Tuesday, November 28
(Gus)
Bingo with Mrs. Randolph starts at ten-thirty this morning. She insisted I pick her up at nine-thirty. It's only a fifteen minute drive. She's dressed in a purple blouse and matching purple dress slacks. Her outfit highlights the lavender tint of her silver hair. She looks nice, and I know she put effort into her clothes and her coif this morning. She went ballistic when I showed up ten minutes late and said I've messed up everything and there won't be any good seats or cards left by the time we get there. We'll be fine, I assured her. It's a goddamn game of chance; there are no good cards. And as far as the seats go, there are monitors all over the room with the numbers on them so there really aren't any bad seats. Besides, I've been here before, and she hasn't.
When we arrive, I stop in front of the entrance and help her out of my truck. I think she's going to wait for me while I park, but when I return to the entrance she's nowhere to be found. I freak out momentarily and wonder how I'm going to tell Francine I've lost her mother, but then I realize she's probably already inside, buying her loot.
And that's exactly where I find her. She's at the cashier buying a stack of cards and two dobbers.
I pull a few twenties out of my pocket and try to pay, but she swats my hand away. "Put that money away, boy. This is my treat."
I laugh at the sting she left on the back of my hand and shove the bills back in my pocket.
After she pays, she surveys the room and points me in the direction of an empty table in the front corner.
I point to two empty seats at the table directly in front of us. "Why don't we just sit here?" I'm trying to save her the walk across the room.
She puts her hand up to shield her words. "Them people don't look like the friendly-type." Then she looks pointedly at the three women sitting across the table from the empty seats.
They don't look friendly. They look territorial and they're shooting daggers at me and Mrs. R. with their eyes. The vibe they're putting off is far from welcoming. So, I follow her to the front corner and when I make sure she's comfortable, I check my watch: five minutes past ten. "Hey, we've got some time before they start." I turn toward the snack bar to see what they're offering. "Looks like they've got quite a selection of delectable donuts and some damn tasty coffee. You want some?"
She's arranging her cards in front of her. It's meticulous, a science really. She doesn't look up when she answers. "Don't give me that delectable and tasty sales pitch. You don't know what you're talkin' about."
I laugh. "You're right. Looks like they've got a sad selection of day-old donuts and shitty coffee. You want some?"
She grins at that, but still doesn't look up at me. "I'll take a stale, chocolate donut and a shitty coffee. Two sugars."
I walk away laughing to myself. I love this lady.
We eat our donuts, which were, to our surprise, pretty damn delectable indeed, and drink our shitty, but sugar-filled coffee while we wait for the first game to begin.
When the first ball drops, I find out just how bad Mrs. Randolph's eyesight and short-term memory is. She can't read the monitors at all and she's squinting to read the cards in front of her, even with her reading glasses on. After watching her struggle with the first few calls, I start repeating the letter and number aloud after the caller says it. I say it quietly to myself, but loud enough that she can hear me. "B ten, B ten," I say repeatedly while scanning my cards and hers, as if I need the reminder while I search. I notice she does much better when I do this, so I keep it up for the remainder of the morning.
Mrs. Randolph walks out with four hundred-dollar bills. During the ride home, she's wearing a look of contentment and pride. I pull up in front of her house to drop her off, killing the engine and walking around to open the door for her and pull the walker from the bed of my truck. She tries to give me half. "Here, boy, you take this. You ain't got no steady job. Everybody needs a little spendin' money."
I shake my head. "No, I can't accept that. You won it. You keep it. And what makes you think I don't have a job?"
"You're almost always home. You don't go nowhere, unless it's out to the beach. You drive that old truck. And you just ain't got no fire. Nothin' drivin' you."
"I'm a musician. I'm in a band."
"Say what? Why didn't you mention that before?"
I shrug. "I haven't played in a while."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I guess maybe you're right." I sigh. "Maybe the fire died."
She grabs my hand and holds tight. Her fingers are crooked with arthritis, but she's pretty damn strong. "Listen to me, boy. You only get one chance at this circus called life. Don't sit in the crowd watchin' it happen. You jump right in and be the ringleader. That's where you find your fire."
"What if your fire died with someone else?"
She shakes her head. "Nope. Here's the thing about life, boy. We meet a lot of people along this journey. Some of them are sonsabitches and some are special. When you find the special ones you don't take a moment for granted, because you never know when your time with them is gonna be up. I got over fifty years with my Fritz. Fifty wonderful years. When he died, I was lost for a few months. I lost my fire. But then I realized that life's short and I had a choice to make. I could keep bein' miserable, or I could go find joy and live again." She's squeezing even harder now. "If you only listen to one thing this crazy old lady tells you, I hope it's this: ain't nobody gonna stoke your fire but you, boy." She looks at me hard with her grey, cloudy eyes. "You go make life happen."
I nod.
She smiles and loosens her grip and releases my hands. "So, you any good?"
"At what?"
She huffs. "At music, boy."
"I'm all right."
"All right?" She gives me a scolding look. "Have some pride. Tell me you're good. I have a feeling you are. No need to be humble with me, we're old friends now."
I smile and nod and then I lay it on thick for her because even though she's got me thinking, I can't be serious. "I'm fantastic."
She rolls her eyes at my sarcasm and answers with a little of her own. "Who do you think you are, Elvis Presley? The good lord only done made one of those." She pulls the bingo parlor schedule from her purse and begins fanning herself with it. "That man certainly had himself some fire," she adds under her breath.
I laugh. "Have a good one, Mrs. Randolph."