A couple nights a month, the guys and I get together like this. We come to the bar so we can drink ourselves into a state resembling courage before starting the 10-block stagger down to the club. To see us sitting there, you’d probably think we were like any other bunch of corporate drones. Jack and I look like the paralegals that we are; you got Eddie, the overworked insurance salesman; Joey, the earnest young accountant; and then there’s Sid, the thirty-five year old jack of all trades who got us into this thing in the first place. We sit around, knocking back a few drinks and talking about everything but the game.

You may also think that the drinking is just part of the ritual, the kind of testosterone-soaked play-acting that in this day and age gives false weight to the trite activities that serve as rites of passage.

You would be wrong.

The fact of the matter is that we need a few stiff drinks if we’re going to bet the required stakes on the kind of odds that the club presents.

Theory is that the more money you bid the better your chances of winning. Doesn’t seem the case, in practice, but that doesn’t stop us from laying out the cash for three or four cards. The buy-in price is a hundred per card, and the risk builds up real quick. You may think this is heavy talk for a night at the bingo parlor, but you do not yet know what I know about this game.

You can see it in the players’ hollow eyes, watching the caller with animal intent. Their markers shake in their trembling hands. They lick their chapping lips, many too scared to risk taking a drink. Numbers are called only once, with no big board to keep track. The big board is for retirees and pussies. These stakes are too high to be giving the players a crutch like that.

The club holds three games a night. The only way to win is with a completely filled card. No lines, no diagonals, no X’s or special patterns. You fill the card or you don’t get shit. In a game like this, you better make sure that when you call Bingo you know what you’re talking about. The caller and the bouncer verify the card and if you fuck up, they break a finger.

Sure it’s a twisted scene, but we thrive on it. As soon as you get in there, the smell of old cigarettes and fear hits you like the scent of a long lost lover. As you lay down your bills, the adrenaline kicks in and rips through the last vestiges of that gin and tonic haze.

It is time to play.

The pace is fast; faster then anything you would expect or even think rational. Numbers are called only once and you hear them right and mark them fast or you’re sure to miss the next one. As the night wears on and tempers start to flare it becomes an exercise in postmodern Zen, a bunch of fast lane Buddhas meditating on coffee-stained koans. People miss numbers and start yelling. Shoving matches ensue and knives are pulled. Can’t worry about that shit. Just because some poor bastard is out a couple hundred bucks doesn’t mean you have to give up your shot at taking home half the game’s buy-in.

Security personnel take care of situations efficiently, but not too quickly. Leroy, the owner of this fine establishment, has some use for these diversions. More people distracted means less chances of someone winning the round. It’s a cold, hard game and rarely a week passes when the house doesn’t take at least one game. Some cards, a small amount, are duds bearing numbers that aren’t even in circulation for that round. Call it further incentive to work multiple cards. The odds are definitely stacked against the players, but the pay-off at the end can make it all worthwhile. For many, the rush alone is reason to keep coming back.

We arrive together, but sit apart; it’s what’s best if we want to remain friends by the end of it all. I’ve won once, and ever since, I’ve been hooked. There is nothing, I mean nothing in the world, like slamming down your marker on that last space, seeing that card riddled with red ink gun shots and watching with euphoric detachment as the blessed invocation falls from your lips.

BINGO!

Eyes turn toward you, bloodshot and aching with contempt, envy and rage. The guys and I have a deal. If one of us wins, we find a way to share the wealth. A nice dinner out. Some high quality liquor. An evening of fast times and loose women. It’s up to the winner, but a good time is had by all. It keeps our vibe positive and guarantees us back-up if things get ugly when we win. Even so, when you first make that call--and I’ve seen it in their faces and felt it in my own--there is no denying that momentary flash of jealousy. Among our group, it passes quickly.

Not so with the rest of the players. You walk up to the podium a marked man, becoming for that evening the cause of everything wrong and degrading in the lives of those less fortunate. As the winner, you become the reason these guys are losers, and you feel their loathing with every step. Leroy and the enforcer know simply as The Wall look over your card, and this is when you learn what anxiety is. You know that you’re not trying to pull anything, but fate is another matter. One fuck up, one stray mark made out of exuberance or poor hearing and not only does The Wall break a finger, but etiquette bans you from the game for a month.

When you win, Leroy counts out the money right in front of everyone. Now this probably sounds like standard operating procedure, but when you’re up there claiming your stake, it’s another matter. In front of scores of crazy, pissed off, desperate men; the sick bastard lays bill after bill into your outstretched hand. Every guy in that place knows what’s in your pocket when you walk out that night. The Wall will escort you to the street for a fifty-dollar kickback, but once out there, you’re on your own. Barbaric? Sure. Just another part of the game. An unspoken code of honor and the possibility of getting maced generally stops the regulars from trying anything.

The time I won, I walked out of there with close to four grand in my pocket. I won it clean and I walked out clean, the next night the guys and I lived like kings at one of the best nightclubs in town to the tune of a thousand-dollar tab.

It’s not always so simple.

Joey would seem to have been born lucky, one of God’s special little projects, if you know what I mean. He’s won three times. After his second win in two months, he had to take some time off. Things were getting ugly.

That night, Joey shuffled his way up to the podium to claim his prize from Leroy, the regulars looking at him with raw, hard hatred. His second win in two months, and he had only been playing for a little more than three. Even the rest of us in the crew had to shake our heads at his dumb, blind luck, but Joey’s a good guy and we knew he would make it up to us on the kickback. Leroy counted out the cash, it was a big night being the second week of the month, a lot of guys come out then; bills are paid the next round of living expenses still far enough off on the horizon. This is their week to get a little crazy.

Leroy counted out six grand. Twisted little freak wouldn’t just count out the cash and have it over with. Leroy likes to make a show of it. He knows that it drives the players into a frenzy; rattles their nerves and chips away at their ability to focus on the subsequent games. That night, as he hit the five thousand mark, there were audible rumbling among the crowd. Shouts and insults are common and nothing to fear. It’s when the contempt comes out as a low animal growl that you have to worry. When men like these refuse to waste energy on words, it means they’re saving it for actions.

I made eye contact with the rest of the crew, made sure that we were all on the same page. We checked our respective areas looking for problems. Usually if one us wins, the others stick around for the remaining games (finances permitting) and we meet up back at the bar afterwards. The night of Joey’s second win, we were definitely thinking that a group departure would be the best thing for us.

We left en masse, The Wall escorting us to the door. There seemed to be a bigger exodus than usual after the first game. Some were undoubtedly shaken by Joey’s win and realized that their heads were not in it for the next round. Others were light-weights, the tourists who came in for a game, usually only playing a card or maybe two and then leaving. It was when we saw some of the do or die fixtures leaving that we knew something was wrong.

One guy, who had never won in the year that I had been attending, and who it seemed had never won, approached Joey. He was a solid brick of a man. His buzzcut and rigid demeanor pegged him as former military, and his eyes told us all we needed to know about his temperament and general disposition. We all tensed. He extended his hand. “Congratulations. Looks like you got Lady Luck riding with you.”

Joey smiled, but hesitated in taking his hand. “It’s all up to the numbers, man.” A credo that winners and losers alike had embraced as a means of justifying their fates, and for which the accountant in Joey had a strange fondness.

“I heard that,” came the casual reply. Then with a sudden turn in demeanor, “I’m trying to congratulate you here. Now you gonna shake my hand or are you too good for that?” As he said it, Buzzcut was flanked by a couple of buddies standing just behind him, clearly visible over his broad shoulders. My hand tensed around my mace, still safely concealed in my coat pocket. I could sense Eddie making sure his knife was within reach, and both Jack and Sid could be felt stepping in a little closer.

Hoping to defuse the situation, Joey shook the man’s hand. No sooner was he in his grasp, than he was jerked forward to receive a vicious headbut. Joey’s nose became a fountain of blood, and he dropped to one knee. I pulled out the mace, Eddie grabbed his knife and one of Buzzcut’s colleagues pulled out a revolver. The boys and I stepped back. This was serious. Buzzcut looked at us, and some retarded half cousin of a grin spread across his goonish face. “You boys wouldn’t mind if your friend here decided to spread his newfound wealth would you? I’m sure he’s eager to cut us poor boys in on a bit of his action.” I saw Joey take a few deep breaths, his brow furrowed in what I thought was pain, but have since recognized as intense concentration. Crazy little accountant was calculating the odds for his next move.

Maybe I’m weak. Maybe I don’t really have what it takes to get tied up in this scene, but once a gun comes into play, my tendency is to give the nice man with the firearm what ever he wants. Joey, it turns out, is a different breed.

“Fuck you,” he replied.

Buzzcut gave his hand a vicious squeeze, and we could hear a few of the bones pop out of joint and a strange crackling that could easily have been cartilage snapping. He released his hand and Joey dropped to the ground. The troglodyte with the gun held it up to Joey’s head. That’s when Joey started laughing. The goons looked nervously at each other and the stick man tensed up, cocking back the hammer and steadying himself against a possible attack.

Joey looked up at the gunman, making sure that the barrel was aimed right in the middle of his forehead. “You lame bastard!” he snarled. “You think I’m only here for the money? It’s all about the adrenaline for me, so sticking this thing in my face does not impress me. Hell, this is the most fun I’ve had all week. The question here is not whether I’m going to hand over my money, ’cause I’m not. The question is whether you got the balls to take it, and whether you can trust your friends once you have it? You simpering putz! You gonna finish this thing, or you gonna back off so my friends and I can get a drink?”

The man with gun was sweating heavily in spite of the late night chill, his trigger finger was trembling too much for my comfort and no one in the alley dared say a word. Finally Buzzcut spoke up. “Back off Rodney. Let the crazy fucker go.” Rodney did just that. He uncocked the gun, took a few steps back and remembered to start breathing again. The crew of would-be muggers went back inside to await the next game, and we headed to the bar.

As we sat around a corner table knocking back shots of mescal, I couldn’t help but voice my admiration. “Joey you are one extreme motherfucker.”

Joey knocked back his shot, smiled and replied, “Shit, man. That’s what Bingo is all about.” And I’ve got to admit, he’s got a point. So what do you say? You in?