KARSON
The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.
—HENRYDAVIDTHOREAU
The bingo caller holds up a ball with a letter and number on it. “B-4.”
Before.Teaching the citizen’s police academy was so much easierbeforeGemma. Keeping my emotions in check was so much easierbeforeGemma. Convincing myself I didn’t care was so much easierbeforeGemma.
I told myself I did my job in spite of humanity, but Gemma’s one little thank-you changed that. She made me feel appreciated. That maybe I do make a difference.
Except I actually didn’t do anything for her. I responded to a false alarm. She still has no idea what kind of crime I deal with on a daily basis. She turns off the news when it makes her sad, which isn’t an option for me.
I’m not sure whether to be relieved or not that the tox report on her baggie o’ white stuff came back verifying her claim of being chalk. On one hand, the woman is too innocent to go to jail. On the other, she’s being allowed back to class to torment me with her Pollyanna perspective.
I sigh, thinking about the syllabus for next week’s class. We’re letting the citizens drive our cars through a racecourse of cones. Of course, I shouldn’t have anything to worry about if she’s as slow at driving my cruiser as she was at driving out of the precinct parking lot on Tuesday.
“Karson.” Grams’s wrinkly hand pats the spot next to my bingo sheet of nine cards on the top of our long table in the dreary, beige VFW hall. “You didn’t dab B-4.”
I glance up at the television monitor to see if I’ve missed any other numbers while brooding over troubles at work. It looks like I missed O-62 as well.
“O-62,” the voice booms into a microphone.
“Dab,” Granddad orders from Grams’s other side, though instead of dotting his card, he’s playfully striking the dab pose he learned from my nephew. His arms point toward a corner of the ceiling and his balding crown ducks into the crook of one elbow. Phillip would be proud.
My grandparents are normally very religious and consider bingo gambling, but we’re not at one of those “heathen” bingo halls looking to get rich. We’re at an annual fundraiser the VFW holds for military vets on National Bingo Day, and I’ve been coming with them since I turned eighteen. That apparently makes it both legal and not a sin.
With as much as my grandparents seem to be enjoying this event, I can see bingo becoming their vice were they not so disciplined. Personally, I find it monotonous and stressful. I’d almost rather be in a police cruiser with Gemma behind the wheel. Almost.
I search the rows of boxes for B-4 and O-62 and dot my finds with the blue, flat-tipped marker called a dabber. On my last card, O-62 completes a diagonal line.
“Bingo,” I shout. It’s nice to win for a change. I think this round comes with a $250 pot. That will buy me five hundred bullets for my 9mm, which could really come in handy with budget cuts.
“No.” Grams looks at my card, then waves at the caller. “It’s not a bingo.”
I frown. “Why?”
What’s the point of dabbing if I can’t win? I wait for Grams to quote the verse about the love of money being the root of all evil. I plan to counter with the Scripture of Jesus telling the disciples to buy a sword.
Granddad leans around her and peers at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “The free space doesn’t count this round.”
I groan. “Of course it doesn’t.”
“Sorry,” Grams apologizes to the caller. “Keep going.”
The crowd murmurs in relief. They have no idea I was going to use my winnings for the bullets, thus helping to protect people just like them.
Granddad holds up the list with the rules for each round. Some rounds require an L-shape for a bingo. Some require two lines in a row. And some, like this one, don’t allow the free space in the center. “You, of all people, should know how to follow the rules,” he admonishes.
“You got me.” I hold my palms up as if I’m under arrest. Unfortunately, that means I set down my dabber and miss the race to dab N-44.
“Bingo!” shouts a fake blond in the front. I know the color is fake because when she turns to smile at me in victory, she looks to be about the age of my grandmother. Only from behind does her long, shiny hair resemble Gemma’s.
I nod congratulations as she hobbles up to collect her prize. Perhaps she’s a cancer patient wearing a wig, and the winnings will help pay hospital bills. Not all blonds are fake. I’ve just known enough of them to become wary.
Grams pauses in passing me a new bingo sheet. She points out a spot on the last card that I should have marked. It would have given me the bingo I thought I’d earned earlier.
I hang my head in proper penitence. I wish there was someone else to blame, but the woman who distracted me isn’t even here. I robbed myself.
