“Is so.” “Is not,” Earl replied.
“Is so.” Want to bet?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “The loser pays for dinner.”
Sometimes when dinner’s involved Earl backs down, not wanting to put that much money on his point of view.
“I’ll pick the Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock Building in Chicago,” I said. I was sure of my facts. “I’ll pick the new Sonic restaurant,” he said. “I drive by it every day and haven’t been there yet.” “That’s a hamburger chain,” I told him, as if he didn’t already know.
We got out of bed and did what we do to start each day: headed to our computers to check our lives. A few minutes later, Earl appeared in my office with documentation and a smile on his face.
A king-sized bed tops out at 6080 square inches of surface on which to roll around, sleep, or stretch. A California king has only 6048 square inches. I had argued the Cali king was larger; he had disagreed.
I don’t mind losing a bet or paying to take Earl to Sonic. But I am disappointed the Signature Room isn’t in my future.
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