On this particular night, Brian’s engaged in a passionate debate with his buddy Jobo, one of the most avid backgammon players who’s ever lived. Jobo tends to express his opinions with a stolid certainty that does not invite contradiction. Tonight he’s yammering on about how crazy it is that women get breast implants. How, in the hopes of attracting men, they actually jam big bags of salt water under their skin.
Brian suggests that getting implants probably isn’t so bad. “Look at Maggie,” he says, referring to a mutual friend with a sizable breast job. “She seems pretty happy with her boobs.”
“You think so?” Jobo asks. “Is that what you think? How’d you like it if you had to walk around with those things all day?”
At that Brian leans back in his chair and starts laughing. But everyone else in the club goes quiet, because they know that Jobo is not a man who likes to be laughed at. After a few seconds, Jobo lays his hands flat on the table and gives Brian a hard look. “Tell you what, pal,” Jobo says. “I’d give you a hundred thousand if you got a set.”
Now, a hundred grand to Jobo isn’t going to change his life one way or another. He plays backgammon matches against Saudi sheiks for stakes nearly that high; so Brian knows Jobo isn’t ************. But $100,000 to Brian Zembic—$100,000 for not working—well, that’s the mother lode.
“How big would they have to be?” Brian asks.
“Big as Maggie’s,” says Jobo. Maggie’s breasts, it must be noted, are 38C.
They hammer out the wager’s fine points: Brian’s responsible for the surgery costs. Jobo will put the $100,000 prize in escrow. To collect, Brian has to keep the implants in for a year.
“You know I’m crazy enough to do it,” Brian more or less announces to the room. Jobo just shakes his head. “No you’re not. Nobody’s that crazy.”