Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 57

shuffled into the rec center with gleaming eyes, gripping dog eared programs and betting slips scrawled with names like “Midge in Row 3” and “Leftie Lou.” The air crackled with the scent of menthol rub and heated rivalry. This wasn’t just another concert. It was participatory sport; the Boomers now doing for Bingo what they had done for sex.

“Springsteen’s voice is decent,” one retired bookie muttered, “but it’s the collapsers we came to see. I mean, we spent a fair amount of our Social Security checks to have these new bingo cards made up. ” At intermission, someone chalked another tick next to Jerry B in the fourth row, who had stumbled during “Born to Run to the Bathroom.” Whispers swirled about first row Helen’s wobbly sway and third row Pete’s daring attempt to dance.

The Paramedics: Beats Per Minute vs. Heartbeats Per Minute

Inside the cramped ambulance parked backstage, Jenna adjusted her stethoscope like a DJ cueing vinyl. She and Trey had already patched up two twisted ankles, a minor stroke scare, and one man who refused treatment until the encore.

“Every time he hits a crescendo,” Trey said, eyeing the crowd through binoculars, “I swear someone tips over like a felled tree.”