Saturday, October 23, 2010
Today I was not so eager to go to Bingo. Today my son needed a ride to a friend’s house, and we had just found the Iowa game on TV, and I didn’t leave home until the last minute.
Halfway to the Soldiers Home, my phone rang. It was Mike, wondering whether I was coming to Bingo, and when. "By 2," I said, maybe a little snarkily, since Bingo starts at 2, and since I had told Mike (and several other people) last night that I’d be back for Saturday Bingo. At 2.
When I got there, the room was nearly full. Everything seemed ready to go, except number-caller Wesley, who seemed to be putzing. I was hoping to see a movie after Bingo, provided that Bingo ended on time, so I was not especially pleased with putzing.
"Let’s Bingo!" I cheered, maybe slightly fakely. But it worked.
Things went smoothly. A very nice man who comes out often to visit his mother offered to push the prize cart. Theoretically (and selfishly), I thought, that could take a big chunk out of my Bingo time.
Then Mike came in. I was thrilled to see him back at Bingo, but he wasn’t too happy. He said he’d called me because Wesley was going to cancel Bingo if I didn’t show up PDQ, "because he could." I wasn’t upset, but Mike was. But still, he stayed, and played, and won.
During the first Blackout game, I sat with Mike and Ray McDade. A newer resident came in and stood by my chair—kind of uncomfortably close to my chair. "I don’t play Bingo," he said. I offered him the other chair at the table, anyway, thinking he might like to take a load off—or at least move in that direction an inch or two. For a good few minutes he alternated between that Bingo phrase and something about his dad’s ring. I nodded, and smiled, and kept offering that nice open chair on the other side of the table. Finally, Ray interjected: "You know what the problem is," he said. "He sits at this table for lunch, and you’re in his chair."
Well, now you tell me.
I stood up and offered the man his chair. He claimed it in a second, very happily.
Ray left before the last Blackout game, so I sat with Mike, who out of nowhere told me how he started smoking. At 17. It’s the first good, long story-story he’s told me in a long time, full of drama and description and characters most 17-year-olds would never meet, unless they’re crammed into a cramped plane flying volatile Danish servicemen to or from Korea.
By the time we got to the end of Mike’s story, and Blackout, I realized there was no chance I’d make the movie. But the Soldiers Home has a way of aligning, or realigning, priorities. Wesley ended up a big winner for the day, and he was happy. Mike made it to Bingo for the first time in weeks, and relaxed enough to get caught up in a memory, and a damn fine story. And Ray helped a resident find comfort in the familiar. As for me, I ended up going to a different movie, at a different time—big frickin’ deal. And once again, I was reminded: This time, this Bingo time, is not "me" time, anyway.
Today I was not so eager to go to Bingo. Today my son needed a ride to a friend’s house, and we had just found the Iowa game on TV, and I didn’t leave home until the last minute.
Halfway to the Soldiers Home, my phone rang. It was Mike, wondering whether I was coming to Bingo, and when. "By 2," I said, maybe a little snarkily, since Bingo starts at 2, and since I had told Mike (and several other people) last night that I’d be back for Saturday Bingo. At 2.
When I got there, the room was nearly full. Everything seemed ready to go, except number-caller Wesley, who seemed to be putzing. I was hoping to see a movie after Bingo, provided that Bingo ended on time, so I was not especially pleased with putzing.
"Let’s Bingo!" I cheered, maybe slightly fakely. But it worked.
Things went smoothly. A very nice man who comes out often to visit his mother offered to push the prize cart. Theoretically (and selfishly), I thought, that could take a big chunk out of my Bingo time.
Then Mike came in. I was thrilled to see him back at Bingo, but he wasn’t too happy. He said he’d called me because Wesley was going to cancel Bingo if I didn’t show up PDQ, "because he could." I wasn’t upset, but Mike was. But still, he stayed, and played, and won.
During the first Blackout game, I sat with Mike and Ray McDade. A newer resident came in and stood by my chair—kind of uncomfortably close to my chair. "I don’t play Bingo," he said. I offered him the other chair at the table, anyway, thinking he might like to take a load off—or at least move in that direction an inch or two. For a good few minutes he alternated between that Bingo phrase and something about his dad’s ring. I nodded, and smiled, and kept offering that nice open chair on the other side of the table. Finally, Ray interjected: "You know what the problem is," he said. "He sits at this table for lunch, and you’re in his chair."
Well, now you tell me.
I stood up and offered the man his chair. He claimed it in a second, very happily.
Ray left before the last Blackout game, so I sat with Mike, who out of nowhere told me how he started smoking. At 17. It’s the first good, long story-story he’s told me in a long time, full of drama and description and characters most 17-year-olds would never meet, unless they’re crammed into a cramped plane flying volatile Danish servicemen to or from Korea.
By the time we got to the end of Mike’s story, and Blackout, I realized there was no chance I’d make the movie. But the Soldiers Home has a way of aligning, or realigning, priorities. Wesley ended up a big winner for the day, and he was happy. Mike made it to Bingo for the first time in weeks, and relaxed enough to get caught up in a memory, and a damn fine story. And Ray helped a resident find comfort in the familiar. As for me, I ended up going to a different movie, at a different time—big frickin’ deal. And once again, I was reminded: This time, this Bingo time, is not "me" time, anyway.
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