10 pm last Saturday, the dreaded knock on my door came.
It’s my bookie (who is also both my RA and the Northwestern mascot). “Jacob, it’s time to pay up,” an annoyed Willie says.
“I can’t,” I reply. “I’m busy right now. Don’t you see the sock on the door?”
“Nice try, Jacob. But I need my money.” After cursing myself for being such a loser, I panic, breaking out into perhaps the most fake coughing fit of all time. “I know you’re not sick, but I’m not going to argue,” he says. “You better have my money next week.