A lot of numbers are floating around a packed, smoky Clovis Bingo Hall, and only some of them are coming from the bingo caller.
Shannon Witt, 42, a volunteer (they call themselves indentured parents) at this night’s Buchanan High School fundraiser, is concerned with these numbers: pep squad uniform (including hair ribbon and pom-poms), $447.45; cheer camp, $125; cheer sweats, $210; rhinestones on cheer sweats, $33; rhinestone T-shirt, $30; team backpack, six T-shirts and sweat shorts, $167.45. With tax, a grand total of $1,033.39.
Working the bingo games, Witt earns credits to offset her daughter’s school expenses. Witt’s been making the equivalent of about $20 a night, twice a week, for three years.
Bingo player Linda Schaeffer, 64, is keeping track of her monthly bingo budget – a $675 pension check. She says most of the people sitting at her table spend at least as much as she does. None of them disagree.
Then there’s the number that 1960s rock group Three Dog Night once dubbed the loneliest: One.
People pack the bingo hall to be with other people.
“I started coming after my mother died,” says volunteer Barbara Gibbs, 50. “I needed something to do with my time. I didn’t want to be alone.”
The hall doesn’t open until 6:15 on most bingo nights, which are Saturday through Tuesday. The crowd typically starts forming about 4 p.m. By 5 p.m., it’s hard to find a parking place in the aging shopping center on Bullard Avenue.
Clovis, Calif., is a city that prides itself on a sense of old-fashioned community, family values and good schools that produce accomplished scholars and athletes. Clovis is like taking Garrison Keillor’s fictional Lake Woebegon, “where … all the children are above average,” and resettling it around rodeo grounds.
But all those letterman jackets for the above-average children can cost $400 to $500. That can leave parents scrambling. So, at bingo, community and cash cozy up.
Kim Smith, 48, a parent volunteer with two high school-aged children, watches Saturday night bingo players surrounded by ashtrays, half-filled Styrofoam coffee cups and good-luck charms; she invokes the city’s oft-quoted slogan:
“Clovis – a way of life.”
Charlotte MacDougall, 79, frequently described as a firecracker, has china-doll blue eyes, soft white curls and a self-described bingo addiction.
“I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t for bingo,” she says. “I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. And I meet so many nice people here.
“And some not so nice,” she adds in a hand-shielded, whispered aside.
Even though MacDougall doesn’t smoke, she always sits on the smoker’s side of the hall. The divide between the smoking north side and the non-smoking south side goes deeper than the use of tobacco.
Those on the smokers’ side say folks in the north hall are a rowdy, hard-edged bunch.
The south hall-ers say the non-smoking section (where people really do shush talkers) is filled with people who can’t multi-task and don’t know how to have fun.
Tensions between the two sides heightened recently when Calif. Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger signed a state bill to ban electronic bingo. The law goes into effect Jan. 1; charity bingo representatives say it could cut revenues by 40 percent.
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Players at the Clovis Bingo Hall still daub paper cards, and admire the prowess of those who can play a dozen at a time – colorfully marking numbers shouted out by a bingo caller. But they also have been playing bingo electronically, using small computers. Players decide how many electronic cards they want to play on the machines and then pay the bingo operators accordingly. The machines have a wireless connection to the bingo game and automatically mark electronic cards with each called number. Players also can enter numbers manually.
Indian tribes successfully contended that these electronic machines violate gaming compacts with the state.
The Clovis hall tried to get customers to sign a petition protecting the computers – saying that banning the machines would hurt fundraising. Different school organizations and charities pay a share of the rent for the hall and take turns running the bingo games, receiving the profits from their night. Profits can be designated for specific uses, such as helping parents pay for pep squad uniforms.
Those in the shushing, non-smoking side overwhelmingly rejected the petition. They want to return to traditional bingo, where those who can daub the most paper have better odds of winning.
The smoking, computer-favoring side almost unanimously signed, favoring conversation over concentration.
“I don’t want to think too much. Our beloved governor ruined that,” says MacDougall with a vigorous shake of her white curls.
She points to Schaeffer, a bingo buddy who always sits across the table from her.
“She can play six cards like nobody’s business and even get up and get coffee,” she says admiringly.
Schaeffer and her husband, both retired from the grocery business, moved in 2001 to Clovis from the San Francisco Bay area.
“We didn’t know anyone. I found myself a bingo hall, and that’s how I made all my friends,” Schaeffer says.
Now MacDougall and Schaeffer are fixtures in their specific seats at their specific table just about every night. Bingo players tend to be territorial. MacDougall plays three paper cards, Shaeffer six, and they both play electronic bingo machines. Electronic bingo costs between $41.50 and $61 to play 36 to 48 cards. Paper bingo costs $15 for a pack of six cards; there are discounts for bulk purchases.
Radios aren’t allowed in the hall, but MacDougall, a rabid Bulldog football fan, brings one anyway and listens to games with an earpiece.
“A few weeks ago, she screamed out ’Touchdown!’ and the caller thought she had a bingo,” says Schaeffer.
If MacDougall or Shaeffer aren’t coming to bingo, they call the hall so no one will worry. Even when they aren’t there, no one sits in their chairs.
“They wouldn’t dare,” says MacDougall.
She describes the excitement of winning – having a card where the drawn numbers form a specified pattern, usually a straight line.
“Your heart starts pounding when you see your number. You get real disappointed if someone else says ’Bingo!’ too and you have to share the prize. But if you see the other ’Bingo’ isn’t good, they made a mistake or something, then you cheer, but really softly so no one hears.”
A regular bingo game, with a single winner, pays $250. “Hot” bingos – where a designated number must complete the pattern – can pay $1,000.
It’s not your grandmother’s bingo – or maybe it is.
“When I was a teenager, my grandmother and mom use to play bingo in the trailer park,” says Ed Gibbs, 44, of Fresno, Calif. “I thought it was the craziest thing. Then I got older and realized why they liked it: You get to hang out with people. It’s a common thing.”
Gibbs started coming to the Clovis hall about a year ago as a player. He met Barbara – one of the volunteers who sell bingo cards and coffee and occasionally call out bingo numbers – and now they are newlyweds planning a honeymoon trip to Disneyland.
“A lot of couples meet at bingo,” says manager LuAnna Scott. “We have at least three married couples who met here.”
And then there’s a gentleman who shall remain unnamed. He dated so many bingo regulars that volunteers nicknamed him “Bingo-Ho.”
“Some volunteers were relieved when he finally got married,” says Scott.
The man and his wife and his many ex-girlfriends still all come to the bingo games.
MacDougall is single, but she says she never flirts.
“You get friendly with them and then something happens and they die and you feel so bad,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
This starts people at her table to talking about the times people have died at bingo.
“I was calling the night the one lady died,” says J.P. Done, a volunteer who on this night gets to play a free game for his 30th birthday. “I stopped the game for five minutes. No one has sat in her chair since then.”
Death, courtship, politics, friendship, and the placing of coffee orders all play out as the caller shouts out numbers. Players mark their cards to see if a pattern will emerge from randomness and give them a pay-out.
LuAnna Scott, the hall manager, says the bingo hall is a hub of connection.
“It’s a community,” says Scott. “Everyone here, whether they’re working or spending money on bingo, is helping our schools.”
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Destrie Rathwick, 44, of Sanger, Calif., who plays four days a week, screams “Bingo!”
She has just won $1,000 on a “hot” bingo.
“I’ll go spend the money on bingo,” she says. “I’ll bring it right back here.”