Bingo Night
Victoria Westland So it’s Saturday night, and I’m waiting in the living room, wearing the tightest black pants and lowest cut shirt I could find. Of course, I had to jazz it up a little, so I threw on my sequined vest as well. That glitzy baby caught my eye right away in the store; it was the gaudiest thing I had ever seen. Then I took it home and added more sequins. Beautiful! And perfect for our bingo nights. All those old ladies with their purple hair, kitty cat brooches and jazzed up blotters, I’ll show them. Next week they’re all going to have a vest just like mine, but I’ll already be done with the vest and onto something new. Maybe I’ll jazz up a scarf. Or a head wrap. Yeah, a head wrap. They will just die. Although, that may be quite literal for some of them. I’ll have to keep the jazzing under control. Thump. Ugh, there’s Agnes. She’s upstairs getting ready, and I’ve been waiting so long I’m starting to regret the color I painted my toes. 10 years my senior and she’s still trying to wear heels. Maybe she could do it if she would spend some of her fortune on a quality pair. That little old bitch has the best luck in the world. She divorces the wealthiest man in the county and gets half his loot, wins bingo every weekend, the jackpot every month, yet still smells like mothballs and cheese. By my calculations, she shouldn’t even have to brush her own dentures! Yet there she goes, acting like she has nothing, haggling with the lady at the grocery store every week about how much she got charged for a cabbage. If I could take a walk in her two-dollar thrift store shoes, I would never take them off. Well, probably for a new pair. I could be living on a beach with young, tan, sweaty men in Speedos with waxed chests delivering my margaritas and cigarettes. But I could never have my son living on a beach with me. He would lose whatever he has left of his mind. But a girl can vacation, right? That’s why I’ve got on my lucky skivvies tonight. These babies got me into bed with Elvis and I haven’t worn them since. I’m winning this bingo jackpot and spending every penny on myself. “INGRID? ARE YOU HERE?” Whenever I hear her voice, I always imagine a big hairy rat, sitting in a red velvet armchair and smoking a cigar. “Yes, Agnes, I’m on the couch! Didn’t you hear me come in?”
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