Confessions of a Bingo Worker

By Sarah

I entered the smoky hall with only the best of intentions. When I had asked our young priest how I could become more involved with the parish, he suggested that I start volunteering at an occasional Friday night Bingo game. Growing up a Lutheran, I had thought that Bingo was a very Catholic thing to do, something on the order of Lenten Fish Frys. It may have had something to do with the fact that every Catholic Church in my small town had a large sign on its front lawn: WEEKLY BINGO!! Huge cash prizes!!

The woman in charge of the Bingo volunteers was thrilled to see my husband and me. That night, she would introduce us to the members of the Young Adult group who were helping that night and show us the ropes, and, by the way, could we come back again next week because they were temporarily short-staffed.

The next week, my husband and I showed up early and eager to help. We were assigned the job of floor workers. Although the customers would buy packs of Bingo sheets as they entered the hall, they could buy extra single games. So the patrons would not have to leave their seats and potentially miss some of the games, the newest (and most gullible) workers circled the tables waving sheaves of cards. With a cigarette dangling from one hand and a dauber clenched in another, the customers would signal to us when they wanted additional games. Woe to the weary floor worker who would miss a signal! Didn't you see me wave at you? You sold her my card! You knew that one was the winner! We all walked especially quickly past the woman who would remove the tubes for her oxygen tank to take a drag on her Marlboro.

When my husband and I arrived home, we would peal off our filthy, gritty clothes and shower. We always had a hard time sleeping those nights, probably due to the nicotine from the second-hand smoke. I had always wondered why our parish hall smelled so bad at the Sunday pancake breakfasts. The smoke eaters that were supposed to ameliorate the air quality had limits to their appetites after all. The volunteer problem went from being a temporary to a chronic one.

Because my husband and I were reliable workers (also known as suckers), we moved up through the ranks of the volunteer staff. My husband, with his deep, husky voice, which became huskier as the nights wore on, became a caller. This led to different criticisms: You call too fast! You call too slow! Repeat the numbers! Don't repeat the numbers! Why don't you call B13 you haven't called it all night I think its missing and you're trying to cheat me! One night, an old man teetered up to the podium to have a private word with my husband. The tip of his cigarette touched one of the balls in its holder and, like a piece of magicians flash paper, it went up in a spark and a puff of smoke. Luckily, it was the last game of the evening. The next week, several customers came up to check to make sure that we had replaced the missing ball.

I was placed in the mercurial job of concession worker. For long stretches, no one would come to the stand, lest a number be missed. However, during the short intermissions, everyone would storm the tables. Cup after cup of ice was prepared in advance, but not too far in advance in case the ice would melt and someone would dilute his or her Coke. Eventually, the volunteer coordinator found out that I had worked summers as a bank teller and I was given the heady responsibility of counter. As each worker dropped their piles of crumpled bills and greasy quarters from their apron, I counted it and made sure the numbers were correctly reconciled. It was then that I saw how little was actually earned for the parish from this endeavor. Once the payouts and the supplies were subtracted, we were lucky to net $150 per week, not including utilities. The equation was not a pretty one: ten workers x four hours a week = less than minimum wage.

A few months later, I became pregnant with our first child. I was relieved when the doctor suggested I give up my volunteer duties. The second-hand smoke I inhaled every Friday was certainly not good for either my baby or me and only exacerbated my perpetual morning sickness. Soon after our baby was born, the Bingo committee decided to forbid smoking in the parish hall. Attendance plummeted and Bingo met its untimely demise the only thing in the history of mankind ever to die from NOT smoking. I was glad. After what some of our elderly customers smoked and gambled away (especially on the Winner Take All games, for which the parish netted no money), I would be surprised if some of them would have much left of their Social Security checks. Although it provided our regulars with fellowship and an opportunity to get out of their house once a week, gambling, even at a quarter or a dollar a card, seemed to me to be a miserable form of entertainment.

Fast-forward eleven years. I know have five kids, a gamble in itself. The youth minister at our new parish always starts up a Bingo game to entertain the kids at family events. Maybe it is a Catholic thing, but they love it.