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Bring On the Bingo Man
Tuesday Sep 04, 2007.
By Erin Brereton
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 photo: Erin Brereton
They slunk away in shame and were dousing it with Bud Light when I arrived at the bar. (Which, it should be noted, makes shame less profound, but slightly more flammable.) I, too, expected an older crowd; and yet, there was only one person over 60 in the bar—wearing no shirt, a leather vest and a fanny pack. Most of the patrons consisted of police officers on dinner break and neighborhood types, as well as one table of extremely intoxicated friends, one of whom wore a Jameson shirt and often burst into song.
Finn's Tuesday specials extend far beyond the free bingo, with half-price appetizers and drink deals. I ordered a quesadilla (which cost a whopping $2.50), while my friends enjoyed Kobe beef sliders and very rich mac and cheese. But the large Table Tappers are the best deal: For $10, your table receives a personal reserve of Bud Light, which holds about eight to nine beers. (And unlimited joy.)
Now we were ready for some gaming, but where was the bingo guy? At 10 minutes before 9 p.m., when the action was supposed to start, there was no sign of him, nor did I see any bingo chips, bingo prizes or a dog with an unusual name-o. I asked the waitress if maybe people weren't into Tuesday night bingo anymore.
"Oh no," she said, "EVERYbody plays."
I looked around. Jameson perched on his chair, his neck extended while he belt out the lyrics to "In Your Eyes." Really?
True enough, the bingo man arrived shortly thereafter. He began setting up his sound system and prizes, items that no one needs—a Coors baseball cap, T-shirts, some plastic trinkets and a mysterious brown bag—and all things I suddenly wanted desperately. He handed out the reusable playing cards—they're free, and you can take as many as you'd like—and the gaming ensued around 10 p.m. Jessica was this close to winning the first game. But, alas, she didn't.
With everyone warmed up, the bingo man decided to try something a little more challenging. "Square box bingo!" he announced, explaining the goal was to align four numbers in a square.
We played. And we played. It was the Monopoly of bingo games; without the chance of different formations, the bingo man continued, unsuccessfully, to call out numbers and select tiny balls from his bingo canister. I was losing badly, but Jessica came within one space of winning when finally, someone yelled "Bingo!"
Turns out, the girl had marked one incorrect number, which was unfortunate because I had already cleared my board. (Rule number one of bar bingo: People are drinking. Wait things out.)
Finally, someone did get the correct combination, but the crowd wouldn't take that nonsense for long. When bingo man suggested another advanced game, he was met with a chorus of protests, and we returned to the simple beauty that is straight line bingo.
Jessica grew slightly frustrated that she hadn't won a round yet, but we weren't lonely. The Table Tapper helped us make new friends by the minute. We sat next to the window, and passersby couldn't help but gawk at the giant contraption. Just after 11 p.m., a group of college students walked by, stopped and walked back, admiring the glass beer centerpiece. One mouthed through the window, "how much?" Chris held up 10 fingers; mouths dropped, hands reached into pockets and a huddle was formed.
Moments later, the group raced in. We post-collegiate types, however, were getting tired—of being up late and of losing—so Chris decided to donate our half-full table keg to our new compadres. Jessica and I watched him walk over to their table and mumble something. And then, we got the ultimate prize: Above the cry of the bingo man, we heard a voluminous "NO WAAAAY!" followed by a thumbs-up.
Suddenly, we felt like winners. I may never find out which prize hid in that brown paper bag. (A diamond, a blank check or, more likely, a promotional beer keychain?). But, really, who needs a trinket when the kids think you're cool?
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