The Most Money You’ve Ever Owed Someone
Think about the most money you ever owed to a person. It might take a minute. When I challenged myself I drifted all the way back to high school. But more on that later.
Then Baltimore Ravens OT Bryant McKinnie owes a strip club (or two) $350,000 from some unpaid tabs. A blogger better at math that I figured that to be about 4000 lap dances. I like the ladies myself, but you would really allow yourself to get THAT far behind in charges to the typically upstanding business model of a Skin Joint owner? Crap, even when you pay it off, which allegedly McKinnie has agreed to do with a lower agreed sum, you still have borrowed the services of some single mom dancer for the better part of a year. How cool does that feel? "Son, I'd like to get you some new clothes for this upcoming school year, but Bryant McKinnie still hasn't paid for the Champagne-room service I provided at the end of last season. Soon Though."
How do you even show your face at, say, $20,000? The girls must by now know your 'tight' reputation so you're probably not even getting the most enthusiastic dances.
Me? I roll a little slower. But it doesn't scare you any less, when you owe someone money you have no ability to pay. I was in high school, where my mouth began it's long history or writing checks my ass couldn't cash. Playing pool in this hall I wasn't supposed to be in to begin with, betting money I didn't have to lose. What's 'Lose?' Easy. $10 a game, straight eight. Lost the first one while a girl I'm sure I loved at the time looked on. So I start racking again, "double or nothing." Lose again? To a guy who i'm sure I should be beating handily? Rack 'em up again...and again...I'm feeling like Paul Newman in The Hustler. I'm into this kid and his buddies for about 300, with absolutely no way of paying. One more game, I say. Triple or nothing. I'm asked to show the cash, which I don't have, but my mouth again is in overdrive. The owner will cover me, I say as I slowly rack, knowing the owner doesn't have a clue who I am, nor me him.
Jerry Enright draws back his cue, and powers it forward. The cue ball spins reverse while slicing ahead, striking the left-of-center head ball in the rack. The cue ball immediately scratches into the corner pocket, and the force of the break scatters the rest. And just as I'm about to grab the pocketed cue ball for my shot, the 8 rolls against the corner and drops into the pocket. A break-loss! Triple of nothing--$900.00 of debt I didn't have a watt of paying suddenly vanishes into thin air.
A wise man would gather his pride and plan a better time to make a first impression on the uninterested girl at the pinball machine. Me? One. More. Game. $10. I'll rack.