Bingo!

Just as peanut butter has jelly, and Jerry Lewis had Dean Martin, bingo will forever have smoking. A few weeks back I spent a night playing bingo and smoking at the Concord Bingo Center, learning a few key lessons. First, poor math skills as a child do not make bingo any easier; second, bingo demands a high degree of mental dexterity; and third, nicotine and French fries are no match for Lady Luck’s capricious whims.

I visited the Bingo Center to experience a night of carefree games of chance with a lit smoke in my hand, relishing what I bet will be the final days of one of the last true freedoms we have in the Granite State. Truthfully, I’m not a smoker, although I’ve had my share of furtive, late-night puffs outside parties to look cool and impress my neighbors. Earlier that day I’d heard of the State House’s plan to ban smoking in most public places, not sure if bingo parlors made the cut, remembering that social, fraternal and religious organizations are exempted from the ban, “only if smoking areas can be segregated effectively."

The first thing I notice in the Center is that the best chance you have of segregating the non-smokers is to find them a cozy bingo room of their own, somewhere outside Tuftonboro perhaps, because the smoke is so thick I’m sure I can walk across it. It hangs in the motionless air like dense fog on a crisp spring morning, but nobody, non-smokers and smokers alike, could care less. There’s bingo to play!

I walk to the front, the room already filled with almost 200 players, each of them carving out a spot at one of the long rows of plastic tables, like early morning beach goers before the start of a muggy day. They sit in pairs and small clusters, the tables spotted with charms of all kinds – pink-haired troll dolls, wide-eyed gremlins, ceramic cows and lucky ash trays. I reach the head of the line, fork over $25 and act like I’ve been here before. Collecting my game sheets and my new bingo marker, I’m handed a large paper grocery bag. Just as I start wondering if the bag’s for all the money I’m planning on winning, a wily veteran sitting near the front tells me with no prompting, “It’s for your garbage.”

Now knowing it’s clear I have no idea what I’m doing, I hope someone will pity me when I find my seat in the smoking section. I sit down and light up my first smoke of the night. Someone approaches, and he too is smoking. I assume he’s on his way over to chat about how Parliament Lights and Menthol Kools are alike in so many ways, but as he introduces himself, I realize either my bewildered gaze or my constant gumming of my cigarette make it clear I am a fish out of these cloudy waters. Don Gelinas is tonight’s caller, and he walks me through the rules and then stops, sees the stack of sheets in front of me and says, “Are you sure you can handle all these games?” with genuine concern. I take a drag, try not to cough in his face and assure him I got it covered.

Across from me sits Rose Lord, an experienced player with a Philadelphia accent that cuts throw the smoke between us. She shakes my hand, offering a simpler explanation. “Just watch the board – you’ll see the pattern up there. You can sneak a peek at the TV in the corner – that will give you a head start on the next number called. I’ll make sure you don’t get too confused,” she says with a smile. I notice the close-circuit TVs that ring the room as well as the basketball hoops against the wall. The TVs and the smoke remind me of a jai alai fronton in Ft. Pierce, and the basketball hoops seem completely out of place. Of all the scenarios likely to break out here tonight, a spontaneous three-on-three shirts vs. skins hoops game is not one of them.

Don is up front, microphone in hand, and the bingo balls start percolating in the wind-driven drum next to him. He calls the first number in a buttery voice, and we begin. For full immersion, I’ve decided to smoke a cigarette per game. After three quick games, my head is swirling, my hands are shaking, and I’m pretty sure I won that Block of Nine with the Wild Card, but the surge of nicotine in my bloodstream would have distorted my voice. Yelling “Bangoo” in a crowded room is not my idea of blending in, so I keep my head down, ask Rose for advice and try not to embarrass myself.

I lose game after game – the Arrow, the Six Pack, the Picture Frame and the Layer Cake - never even close to bingo. I start to wonder when the beer guy will come around, but Rose explains that there is no liquor at bingo. A shame, I think, but then again, booze leads to chatter, and chatter leads to distraction, and that’s a combination for losing, so no booze at bingo.
As my unlucky streak continues, I notice the employees circling the room, selling pull tab lottery tickets for $10 a pack. Irene Garceau, sitting next to me, explains that these tickets are a huge seller. She tells me lots of people spend over $100 a night on these, hoping to win far more than that, noting that a woman won over $5,500 a few weeks back. The employees carry the packs in little plastic trays, like workers at a blood drive, collecting money and dishing out packs of lottery tickets like gauze pads and “Be Nice. I Donated!” stickers.

Finally, as I creep into the second half of my pack of cigarettes, I wonder if I can use my paper bag for the vomit that’s surely to come, but instead I order some fries, light another smoke and prepare to conquer the Martini glass game that’s up next. “Don’t forget the olive!” cracks Norma Jean Smith, a veteran caller who sits down at my table to dispense wisdom. I try a joke of my own, hearing Don call, “B-12.” I add, “That’s the closest anyone’s getting to a vitamin tonight!” but it’s met with silence.

By the time the Carryover Coverall approaches, I’ve had enough fried food and cigarettes to contemplate looking for a portable defibrillator, but Rose interrupts me to tell me how much she enjoys bingo. “I haven’t won in a while,” she tells me. When I ask her about the ban that may mean she can’t smoke in here, she looks at the big board, taps an ash into the ashtray and says, “Smoking is my only pleasure.”

Just before the night ends, Rose wins a few hundred bucks on a Regular Bingo game. “Come back,” she tells me, “you brought me luck.” And as the night ends, Linda Lampon, Irene’s daughter, also wins, yelling “Bingo!” like she sat on a tack. Then Don bids goodnight, reminding us all to take care on the roads. Irene turns to me and says, “There are nice people at Bingo.” And I agree. Nice people who love their routine, love their game and love their smoking. And it would seem a shame to change any of it.