My mom was a bingo fiend. Out of all the Vegas gambling available in the ‘70s and ‘80s, bobbling balls and the monotone reciting of numbers was her siren call.
She’d coordinate every new session with her buddy Edith from the apartment complex. Back home and reeking of their own cigarette smoke, they’d relive the experience over coffee (and more cigarettes), discussing the big win they had to split multiple ways because EVERYONE hit on the same final number or how they were “cased” (one number short of victory) so many times only to fall.
Security wasn’t super tight back then. Even underage, I’d scoot into the Paddlewheel or El Rancho and sit in awe of my mom and other ladies tracking the columns of cardboard and gel-playing boards with red manicured nails like a telemarketer scanning a directory for the right mark.
Over the years, I’ve had hipster friends who love the goof of a good bingo night, fueled by cocktails and the thrill of screaming “BINGO!” to the disdain of longtime regulars. I joined in once and chose electronic cards, which I found boring because they do all the work, even including the “beep” when you win. My friends derided my choice, opting for hands-on paper sheets and bringing their own collection of campy daubers (hand-held markers) to do the deed.
Next time would be different. Inspired by a suggestion in the recent “Your Guide to September” episode of City Cast Las Vegas, I chose bingo at the Plaza for my latest birthday celebration. You get a free card on your big day — and who doesn’t love a birthday freebie!? I had one condition though: paper and dauber. This needed to be an activity!
The numbers came fast and furious. We bought far too many cards and were struggling to keep up. My mother-in-law gasped at the pace, prompting a fast-acting “bingo agent” to explain that acclimation will happen and being overwhelmed was common. We didn’t win, though there was a moment when one of us mistakenly yelled “bingo” — because there was a bingo, just not the right one for that particular configuration. (Note: this isn’t your classic, five-across bingo. Nowadays they run patterns like “Large Crazy Kite” and “Flyswatter and Fly”). Cocktails and a light joke about “practice bingo” helped ease the temporary mortification.
Our table was a mess with enough discarded sheets of colorful ink blots to make Rorschach blush, but we left happy. For the first time, I understood my mom’s devotion to this old-school game and why it’s endured. A little risk, mania, time away from the world, and maybe the thrill (with bonus cash) of yelling “BINGO” in a crowded room — for real.
