The bingo hall is inconspicuous. It’s behind a series of no-name discount stores that stretch along a four-lane thoroughfare in the middle of the city, neighbour to strip malls, parking lots and drive-through hamburger joints. Refinement and sophistication are foreign to this part of town.

Leslie sets foot inside these doors only two or three times a year, and then it’s reluctantly; working at a bingo is not her idea of a good time. She’s there because it’s how the hockey club her son plays for raises money.

Years ago, in those idyllic pre-kids days, she envisioned driving her daughter to piano lessons or maybe, just maybe, reading a book while she watched a soccer match from a comfortable lawn chair. Instead, she ended up with two athletic sons who spend every spare moment with a hockey stick in their hands.

She approaches the main desk where she sees her fellow workers, all of them wearing short blue aprons wrapped around their waists, full of bingo cards. They’re all wives of the team’s coaches. The guys say they’re so busy with practices, games and dealing with disgruntled parents that the women should work the bingos.

Tom, one of the executives of the hockey club, is doing the talking. He seems to be there every night. “You’ve all been here before so you know the system. The outside cards are $2 each. The ones in front are ‘dab all’ games, the ones in back are ‘regulars.’ The cards in the middle are a buck. Grey cards are called Specials, the purple ones are Supers. Don’t worry if you forget. The players will remind you.”

Leslie tuned most of it out. She just wanted to know what cards sold for $2 and where she could find the 'dab all' games in her apron. She asked the last time what 'dab all' meant but the explanation just washed over her.

Tom continued. “Don’t forget to hustle when someone calls Bingo! Get to them quickly and shout out the number on the card. The players don’t like it when you take your time. And remember: when you’re paying off, count the money carefully.”

Arriving late means Leslie works the smoking room. By the end of the session the smoke will be so thick you can see it hanging in the air. It envelops everything. When she gets home she’ll strip, throw her clothes into the washing machine and sprint for the shower, hoping that the kids are already in bed, racing to cleanse the stench of smoke from her body.

“I’ll take five supers, five progressives and four earlybirds,” a woman says to her. “Take the supers from the front, the progressives from the back and mix up the earlybirds.” The woman making the request is elderly, a regular. “And give me three toonies in change. Put them on the table with the queen facing up.”

Leslie looks up from fumbling in her apron. She’s had strange requests, but none like this. “Will you take loonies?”

“Don’t worry dear, I’ll take whatever you’ve got, just wanted to see if you were listening.”

Leslie laughs for the first time since she walked in the door. She’d forgotten bingo could be fun. Most of the people in the hall are older women who play 15 to 20 cards at a time. They sit at the same table with the same people and are on a first-name basis with Alfie, the caller. To them, the $50 they spend on cards is the cost of a good time. Winning is a bonus.

Conversations end when Alfie takes his seat in front of the microphone. Politicians ache to have this command of a crowd. Leslie walks between the tables, making sure the players have the cards they need. She recognizes the rhythm set by Alfie’s calm voice. “B 12.” Dabbers are raised over the cards in a methodical search for the number. “0 26…N 42.” Number, dab, number, dab. It goes on until someone gets lucky.

Alfie calls B 18 and Leslie hears a short summoning whistle. It’s the woman who joked about the toonies. Bingo! She’s won. Everyone looks in her direction, but only for a moment.

Leslie picks up the card and reads off the serial number. Alfie punches in the numbers and confirms it’s a winner.

“That’s one winner in the smoking section, are there any others?” He pauses for a moment and asks again. No response. “There’s one winner. Winner gets $1,000.”

Leslie hustles to the front desk where Tom has the money waiting for her in one big stack of $20 bills. “Make sure you count it in front of her,” he says.

By the time Leslie returns, another game is underway. She quietly begins to count the money. Twenty, 40, 60, 80…all the way to $1,000. She’s never seen this many 20s. The winner watches the count, but doesn’t miss a beat as she plays the next game that will pay $50.

Leslie hands the money over and is surprised when she’s given $40 back.

“You brought me luck, so take this money and right after you leave tonight buy yourself a nice, cold beer. Maybe there’ll be a cute guy there you can pick up.”

Leslie smiles as she folds the two 20s and carefully slides them into the back pocket of her jeans. No piano lesson would have been like this.