14th Street Social Club
O-25! Snakes Alive, that’s O-25!
B-17! The Selfie Queen, folks, B-17!
The 14th Street social club is lethargic tonight, doped up on Bingo and beer. The windows are all steamed up from both the radiators and the soporific breath of the usual suspects. The painted brick walls are slightly clammy with condensation. Bare fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling, humming and blinking, giving Merle a headache.
N-48! That’s a Tinder Date, my friends, N-48!
The oil cloths on the tables are beer sticky. Patrons here are used to it. A few come in only to keep out of the cold. Others are just lonely. For some of the older folks, stamping a bingo card is the only entertainment they have.
G-54! Clean up the Floor, you knuckleheads, that’s G-54!
The air in the hall is permeated with the funk of boredom, of old shoes, damp wool sweaters, burnt coffee pots. Though no one has smoked in this building since 2008, the stale smell of cigarettes prevails.
I-30! That’s a Dirty Gertie, folks. I-30!
Merle’s played 12 cards so far, and cannot get a break. He takes a last gulp of his Budweiser. He’s not planning to hang around for the karaoke. Might as well cut his losses and call it a night.
The front door slowly opens on its rusty hinges and Merle happens to look up. Wilma, in her fishnet stockings, eases into the hall, platinum hair piled as high as Texas. Scanning the room, she spots him sitting there in the back and flashes him a big old smile. Merle grins and looks down. Shaking his head, he mutters to himself, “Bingo”.
**Thank you , at Dispatches, for letting me use your fine Pittsburg neigborhood photo!
I like the rhyming bingo caller. And the last line was perfect.
Way to be. I love those optimistic stories.