people who glared at Native people when they walked into their stores, but after sharing a few fingernail-biting jackpots, racism faded into the background as they concentrated on the true enemy:
“Goddamn fuckin’ bingo caller!”
“I only needed one number for a fucking hour.”
“Last fucking time I play at this hall!”
Finally when their appetite was whetted and they felt ready, like truly ready, they went to a bingo in the big city. You had to be prepared for that bingo though; you had to feel it in your heart that you could make it among the big boys. (You also had to have enough gas in your tank.)
City bingos were held in huge monoliths built to honour the bingo gods. Dedicated players could attend bingo from morning until night until morning again. Once you entered such a bingo palace, there would be no reason to ever leave again, if you played your cards right, that is.
My mom took me to my first bingo game as a reward for being a good girl which in my case meant not hitting my sister or brother for sixty minutes in a row (or more likely that Mom hadn’t witnessed me bullying them in said time frame.) I was suitably excited. It was one-on-one Mom time, which was rare in a house where four kids and an infinite number of cousins were all clamoring for her attention.
Lots of people brought their kids to bingo. The hall was located next to a playground for this very reason. I knew that my friends Layla and Trina would be perched on that playground equipment. When I arrived, I waved at them and headed in their direction only to be pulled short by my mom.
“Where you going?”
“To play with my friends.”
“You’re here to play bingo, not to have fun.”
I mouthed the words, “I have to play” to my friends as she escorted me inside the hall.
Instead of being disappointed, my heart surged. I was gonna play bingo! I had played in school before but that wasn’t real bingo because in school, everyone won. Even Boris who spilt his milk all over his cards won, for god’s sake. This would be real. There would be a bingo caller who had dedicated his or her life to pronouncing numbers in a numb monotone. There would be runners who would hurry to the side of a person who yelled bingo, grab their card and then race the card to the front where it would be verified by the caller and the manager. The runners were like fleet deer and someday I wanted to be one of them.
The games outside the bingo hall were just as exciting as the ones inside the hall. The kids would play hide and go seek among the cars, or rummage through the ashtrays looking for butts to smoke. The games always left the kids red-faced and sweaty as they headed back into the hall to visit their mothers.
“I changed my mind, I want to play outside,” I told my mom as an overheated kid walked by me.
“No, you play your card. Look, you’re missing numbers.”
“Mommmmmmmmm . . . ”
“Maybe I should have brought Celeste.”
My mouth slammed shut as I placed my red markers on the card. I was playing a three-up, the easiest card you could play, whereas Mom played twenty-four cards at once. That was bush league compared to Auntie Squaw who played thirty-six without breaking a sweat. What’s more, if someone had to go to the bathroom, Auntie would dab his or her cards as well.
The game required your full concentration because not all the games were the same. The standard was the standard; it was one line across the card, anyway you could make it. There were also four corners, two lines anyway, crisscross — the games designers had worked overtime to make bingo even more engrossing. It made no difference to the true bingo players. As long as the balls kept bubbling up, they kept dabbing.
The games that paid the most were the blackouts; these were also known as the jackpots. This was the game that made you tighten your butt cheeks as you waited for the next number to come out.
“Look Mom, I only need two on this card. And two on that one and three on that one.”
Mom shushed me with a shush that communicated how truly pathetic my card was. “Oh hush, I’ve needed only one number for the last ten numbers.”
Now that was a true bingo player. They could handle the tension of needing one number for as long as it took without succumbing to even a hopeful smile.
That’s because true bingo players had a jaded view of life and their cards:
“Where’s that damn 75? Did it fall under his chair?”
“He’s too busy playing with his balls to call any of our numbers.”
“Watch, with my luck, I won’t win anything!”
The goal was to bring yourself and those around you as low as possible so that if by some miracle the number was called, the rise to the top would be that much further and faster.
When a player from another table called “Bingo!” bingo players would make a face and say something, oddly conspiratorial. “Of course, she won. Look whose mother she is.”
I stole a glance at the elderly woman who smiled warmly as the runner handed her card back in one hand and her forty dollars in the other. The winner didn’t look like a person who would participate in a complex bingo scheme, but who knew what people were capable of when the stakes were so high?
My table mates were even angrier if a player won more than once in a night. They would shake their heads at the greed of the winner. “She just won three bingos ago, what is her problem?”
At every table, someone was munching on a bag of Cheezies. They popped one in their mouth, crunched it into Cheezie paste, wiped their hands and resumed dabbing their cards. I watched a woman at the next table go through this rhythm and my stomach began to growl.
“I need some Cheezies.”
“You need Cheezies like I need a hole in the head,” Mom replied.
“C’mon, Mom, one bag, please, please, please.”
“Nope. Not until you win.” Then she winked at Auntie Squaw who laughed.
I looked at her in disbelief. How could that be the rule? I was young but even I knew that winning was based on chance. You couldn’t good-bingo-play your way into winning, if you could, Auntie Squa
w would be the richest woman in the universe.
If I had to depend on my luck, then I was going home hungry. I knew from listening to the bingo players discuss their winnings that certain people in the family won more than others. I noticed that my chubby Uncle Larry, who was always grinning and playing tricks on people, won a great deal. Uncle Frank, stolid and grumpy, (hence the nickname, “cranky Frankie,”) almost never won. In fact, his tantrums at bingo games were legendary. Before each bingo game, his sisters would argue, “The hell with you, I am not sitting next to him. So embarrassing!”
They took to telling him off before each game, warning him to rein in his temper or else he would get no more rides. He would forget. After the last bingo of the night, he would let out a tortured war cry that conveyed a lifetime’s worth of disappointment: “HOLY FUUCCCCKKKK!”
I knew I wasn’t one of the lucky ones. My wiry, curly hair, short stubby legs and potbelly had already demonstrated my lack of that quality. No, people like Celeste were lucky. Our cousins Malcolm and Jolene were lucky. They were the kind of people who were always finding quarters on the ground or five-dollar bills near their mother’s purses. They could win a bingo game at the beginning of the night and then build up enough luck during the game to win another one at the end of the night.
Luckless, I had to whine my way through life.
“Mom, if I don’t get Cheezies I’ll die.”
“Then you better not miss any more numbers,” Mom said, as she sanctimoniously dabbed my card.
“Mom, my stomach hurts from hunger.”
“You missed a number.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
My stomach growled in agreement.
I stared down at my card. The numbers began to mist in front of me as tears fell out of my eyes and dropped onto my card. My Aunt handed me a Kleenex. “Stop that! Everyone is looking at you,” she whispered angrily. “You’re not supposed to cry at bingo. That big man over there will come and steal you.”
When required, any random, large and scary looking man served as a threat. It was an effective tool as it meant we always avoided that person in any public setting. My aching tummy made me fearless.
“Good, I hope he does. Maybe he’ll have some chips and candy.”
Auntie and Mom looked at one another and shook their heads. What had happened to kids these days? Back in their day, a kid was lucky to get to go anywhere. Growing up in a family of twelve, you were lucky if your mom remembered your face, never mind took you to bingo. And if you did want to go to bingo, it wasn’t just a quick five-minute drive; it was a two-day journey involving a horse, a wagon and three portages. Now those were days when people appreciated bingo, when they understood that it was an important part of the community. Not only did you get to spend time with everyone you cared about but also you got to do it within the healthy confines of gambling. And all the money that was lost went to the money grubbing church. It was win-win. Of course kids couldn’t understand that. They were only interested in feeding their guts.
My tummy growled. It was a surprised growl — my tummy was unfamiliar with denial. My tears increased in intensity. People were staring at our table now. The woman with Cheezies was shaking her head, mumbling something about “kids not being allowed to play,” with her cheese stained lips.
I was a trooper and kept playing. The first number was called. I placed my marker on my card and went back to constructing my tower of markers. It was no higher than my thumb but I felt that if I shored up the side with another tower, I might be able to get it three inches off the table.
“You’re missing numbers,” Mom hissed next to me.
I could not figure out how she could watch her own cards and mine and her sister’s and the stranger to the right of her and yet not notice how gaunt I was growing!
I carefully moved my tower out of her reach and pulled my card closer.
“What are we playing again?”
“Standard.”
“Oh. I think I need two numbers.”
My aunt laughed bitterly. ‘You and the rest of the hall.”
The next number was announced. Everyone tensed waiting for a bingo to be called.
I had heard a about a kid, not much older than myself, who had once yelled bingo — when he didn’t have one. Legend said that when the runners came along to confirm his bingo, he was forced to admit his lie. Nobody ever saw him again.
I could see the temptation. You could so easily pop the tension in the room with that one word. I wasn’t daring enough to call a false bingo. The best I could do was to utter a series of words that began with B.
“B-B-Bananas are a tasty fruit.”
“B-B-Birthdays are fun.”
“B-B-Bastard, that’s what they say my friend Jack is. B-B-But, I think that’s unfair b-b-because he had no choice in his b-b-birth.”
My b-b-brilliance was awarded with a slap to the back of the head.
The next number was called and it was mine. I was down to one. Bells started to go off in my head and my vision suddenly narrowed. I pulled my card closer. Mom noticed my sudden hoarding and looked over.
“She’s down to one.”
Thirteen pairs of eyes turned towards me. I was suddenly hot from the heat of twenty-six retinas.
Mom massaged my shoulder muscles like a coach in a boxer’s corner. “Stay loose, be alert. You can do this.”
She whispered to Auntie Squaw, “She needs B10. That’s all.”
Auntie pursed her lips together and nodded as if to say, “Okay, I’ll get right on that. I will make this happen.” She glared up at the bingo caller with renewed purpose.
My hands tapped a rat-a-tat on the tabletop. Would this idiot never call the next number? What the hell was he doing? Did he know he wasn’t getting paid to sit there with his thumb up his ass?
“Don’t swear.”
“You and Auntie say that.”
“That’s different. We’re adults, you’re a child.”
“Isn’t it illegal for children to gamble?”
“Shut up and play your card.”
I stared down at my numbers. Was it going to happen? Was I going to finally break my six-year unlucky streak? I was not a nice person — just that morning I’d put my sister’s shoe in the toilet. I did not deserve to win.
The bingo caller cleared his throat and called his next number. B10. I looked up at my mom. She stared into my eyes and she knew. “Say it.”
“I can’t,” I croaked.
“Say it!”
“Everyone will look at me.”
“Say it!”
“Bingo!”
Heads swiveled around the table as everyone heard the word. The runner, a slim mother of six, ran over. I gave her my card and she brushed it clear of the numbers. I showed her where my line was and she called out the numbers to the bingo caller. This was scarier than the game itself. What if I made a mistake? What if everyone thought I called a false bingo? Would they turn on me like a pack of rez dogs? Or would my age make them think twice? Just in case, I kept one foot on the floor to run out the door. If I could make it out into the parking lot, I’d get lost among the other sixty brown kids out there. Blending in, that was my only chance.
“It’s good!” The runner held up her hand and another runner ran up with a wad of cash. They counted out the money in front of me and pushed it towards me. Mom grabbed it before I understood what was happening.
Women around the table glared at me. No longer was I the cute kid in pigtails, I was real competition like the chicken who played tick- tack- toe at the Fair.
I had won forty-five dollars. Not a fortune even back then but it was more than enough to buy me chips, a drink and a chocolate bar, although my mom wouldn’t let me have the latter two until the second bingo game.
As I sat there eating my Cheezies, I reflected on the bingo game. Was there anything to learn from this experience? I had wanted Cheezies. My mom made me wait until I won. I
cried. And then I won. What was the moral? If I cried, then I would win? A dangerous conclusion as it would mean carrying tissue in my pocket for the rest of my life.
It would be worth it if I could continue this streak. I wouldn’t have to get a job, just a lot of markers. No margarine tins for me, I’d have specialized pockets sewn on the inside of my jacket with a different pocket for each colour. I would learn how to play with both hands and I would be good — crazy good. I wouldn’t play a pathetic 24 or even 36, I would play 56 cards, a feat that had been attempted only once — by a drunk guy who had wandered into the bingo hall, bought a bunch of cards and then passed out before the first game started.
I would be different. I would be a prodigy. People would speak of my quick hands, my perfect eyesight and my luck — oh yes, my luck would be legendary.
“You’re missing numbers again!”
Mom’s annoyed tone jerked me out of my reverie.
“Go on, you’re fired.” She jerked her head in direction of the door.
“Really?’
I tucked my Cheezies into my pocket and headed outside into the night deciding that winning was something that happened to everyone, even the unlucky and sometimes, when you needed it the most.
A WEIGHTY MATTER
EVERY NIGHT AT FIVE THIRTY, OUR FAMILY met around the dinner table. Dinnertime was orderly: we each owned a chair at the table and there could be no squatters. I sat to the right of Celeste, my younger sister, and to the left of Dad. Celeste refused to accept her seat in life. She and I had an ongoing rivalry about who was Dad’s best girl so she frequently attempted to steal my chair. Every time Celeste tried, Mom firmly told her to sit in her own damn chair.
“Mom, the chairs don’t have names on them!” Celeste argued. “Anybody should be able to sit anywhere. After all, isn’t this a free country?”
An argument based on Canada’s principles of peace, order and choice of chairs wouldn’t work on Mom who had never voted in her life.
As Celeste grudgingly moved, I plopped down into my chair and delivered a pinch to her arm to acknowledge that I did not appreciate her attempted coup d’état. I found it annoying that she refused to give up because it meant that I couldn’t give up. I could never miss a meal because then Celeste would take my chair and smile up adoringly at our dad. Fortunately my appetite, never, ever, waned. I could have the bubonic plague and I’d still drag my boil-ridden carcass to the table.