He owes my father an XL golf shirt.

Lolita couldn't find "roller coaster" in her dictionary. Neither could I.

I asked for another, confident I would find it.

Max bet me $100 that I wouldn't find it in any body's dictionary. We shook on it. Fair and square.

Well, guess what. I found it. 'Russian mountain' they call it. He confirmed (his folks are from Argentina and speak Spanish to him at home so he mostly just doodles in class and corrects me when I say something ridiculous, non-native).

Since I knew he wouldn't fork over the cash, I suggested a compromise.

"Bring me some soccer gear", knowing that his father works for Nike.

"Soccer gear is a no-go", he said. His old man works in the golf department.

I don't golf though I have done it before. It's good fun and all: you get to drink beer and drive a little car around a park and get out every once in a while a whack a little plastic ball. It's fucking expensive, though.

"Fine", I said. "Bring a shirt, XL for my old man; he's into golf."

The little fucker told me he would.

He still hasn't.