Defense, Declarers and Dummies … My Momma’s Bridge Brawl

Mother has played Bridge with the same group of ladies for going on 40 years. Technically, there are three men who play. But this story is set in Eastern Kentucky, so if word got out any of them did, the Baptists would start a whisper campaign they were gay. No one admits to their inclusion.

However, the events that took place last Thursday afternoon at the Mr. Gatti’s Pizza on North Mayo Trail in Pikeville, Ky., have made the genders of the whole lot of the William C. Hambley Boulevard Bridge Bitches a matter of public record.

(That’s my name for them. They just call themselves, “Bridge Club.”)

What happened was the first fist fight in the history of the group. Mother claims she didn’t start it, but did effectively end it by jumping into the pop-a-shot machine and screaming, “Virginia, if you don’t stop throwing the red pepper shakers at Jeremiah, I’m gonna kick you in the twat!”

That’ll bring geriatric fisticuffs to a screeching halt. Especially when Virginia Rowe’s 5-year-old grandson turned away from the Skee-ball machine and said, “What’s a twat?”

It’s important to know the cast of characters in this story as each played at least a passive aggressive part in why Mother came back from bridge with cold cheesesticks, a subpoena, and a broken nose. Each person seems to be a placid, harmless, weekly perm-gettin’ choir member. But this is a small town in the Mountains. As they say, “Thays sum piss-n-vinegar in sum-a-dem.”

The core group is Mom, who knows everybody in town and their family history. She’s not the town gossip, but sure as hell could be. Let’s just say no one was truly comfortable when she was the editor of the local newspaper.

Hazel Fitzer plays. She’s the wife of one of the local judges and sweet as honey. However, it is good to know that her husband has sentenced the children of three bridge club members to prison.

Virginia Rowe brings her grandson and miniature chicken salad sandwiches to each meeting. She calls them her “Scooby Snacks.” Her email address actually starts with “rutrowe” too.

Cheryl Perry is a member. She became quite the talk of the town in the 1980s when her little brother lied to his friends that she was the ex-wife of Steve Perry from Journey. “She was in that music video, too!” The morning coffee crew at Jerry’s Restaurant ignored the fact Perry was her maiden name and spread it around town before someone remembered the song was “Oh Sherrie” (not Cheryl) and called bullshit.

Then there’s Edith, whose husband Jeremiah, a prominent attorney, tags along and plays now and then. The group changes to big print cards for Jeremiah who may or may not have stared into the sun as a child. Edith is the one who prays for everybody. Like actually prays. Not just close-your-eyes-and-pretend-to-mumble pray.

Martha and Leslie Sue are both retired. Martha was a teacher. Leslie Sue ran the lab at the hospital for years. That means she knows most people’s private proclivities. At least the ones that involve objects.

Violet, Yvette, Emma and Walter are also members. (Don’t tell the Baptists about Walter.) But none of them attended Thursday. That’s probably a good thing since Emma used to be a gymnast and wears stiletto heels most of the time.

And then there’s Doug. The Gatti’s crew thinks he’s married to Mom because he often buys her lunch. They’re not married, but Mom edit’s Doug’s historical novels. And unlike Doug’s wife, Mom doesn’t mind repeating everything 12 times because he can’t hear.

It all started when Martha left her wallet at home and asked to borrow the $1 ante from Hazel. If all three tables worth of members showed up, you had a chance at winning up to $12 dollars each week.

And before we go any further, please take a moment to admire the irony that on this particular Thursday, seven members of three different church choirs, one of whom was the wife of a sitting judge, a half-deaf history writer, and a semi-retired attorney (tagging along to fill-in when needed) were gathered within ear-shot of the game room at a Mr. Gatti’s Pizza for an illegal gambling operation.

The problem was Martha asking Hazel, specifically, for the loan. The only mean thought to ever pass through Hazel’s brain is Martha is a chicken shit. She consistently underbids her hand which typically causes her and her partner to lose. Martha has not won a table at Bridge Bitches since 1994 and she herself admitted that day she had a NyQuil hangover.

As it happened Martha and Hazel drew pairs that fateful day and the tension trap was set. Martha underbid five of her first six hands and Hazel was fuming. Doug, hard of hearing and distracted by the Skee-Ball bells, caught the sour look on her face and loudly blurted out, “Geez, Hazel. We all know Martha is the worst partner. Today is just your day.”

Martha, who hadn’t said boo about anybody since Rusty McCoy shit on her porch swing on Halloween in 1984, was astonished and replied, “What do you mean I’m the worst partner? Does everybody feel that way? If so, I’ll just leave. Maybe you can get the Judge over to fill in.”

Nevermind that Jeremiah was there to fill-in. Martha skipped him and said, “the Judge,” almost in air quotes and dripping with condescension. Hazel, already annoyed, felt her left eye twitch a little.

“What is that supposed to mean, Martha?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Martha said. “You’re husband is mediocre at Bridge but he is outstanding at his job of throwing teenagers in prison for being entrapped by Deputy Dick Damron.”

Even the Skee-ball machine got quiet.

As a matter of context, you should know that Judge Fitzer did, in fact, sentence Martha’s nephew to five years in prison for allegedly selling two pain pills to an undercover cop. Based on the outcome of the trial, that’s what he had to do.

But in Pike County, Ky., Deputy Dick Damron and the prosecuting attorney’s office have a track record of hiring confidential informants who are strung out on meth, telling them to set up one kid or another they don’t like, and arresting them for felony drug charges.

Judge Fitzer is oblivious to all this and followed sentencing guidelines for the charge. It still chapped Martha’s ass worse than power walking through the desert.

A heated argument befell the Mr. Gatti’s and before you know it, Virginia commenced to throwing red pepper shakers at Jeremiah, who jumped in between the two women trying to prevent fisticuffs. Virginia loves wrasslin’ and got excited to see to elderly women beat each other.

Mom was pulling Martha away while Cheryl and Leslie Sue corralled Hazel. They didn’t want to make actual physical contact, so it looked more like they were summonsing the rain gods in some aboriginal weather beckoning.

The manager of the Gatti’s called 9–1–1, pulled up a chair and a tray of cinnamon sticks and told the register gal to turn down the TV volume so he could hear which one cussed first.

Edith never moved, but closed her eyes and prayed, her hand still on perfect display in her left hand.

By the time Deputy Dick Damron pulled up, Leslie Sue had Hazel in a headlock on the floor. Martha wound up punching at Hazel, missed and hit mom square in the nose, blacking both eyes and knocking her over a chair which scraped a knee, too. Jim Bob was in the fetal position next to the claw crane machine being pummeled by red pepper shakers from Virginia, who was screaming, “I’ll pulverize him Uncle Scoob!”

That’s when mom’s adrenaline apparently took over. Black-eyed and bloodied, plus hobbling a bit from her knee losing the equestrian event to the chair, literally leapt into the pop-a-shot and started threatening people’s twats.

No one was sure how she would kick people in the twat with one bad leg, but everyone knew Mom knows their family skeletons as well as she knows them, so no one asked.

Deputy Dick Damron’s presence added to the eery calm brought about by a 74-year-old screaming “twat” in the arcade. Martha was the only one who made a peep when she looked at him and said, “Can’t wait until you’re a Private Dick, so we can stop seeing yours so publicly.”

Doug yelled in Mom’s general direction, thinking she was the only one who could hear him, “Martha just called Dick a dick!”

Virginia Rowe’s grandson, now standing on the lane of the Skee-ball machine said, “What’s a dick?”

The officer took statements from everyone, then arrested Martha for assault. Not because she assaulted anyone (mom wouldn’t have pressed charges), but the other option was Hazel and if Deputy Dick hauled her in, Judge Fitzer might start nosing around in his meth head undercover informant business.

Within days, the charges were dismissed but Hazel was still scared of Martha. She asked the Judge not to ruin Bridge Club and felt better when he devised the most interesting restraining order in Kentucky history. From that point forward Martha was prohibited from going within 9.25 feet of Hazel. That was the distance from the end of one table to another at Mr. Gattis.

Note: While the action of this story is fictionalized in an effort to embarrass my mother, several of the details are, in fact, true. Those being that a gaggle of elderly women (and men … don’t tell the Baptists) gather weekly at Gatti’s (and other restaurants in rotation, probably to elude authorities) and participate in an illegal gambling operation built around a game of Bridge. The Judge’s wife, and sometimes the Judge himself, participate. And yes, the Judge has, in fact, sentenced at least one of the group’s children to prison.

But that is the beauty of small towns and this story. In Pikeville, Ky., among other little burghs and villages throughout the country, you can’t hold grudges and draw battle lines often. The judge that sentences your relative may live two doors down, sit a couple rows from you in church, or need to preside over another relative’s wedding.

In small towns, people get along. They don’t often want to, but have to. It’s another reason so many small town folks are evangelical about their religion. The concept of forgiveness means something different when 90% of the people you see everyday are the same people you have seen every day since you knew what a “day” was.

I’ve changed the names here, but not to protect them. To protect me. The Judge will tell them since I didn’t overtly name them, they can’t sue me. And in a few days, they’ll forgive me and get over it.

And if they don’t, I volunteer to make nice by ordering all them t-shirts that identify them as official members of the William C. Hambley Boulevard Bridge Bitches.