Memories of the Bingo

[Mike_Check]

There will be no O69 jokes here in this journal. It's my promise, to my sanity, and to yours.

Soon, I'll be leaving my first real job. The worst job ever. I hated every single moments of it, or so.

Yet... Yet I'll miss it.

I am a Bingo Dude. A Floor Guy. An eight-bucks-an-hour. Those are the names we give to the job - Random people who mostly work the floor as salespeople, but sometime do other work. Like unclogging the toilet, or giving first aid. The Bingo Dudes also work as elevator operators every once in a while. I do that, too. I never did get to work as a cashier, or a Nevada salesperson, but I took the interview for supervisor.

I do not, under any circumstances, call the numbers. I'm not a caller, or an announcer. I'm not trained to be. I barely understand how the sound system works. Craig Mitchell, at myboot.com, has a great story about a guy who works for Blockbuster. Every time he mentions the job, people think he rents movies. Every time you say you work in a Bingo hall, people will think you call the numbers.

Callers get to work sitting down, with a bottle of water by their side. They also get paid more. But they're usually the ones taking the most abuse. After all, if the little old lady didn't win, it's their fault, right?

But let me return to the true warrior of the church basement, the dabber ink monkey, the card-carrying people, They of the Dirty Hands : The Salespeople.

We are all insanely good looking. Well, not really, but it's not like the customers are in a position to speak. I get called "Miss" on a common basis, so, um... Maybe I don't want them to speak up. We are fearless. When the clock strikes six PM, we go out in the room, wearing our sneakers, our cheap polyester pants (WedgieMaster 2000™, for the pants connoisseur), our beige buttoned T-shirt, our aprons, our bundle of cards, our CBs (Family Radio Systems, if you care. Usually on channel 10. R rated content.) and a single earplug (RadioShack's Earriper™, for the modern sadist). The wireless microphone to check the bingos, we usually pick up when the game starts, at seven. Too many customers complained about getting them in the ribs as we moved between tables.

We weave and dance our way between chairs, trash cans and customers, careful not to hit anyone by accident, kicking doors open when the need arises, trying to breath in the cigarette smoke and cheap perfume and selling for about 600$ (Canadian) of bingo cards every evening. Those cards are only for special games - Extra cards for the jackpot and mini-jackpot, early birds, bonanzas and provincial games.

We run in the room. We leap over things (I spread myself all over the "Stage" just last night, much to the customer's pleasure). We try our best to satisfy the customers, sort of. We answer all the weird requests with a smile ("Can I have the caller's number? He's hot!").

At the end of the evening, we're sweaty, our hands are covered with strangely coloured ink, we smell like someone smoked in a Wal*Mart, we got swore at, we're tired, possibly have paper cuts...

And yet, I'll miss this job. It gives me something to complain about, you know?

 

[Mike_Check]

The Hall, Itself

Maybe I should start with a description of the Bingo hall, so that the visual types out there can get a good visual idea.

The hall is very orange. Except for the columns on the left side, and the division doors behind the smoking and non smoking section. It's a very sickly green, the color of surgical scrubs, but paler. Somehow, our Walkie-talkies get covered with it, probably because they're the walls we tend to brush against. (We also opens the door with our hips, at time)

The non-smoking area is about a third of the size of the smoking area. On the left side, you have the counter with the cash register, the pads, the dabbers, and the nevada. Behind that, the backroom and the boss' office, and behind the backroom, the vault. The office and backroom are separated from the rest by windows, with the glass so dark they're practically one way mirrors. It's freaky, you alway get the feeling the customers are starring at you.

In the front, there's the stage, with a chair for the caller, two ball machines - The new one for all the games, and the old one for the bonanza - a wheel-of-fortune, sort of, and the sound system controls.

On the right side, front, you have the elevator. Middle (About level with the counter) you have the, erm, "Restaurant". The snack bar. After that, sort of straddling the division wall, there's the "Birthday Party Room."

It's actually a group room, that you can reserve when you go play bingo with 14 of your friends or so. It gets used once every months, and when we're filled at capacity. Otherwise... Well, we used it for a staff meeting, once.

The division wall itself is clear glass, for the upper half. The bottom half is, if my memory serves, green on the non smoking side and orange on the smoking side. There's a double door on the left, and one on the right, so people can go between the two. [My memory was wrong. I checked, the wall's orange on both side.]

There's a hole in the wall on the smoking side. It's shoe sized, about the height where you'd kick a wall. Probably a pissed off customer, at some point. We never figured out who did it. Luckily, it doesn't go accross.

The smoking section is bigger, and smellier. If you go during the day, it smells like a wet ash tray. If you go during the evening, there's the burning feeling of cigarette smoke. Believe me, when you have 150 people chain smoking in a basement, it just begins burning.

On the ceilling, there are Smoke Machines. Or Smokeeater. Whatever. They're big fans, half the size of a washing machine, and they burn smoke. When they work. Last shift I did, 4 of them worked, out of 12. The broken one make noise like a machine gun, and you have to stop it before it turns you crazy.

The controls are in the staff room, on the left side. the staff room has a table, a microwave, a sink, a fridge, an ice making machine and, most importantly, an ash tray. Staff goes there to smoke in the winter - Otherwise, it doesn't get much use, we sit in the back room instead. It doesn't smell as bad.

And that's about it. On each ends of the hall, there are bathrooms. On each ends of both rooms, there are two big bingo boards, one for the bonanza and one for the regular games. Those are the big lighted boards that show the previously called numbers, and the figure you have to make on your card. Every ten feet or so, on the sides, there's a TV hanging from the ceilling. It shows the ball as they come out of the machine, so that people can mark them faster.

There. The stage is set.

 

[Mike_Check]

Come and go

As you can imagine, working in a bingo hall isn't much of a career. We have a pretty high turnover, mostly with the younger employees. The people over thirty usually do this as a side line, and they stay longer...

Let's take a look at who worked there when I was hired, last August, back when we were in the old hall, and had purple uniforms :

Mr. MediumSize, my boss (That nickname is a story in itself)
Mr. Target (I fire rubber bands at him)
Mr. Groan (He was never happy!)
Prof Bingo (He trains people in the art of bingo)
(Supervisors)
Ms. Perky (She's alway happy!)
Mrs. SlowCall (She calls slooooowly)
Mr. Functionary (He works for the governement)
BingoMan (He could do any job in the hall)
(Callers)
Stickgirl (She's thinner than a stick figure)
SemiGothGirl (It's hard to look goth in polyester pants and a purple t-shirt)
Mr. Smile (He smilled a lot. We didn't work together long)
R@PP3R DuDe
Dunkin'DoBitch (Fired for "Generally being a bitch"... She trained me)
Mrs. YMCA (She was, erm, tipsy at the christmas party)
Mrs. Petite (She's tiny, but not as tiny as Stickgirl)
And, well, me.
Plus Mrs. Mom, BingoMan's sister, who was hired the day after me.

The rule of thumb is simple : Three people hired, one stay longer than three weeks. We lose the other two - A guy's mother phoned his demission in, another threw his appron on the bulletproof glass of the vaults... Most just quit normally. Can't stand the job. Some of those I never even met, as they only did two shifts.

There are people who came and went after a while. Ms. Elevator and Ms. Ponytail lasted a few months.

Right now, those are the people who work there. I've put asterisx... Asteriks... Little stars beside the new people.

Mr. MediumSize, my boss (That nickname is a story in itself)
Mr. Target (I fire rubber bands at him)
Ms. Panick (All the crap happens on her watch) *
Prof Bingo (He trains people in the art of bingo)
(Supervisors)
Mrs. SlowCall (She calls slooooowly)
Mr. Functionary (He works for the governement)
Mrs. YMCA (Left, then came back, then got promoted to caller)*
Mrs. HAIR! (Perky's sister or something) *
(Callers)
Stickgirl (She's thinner than a stick figure)
SemiGothGirl (It's hard to look goth in polyester pants and a beige t-shirt)
R@PP3R DuDe
Mrs. Petite (She's tiny, but not as tiny as Stickgirl)
Mr. Man (Stickgirl's bf, hired about a month after me)*
Mr. Muscle (All the old ladies are crazy over him)*
Pimpledude*
Englishgirl*
Englishguy*
Mrs. Uh? *

Those last five guys are recent arrival. Newbies. Althought Englishgirl and Englishguy are getting ok now, and Mr. Muscle is perfectly ok, the other ones suck. Along with the five or so new arrivals we had this summer that didn't last.

Newbies don't have it. They trip, they forget stuff, they leave their mikes on, they can't check bingos correctly...

But we all were there, right?

Althought I could swear the training was more efficient back in my time.

Heck, I never tried to play a card while on duty...

 

[Mike_Check]

Tonight's Shift

Note from my future self : This post sounds somewhat bitter. I'm not racist, I'm not discriminatory, I don't look down upon mentally challenged persons. It's just that it was an horrible shift.

I came back from a shift about three hours ago. It's 1:19, here... The chocolate and Mountain Dew is starting to kick in, about five hours too late. I run on MD and chocolate, especially at work.

I came into work 40 minutes before my shift started. It's common, for me at least : Bus schedules dictate that, along with the need to meditate and get in the mood. Plus? Cheap food at the snack bar.

So I come in, sweating in my red shirt. It's hot outside (For Canada, anyway) and I ran from the bus stop. I go in the back room and change to my Other Red Shirt, from my trusty back pack. The uniform shirt goes on AFTER I've eaten, by bylaw of The Boss. (Ok, [Mike], why is your shirt red and yellow? It's supposed to be beige, you know...)

The red shirt also prevents the earphone wire from torturing my nipple and my chest hair. It also prevents the all-too-common "Earphone burn", should my walkie-talkie get knocked off, or should I pull on the wire too quickly. The first two months I worked there, my right hip was raw from the dang wire...

Today was the shift from hell. You know how sometimes, people joke about tings, like "Wouldn't it be awful to be stuck in an elevator with that moron from accounting?" or "Wouldnt you hate having to load a truck with that weenie?"

At the bingo, it was "Wouldn't it be awful to work the floor alone with [Pimple]?" (That, and "Wouldn't it be awful to have to sleep with [Insert customer of your choice]")

Guess what happened. Mr. Muscle called in sick, partied too hard last night. (Actually took Stickgirl and her boyfriend to the strippers. Stickgirl enjoyed it.) That leaves me with, well, Pimple and Englishboy. Except the later has to work the elevator until 7. This leaves the opening rush to me and the single most incompetent and slowest clerk in the history of bingo.

At least I had an earphone. We're running out of them, and you can't hear a damn thing without them... Unless you turn the radio all the way up... And you don't want to do that. I'll post later about our radio traffic.

So it was settled : Me and Pimple. Pimple and me. To the end of the opening rush. But hey, it's going to be a slow day, right?

Right?

Bonus at 55, thursday night... Ok, average day. We'll get the regulars, some tourists, and maybe some extra retirees. It's too late in the month for the BS*.

And so, happy as a fish in a water-filled frying pan, I began preparing. Stack the bundle, remove the staples, thread the earphone, turn on the CB, take an appron, shoot rubber bands, etc. I'm ready fifteen minutes before the go-go-go. And the hall is still within "Heh, ok." levels of fillness.

6 O'clock. Actually 6:02 - I am a master of stalling, especially with Target, today's supervisor. It's Go-go-go. Pimple is under strict instruction to "Run the non-smoking. When the rush passed over, do a sweep (Walk around the room once) and then cross over. Only then." - If we start crossing back and forth, it's hell on Earth, and only the first few rows of the smoking actually get service.

I dive into the smoking. Start serving customers. Selling cards. Then everything's a blur : I run, money changes hands, mostly bills tonight. Well, looneys and twooneys too. Some quarters. No dimes yet.

But God, why is it that the customers are so stupid tonight? I don't mean average bingo customer stupid, I mean "They're going out of their way to pest me!" stupid. Lots of non-regular. Lots of idiots. Lots of mentally challenged people. And not many regulars.

Regulars are good. They know what they want, they know how fast you can get to them, they know that they should have their money out when you get to them. They don't pull bills out of their jean's back pockets while sitting, for one. They don't shout at you. And they don't stare at you, mouth agape, waiting for you to telepathifindout what they want. Yes, sometimes, I can guess what you want from the amount of money. That is, if they point to three dollars on the table, I'll give them a 3$ network card. But that's it. If you wave a twenty in my face... Well, 1) Much to their surprise, it doesn't impress me and 2) I'll gladly give them 20$ of cards, but I can guarantee it's not what they want. 20 bucks is four fifths of the way into a pack of bonanzas, and each pack you sell... Well, it adds to your bragging rights. My record is 350 bonanzas in one night - That's right, 7 packs!

Anyway. The customers are demanding, and we're short staffed. I run. Literally. I'm sweating. Literally. And I'm losing patience. At some point, a lady shouted at me - She wanted cards, and I'd left her table before selling any to her.

Never mind that a) She never said she wanted cards - She was joking about paying me to strip. I do not have time to joke, at the moment. b) I'd told her friend, sitting beside her, that I was out of the very sort of card Ms. Yeller wanted. Getting resupplied, in that kind of rush, is a tricky exercise.

I didn't formally complain of the shouting-at-me. Customers did They like me! They really do! Well, the regulars, anyway.

Another thing about non-regular. They assume that I am an idiot, and thus unable to speak English. Now, I'm nowhere near perfection, but my English is fonctional, don't you think? Their French usually isn't. Why do they insist on using it, even after I've switched to English? And I know they understand me perfectly. *Sighs*

Long story short : We had two "Customer's Mistake" non valid bingo ("See? You punched I 26. I 26 didn't come out." "It did!" "Uh, not according to the caller, the computer, and the rest of the hall. Wanna go check the actual balls, up on the stage?"), a customer with a paper cut - But a nice customer. I gladly gave him a band-aid out of my personnal first aid kit- and a lot of stuff that seems to trivial to remember.

On the good side, the caller (Mrs. HAIR!) left the sound system on after the bingo. Wich meant our microphone were still working. There was much singing, name calling and noise making.

I sang a love ballad to Stickgirl, just to spite her bf. I'm spiteful.

* Bien-être Social : Welfare people. I'll get into the concept later. It's an important one. Let's just say that the expression doesn't include everyone who receives financial aid from the governement. Just people who act like the stereotypes

 

[Mike_Check]

The Birth of Mike_Check

It's time to talk about my username. It comes from the radios at work.

We only have two firm codes. Well, three. They're all unofficials, and the first two have been invented by me, and used mostly only by me. But they're easy to understand.

The first is 911! 911!. Actually pronounced Neuf-un-un, neuf-un-un! :-D It's short for "Hey, call 911, like right now.", and it's followed by a description of the emergency. The only time I've used it, it was "I have a customer down in the smoking, she's having a seizure. Second row down, right side of the room."

Eventually, in the future, it will be followed by "Trashcan fire! Trashcan fire in the smoking!", because most of the newbies haven't been trained in the art of putting out a trashcan fire with your shoes and a bottle of soft drink.

The other code is "Mike check! Mike check!" It means, well, check your mikes. One of them has been left on. People can hear the background noise from them. If you have them at the ready, often rested against your shoulder, we can hear what you say.

If you have the mike holstered, it's just at the right height to pick up any customer talking beside you. That's never a good thing. God, is it not a good thing.

There's a bright green light on the mikes. It glow when the thing is on. There's also a mute switch, for extra safety... And yet, Rapper Dude almost managed to get fired over a mike accident.

Finally, the third code is pressing the "Call" button on the radios repeatedly. It goes bleep-bleep-bleep-bleep in an annoying way. You wait for the little "song" to finish, then press it again.

That code, obviously, stands for "I feel like annoying the heck out of everyone who works here." The snack bar employees love it, when they get their grubby, fries-smelling hands on one of our radios.

By-the-by, adding this as a second thought : I noticed today that the hole in the division wall has been plugged with plaster of paris. So instead of this quaint shoe shapped hole, we have a big white splotch. Gah. It looked better with the hole! I liked the hole! Can I have the hole back?

 

[Mike_Check]

Rapper Dude's brush with the pink slip

Gather round, friend, and hear my tale.

For it was a normal day at the bingo, and most nothing special happened, except for a group of "Tourists", women in their early thirty, gathered in the smoking and celebrating the birthday of the one sitting in the middle.

Well, perharp the one in the middle was drunk, perharps she was stupid, maybe she'd gone outside during the break to smoke. But she was joyous, and as such, unbuttoned her shirt and dabbed herself right between her upper female attributes.

And so, we of the quick mind had all noticed, and warned each others over the CB. And we gathered in corners and mocked the woman, for dabbing yourself between the tits is a really weird thing to do. But Rapper Dude is not of the quick-witted bunch - He hadn't heard the "Hey, don't be surprised if you clean that table..." and such. He only noticed during the jackpot, as he was checking a bingo on that table.

So of course, he returns, mike in hand (We were expecting the final bingo to go off quickly), and tells of his amazing discovery. "Ahoy," said he, "did you take notice of the woman with the loose shirt over there?"

"Aye," replied I. "She dabbed herself..."

He finished for me. Enthusiastically. "RIGHT BETWEEN THE BREASTS!"

The customers look at us. He didn't say it that loud, did he? I get a strange feeling. I pick up my CB and call out - "Hey, did you guys heard anything funny?"

Prof. Bingo : "The part about her tits came out over the PA. You two, in the office, after the cleaning's done."

I also broke up with my girlfriend, the next day. Didn't get fired, tho... No one did. We still make fun of RD over that, however. Apparently, customers called to complain - At the office, and at the house of the president of the non-profit organisation that owns the hall. Called him at 11 PM or so. He did not enjoy.

 

[Mike_Check]

BS, OBS, OTBS, Retirees and Frickin' tourists

I have not yet expounded on the type of cutomers we get at the bingo hall. It's pretty simple, tho.

First, you have the BS . The welfare people - The living embodiments of the stereotypes about welfare peoples. Sure, you can receive governement financial aid without being a jerk. But then, you're not a BS... You're just someone who gets financial help.

The BS are rude. They're needy, and they think we own them everything. God forbid that they get ther bonanzas five minutes after they raised their hands, because, by god, you should have made those other twenty customers wait! THEY NEEDED IT THE MOST!

The BS will make you run for one bonanza. They pay with change - And by change, I mean dimes and nickels. In Canada, we have one dollar and two dollars coins, wich make the change pouch of my appron very heavy... Add a dollar or two in dime, and boy, I sound like Santa's reindeers when I'm walking around. The worse is when customers hold the change in their hands while they wait for you, as it gets all warm and moist... When you can feel the warmth through the appron, it's extremely sickening.

They also swear. Even if there's a microphone near them. They chain smoke - Most of them, anyway. By chain smoking, I mean lighting the second cigarette with the first. For three hours straight.

BS are easy to find. Wait til Wal*Mart has a sale to get ride of all the cheap perfume. Follow the smell. For the guys? Follow the non-perfume smell.

OBS ... Osti de Bien-être Social. Osti is... Well, it's a swear word. They're generally worse than the others - They shout at the staff, they walk around barefoot (GROSS!), they show up without a shirt and they generally make us want to jump off a bridge. Of course, a customer doesn't need to fit all these qualities to be upgraded to OBS. One of them showed up three days in a row with the very same T-shirt. Boy, was she upgraded...

OTBS stands for Osti de Tabarnac de Bien-être Social. Tabarnac is another swear word, it's like the identifying word for quebecers, like "Y'all" for southern americans or "eh" for canadians. It's a bad word.

Those guys are just the worst. We had the police kick one out, once.

Retirees are ok. They're grandmas, granpas and such. A lot of them are very nice, some are bitchy, but usually, they're ok. If we had only those, the job would be easier.

Also, it's very important to remember not to ask one of them "How are you doing?", as it will land you in a discussion of their aches, ailment, and diseases. Ask something else, that can be answered by yes or no. In French, we use "Ça va?".

Tourists are the idiots who come and visit the bingo for the first time in their life. Usually a group of girls or a couple. Sometime, they'll understand everytime on the first try, and they'll just titter and giggle annoyingly thorough the evening... Other times, you'll have to explain them everything five times, they'll buy too many cards (Sorry! No refunds allowed!), they'll shout at the wrong time ("Er, miss, you have a line. We're playing for the X.") or one of them will be underage. Yes, you need to be 18 to play bingo! And yes, we'll card you if you look anything under 50!

Anyway. Bingo customers prove, in a way, that stereotypes and jokes are based on something... Now, if they could only keep their shoes on.

 

[Mike_Check]

The Smoke

How could I not talk about the smoke? Today was a smoky shift, and thus, the timing is right.

The smoke is... Well, it's not everything about working at the bingo. But it's important. It's omnipresent, and the smell follows you home.

I came in very early today (Before five) and the first thing to hit me in the face was the smell of cold smoke. I don't think there's another way to describe it, it's the smell of cold smoke. Not the smell of an empty ashtray, that smells of ashes. I'm talking about a cold, crispy smoke. It reminds me of dirty socks, wet and well used. It's moist, and stingy, in a way.

The smell never leaves the hall. A troop of scout store their equipment in a room that gives into the smoking, and their equipment smells of smoke as well.

At 6, I went out on the floor. Well, 6:05, I hadn't finished eating. Again, the transition between the non smoking and smoking... WAAAAAAAAF. But it's warmed up smoke. It's not smoke yet, that'll come late. It's the same smell as before, but thicker, more... Present? Warmer, as well.

Break. Well, customer's break, anyway. The smoke eaters are all on HIGH, except the six that aren't working. Out of twelve.

Now you're breathing smoke. You feel it ruinning your lungs, you feel the burn in your nostrils, and your eyes tear up. And believe me, for Bingo staff eye's to water...

In comics, they alway draw a smoke of cloud around the ceilling, in saloons and such. That's not exactly realistic. It doesn't make a cloud... It's just a difference in the air, about a foot off the ceilling. It's grayer, it's... It looks dead. Like the air is coming out of focus. It's hazy, but it's there, like a distant memory. You can't take a picture of it, but you know it's there. Harmful. Deadly. Smelly.

Eventually, you can see where the cloud stop. After the bingo's been there a while, look at the ceilling, then downward. When it stops being yellow, that's where the breathable air is. Yea, about four feet off the floor.

It doesn't blanket your sense of smell, however. It... It adds a backdrop. You can still pick out the smoke from the ashtray this customer is making you lean over. You can still smell the musky and manly... perfume of the male bingo customer. You can smell the Walmartia for Women.

But over that, the smoke.

Never eat fries in the smoking. Never. And avoid chewing gum, as well.

 

[Mike_Check]

Radio Traffic Samples

"Ok, bonanza won, one winner, 375$. Er... Very happy winner." A pause. "Jumping all over the place. Without a bra."

****

"Panick's like a hamster, she likes seeds and she has a mustache." (That came out of nowhere... And it's funnier in French, believe me.)

****

"Someone tipped me, what do I do?" (A very serious newbie)

"Uh... Let me check." (A very serious supervisor)

****

"Listen, Panick, I'm not looking at the customers that way. Heck, if I looked at the end of their tits, I'd be a foot fetishist!"

"Come on, they're not that bad..."

"Cause YOU looked?"

****

"Hey, guys, we had a trashcan fire in the smoking."

"Ah... Um... Do I call the fire department?" (A new supervisor)

"HAD a trash can fire. Customer wants a new Coke, tho."

****

"Rapper dude, there's a customer raising her hand behind you." (Ms. Elevator)

"When you're around, there ain't just HANDS raising." (Rapper dude)

****

(While doing traffic control, in the parking lot, as we'd just opened in a new location)

"Wow, man, with that jacket on, I feel like a guy doing security in a parking lot! That is so cool!!"

"..."

 

[Mike_Check]

Carpe Bingo

SEIZE THE BINGO!

Ok. This is a story about the first part of a shift. But first, a flash back. Complete with the wavy screen.

\\\\\//////\///\//\/\/\/\\\ (Ooooh! Wavy!)

February 2003. Staff meeting, early afternoon. We get paid to sit around, and have some guy explain the emergency stuff to us while we pretend to listen. Really, no one remembered that stuff... I took the supervisor interview, and of all the candidates, I was the only one who remembered the fire evacuation drill.

Anyway. The matter of a medical emergency comes up, because, well, half our customers are halfway in the tomb already. Ok, that's mean. But anyway. So the main point was that the supervisors would take the CSST (Workplace health and safety commission) first aid class, and everyone would rejoice. We'd buy CPR masks for the first aid kit (They still don't have them) because no one in their right mind would mouth to mouth one of the customers. Well, ok, some of them, I wouldn't mind... But I'd leave some to die.

Then the point that interest us today. "Do we stop the bingo?"
"What?"
"If someone has an heart attack, do we stop the calling and such?"
"Well... I suppose we should."
"If we do, people are going to gather up. They'll be in the way."
"Alright, then, we don't stop until the customers notice something's going on."

\\//\/\\\\////\\\\//\/\\/\\\//

Thursday, second week of March 2003. I just had my first aid / CPR class the previous week-end. I bought a face shield/glove pouch from my instructor, and I carry it around in my coat pocket. Wich is on my coat. Wich is on a hook, in the backroom.

So I'm walking around, not really thinking. It's about 7, the rush passed over, and the caller's starting the usual spiel. Good evening and welcome to the [Bingo], tonight..."

I'm going down the aisle on the left side. Checking my bundle for resupply and such. Job's boring.

"You must be at least eighteen years of age to play bingo..." (Yea, our caller's English sucks most of the time.)

I'm turning 'round the back of the smoking. Circular glance over the section... All clear. I go back to counting my Early birds.

"... must yell loud enough to be heard by..."

I'm halfway up the right side. A customer... Disappears? Between the table. Another one, a relatively young one (IE, he's blading, but his hair isn't white) jump out of his seat accross the aisle to go over there. I don't like customers moving fast, so I speed up, and pull my CB out.

Oh. Crap. There's a old lady, 80 or so (86, actually.) laying on the ground. Reflexes kick in as in fast-walk over there - "911, 911, customer down..."

Mediumsize was hanging around that night, for some reason, so he jumped on the phone. 911 hung up before he could say she was having a seizure (Wich took me a moment to report, as I had to get close). Panick ran out to the smoking, leaving the kit behind. Bright.

By now, I have customers gathering 'round. The caller noticed a problem, so he jumps off the stage and runs down to the scene... The first customer up claims to know first aid (And beside, not much you can do for a seizure.) so I kept an eye on him while I just pushed tables and chairs out of the way, leaving my cards on a table, wich would have gotten me a stern speech had Panick noticed.(1)

SemiGothGirl stayed in the non-smoking. Mr. Man ran to get the elevator running, and Ms. Elevator got a roll of wiping paper, because... Because. Panick and Bingomachine kneeled by the victim, leaving me to do crowd control. Whee.

So I get the people to step back from the right side, and clear the aisle for the ambulance. I'm guessing they'll arrive that way, cause that's where the parking and elevator are.

The left side wasn't as easy, since that's where the nurses are. Half the women over 70 that I meet used nurses, apparently. Riiiiiiiiight. Well, they use a rather old French term for nurse (Garde-malade), so I don't know if they used to clean sick people, or actually were nurses. In any case, step back please. One of them got through, and she did act professional enough. Ok.

A customer on the right side started shouting at me - "Why aren't you doing mouth to mouth? Why don't you do CPR, you bunch of morons? I know CPR! Let me do it!"

By now, the customer was post-seizal, and she was talking quite clearly. For those who don't know, when someone's talking, they don't need you to breath for them. Or, you know, beat their hearts for them.

While I was turned around, the left side closed back. I'm starting to push them back, except this is a batch of BS, and they want to know WHY they should move, since it's a free country.

Me: "Please move back, the ambulance's coming, the EMTs will need to go through there. Look, you can see the lights out of the window."

Customer : "**** off, you weenie. I can stay here all I want! Why should I move? What do you know about ambulances?"

Male EMT, taping customer on the shoulder : "Excuse me, miss, I'm an EMT, can I come in, please?"

Turns out the call had gotten out as an unconscious person. So they came running in the hall, three of them (Two EMTs and a student) with the AED, oxygen, everything but the kitchen sink. Dang, they were fast, tho... But then, I guess we're close to the hospital.

(For those who haven't noticed, I'm a first aid maniac, and I'd love to be an EMT. Except my life's not going this way right now... And I don't have a driving license.)

So anyway, they asked her a few question, gave her ozygen, and one of them moved the truck around so they could use the elevator for the stretcher. Their parting comments?

"Wow, you guys are better equipped and prepared than a lot of nursing homes."

I wanna die before I turn sixty-five.

All in all, the whole thing lasted maybe fifteen minutes, top. And half of that, or more, was after the ambulance had arrived, as they were careful when they moved the lady (And she didn't want to leave her cards, even after we asusred her it would be no problem to get reimbursment). As this was during the opening spiel, the bingo started maybe twenty minutes late.

Many customers complained about the delay. Do you understand where the bitterness comes from, now? (2)

(1) This might seem paranoid, but the unofficial word amongst floor people is that if you need to give CPR, you should kneel on your bundle. Otherwise, people might steal cards. Believe me, it's a very real possibility - Do you understand where the bitterness comes from, now?

(2) Yes, I admit, I insited to get paid the extra fifteen minutes. So I guess I'm as bad as the customers... Or am I? I'll have to ponder that.

 

[Mike_Check]

Things Customers Told Me

"Excuse me, Miss..." (I'm very much a Mr., thank you... And that one comes back often.)

Just last week, a customer waved me up - A nice one - and asks, as she's ordering her cards, "[Mike], are you French-canadian?"

Wich is a weird question. We're in Québec, and I speak French. Usually means you're a quebecer, wich is how most people would have phrased it. People (Except albertans and New-Brunswickans) stopped using "French-canadian" in the sixties. So I look at her, puzzled, and answer by the positive. This conversation is taking place in French, and she's, well, French-Canadian as well.

"But you have a French accent, when you speak."

That's just... Weird. She meant an european French accent, no the weird-butted accent I get when I speak English. (French mixed with canadian with a dash of Chicago) And believe me, I don't speak like that. There's a lot more glottal stops to be had, and a lot less swear words in European French... Maybe it's just that I have more vocabulary than the average person there. Or I'm more polite... And I use formal form. But then, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO USE FORMAL FORM WITH CUTOMERS! And people who don't annoy me in a very special way.

The same evening. "Hey, what's your name?"
"[Mike]"
"No, I mean your last name..."
"[Check]"
"Oh, so you're so-and-so's nephew, then. You really look like him."

She was right. The weird part? I have an extremely common surname. And I don't look like my uncle at all.