Written by an American serviceman stationed in the Persian Gulf. 

It was 2am and I found myself seated, hunched over four bingo cards, waiting for the action to begin.  Another shot at the big money.  $25 gift cards are bestowed upon the winners to use at the base exchange to buy luxury items like socks, t-shirts, and post cards of women in burkas riding on camels.  I catch my reflection in a mirror and frown at myself… how did I get to this point in my life?

I look up from my cards to scan tonight’s bingo crowd.  14 individuals are all seeking thrills, adventure and treasure.  The overpowering scent of burnt popcorn pervades the humid air.  A few regulars sit quietly staring intently into their cards plotting their “strategies”.  The rest are all newbies… each one trying to figure out just what the hell is going on.  We regulars loathe them, pity them.  We speak to them as if they were small, shoeless children.

The game begins.  Tension and nervous laughter ensue as we all chant “roll the balls” in unison.  Game on.  My pulse quickens.  The guy calling the numbers was probably born in a small third world village in Nepal.  I was born in a small village half a world from him but I grew up with running water.  Yet somehow, he and I have both found ourselves in this petroleum-fueled oasis thousands of miles from everything we know.

He calls the first number, I-30… “Eye, tree gee-ro”.  They snicker at his poor English.  I know what he’s saying but I also snicker under my breath.  It is important to blend in at this point.  We are a dysfunctional bingo family, after all.  

As the game progresses, the pace of the crowd’s popcorn chewing increases exponentially.  Like a hive of agitated insects, they nervously chew until the roar becomes deafening.  I need two more numbers for a bingo.  A bead of sweat slowly rolls down my forehead and drips onto my card.  The next number is O-75- or “Oh peventy – pive” our Nepalese bingo-caller friend calls out.  The newbie at the table next to me chokes out a loud and obnoxious “Bingo!” as a mixture of popcorn and spit is projects from his mouth onto the table.

The hatred is tangible.  The rest of us try to burn holes in his soul with our eyes as he makes his way to the caller to verify his claim at our prize.  About twenty seconds later, we hear the two words we silently pray to hear… “Bad Bingo!”  We all scoff in his general direction.  What a loser.  We aren’t building rockets or curing cancer here… we are just looking for numbers on a card.  Apparently that is too much for some people to handle. It scares me that this guy is employed by our military.  No doubt he is another product of our glorious education system.  How much longer will we be a super power?  I give it three more years at best but I digress…

I feel my spine tingle as I hear the next number tumble awkwardly off of the caller’s twisted tongue, G-62 – “Gee shix-ty two”.  My finger quickly springs to action as I methodically mark out this number on my card.  Now I only need one more number to claim my bounty.  My mouth goes dry and my heart pounds in my chest, my ears are ringing.

N-35 “N perty-pive”.  Time stands still.  I feel dizzy as I slowly rise to my feet.  “Bingo!” I try to say it with no emotion so I can pretend that I don’t really care if I win or not.

Their sharpened stares of hatred burn into the back of my head as I walk victoriously to the head of the class.  I smile mockingly as I face them.  The joy of beating these people is worth more to me than $25 worth of toothpaste and deodorant from the bx.

“We have a good bingo!” he shouts.  The crowd sighs heavily as they collectively shovel another handful of popcorn into their faces.  I win.  “Roll the balls!”