Lazy Bastard

Jim Price sat in his favorite chair watching the TV set and drinking a Pepsi. There was a big bowl of bar-b-que chips perched on his ample belly and he reached in occasionally and shoveled some into his mouth. His feet rested comfortably on the battered chair dog that sat in front of him and it was obvious from the way that he relaxed into it that this was a position that he favored.

The living room was strewn with debris. When the Bruins didn’t score on an easy play or they lost (more often than not this season) he’d throw whatever was left of his dinner at the TV set before falling into an uneasy sleep after the game ended. There was a pile of chicken bones at the base of the TV because his dinner lately consisted of frozen chicken and Pepsi. Not just a can of Pepsi either. He figured that the Big Gulp was just about the smartest invention those Pepsi people had ever come up with. Frozen dinner boxes lay carelessly about the room where he’d dropped them along with dozens of those wonderful Big Gulp bottles.

The grease on the TV screen had hardened and he had to squint to see through it when the puck went onto the left side of the screen. I’ll clean that up tomorrow, he thought to himself. He drifted into an uneasy sleep.



It started three months ago.

“You lazy bastard!” his wife screamed when she came in the door. “Can’t you get off your ass long enough to pick up after yourself?”

She had taken up position right in front of the TV set just as the Bruins were getting ready to score on a power play and he craned his neck frantically trying to look around her. “Move dammit!” he yelled.

“HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES!” blared the TV.

“GODDAMMIT!” He was furious. “You made me miss the tie-breaker. I oughta kick your ass!”

He often threatened to kick her ass, but they both knew he’d never do anything like that. First of all he loved her in his own strange way and second of all it would actually require expending energy to get up out of his chair and do something about it.

“All I want to do after work is come home to a nice meal and a little peace and quiet. Why won’t you let me have some peace and quiet Mildred?” he asked. His voice was tight and his right fist was clenched as if he were going to stand up and show her who the boss was.

“Look at this place Jimmy! It’s a shit hole. I clean the place in the morning and when I get home you’ve managed to wreck it. You know what? Just forget it. I’ve had enough.” She turned and stalked into the kitchen banging the door open as she went.

He watched her go with a pensive look on his face. This was new. Usually they argued for five minutes and then made up. Jim thought about getting up and following her to the kitchen to see what was wrong then decided against it. If she had something to talk about she’d come back. He drifted off into an uneasy slumber.



When he opened his eyes Mildred was standing in front of him with her good blue coat on and their battered brown suitcase in her hand. Her purse was slung over her shoulder and she was holding it like she was ready to go to war.

“I’m leaving Jimmy. I’ve had enough of this.” She didn’t sound mad, or sad, or glad. She just sounded like she’d had enough.

“Look at you. You used to be in such good shape and now you’re just this fat blob sitting in that stupid chair and getting fatter every day. You’re so lazy I can’t stand it anymore.”

“But I’m tired from working so hard,” he whined. He heard the whine in his voice and he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to be mad. He was afraid that she was going to leave him for real.

“Working? You’re in sales. You make phone calls all day long trying to sell software. God forbid you should actually have to get up and go to a customer’s site. When’s the last time you went to see a customer Jimmy?” she asked.

He looked at her for a minute and then decided to throw himself on the mercy of the court. “Honey, I’m sorry I yelled and I’m sorry I sit around all the time. Look, I’ll join a gym and start working out again ok? See? I’ll get up every morning and leave an hour early and walk on the treadmill or something. I promise. I’ll start tomorrow.”

She looked at him for a long time and then relented. “It’s not that I don’t love you Jimmy, it’s just that I can’t stand for you to do this to yourself.”

“Cross my heart, Mildred. I’m gonna call the gym first thing tomorrow,” he said. He looked at her hopefully.

She relented after a minute of hard staring. “Ok Jimmy, but this is your last chance. Tomorrow you start working out again. My God, you’re only forty-two years old. Why, Stan Milbridge down the hall has one of those twelve packs and he’s forty.”

“Six pack Mildred. Not a twelve pack,” he corrected absently.

“Whatever, at least he’s in good shape.”

He resolved to get up early and start working out. In his mind he could see the exercise regimen he would follow and the special diet that he’d place himself on. Why, in a month he’d be right back to where he was twenty years ago when he had been working in construction. He'd done some boxing then and at one point at the peak of his fitness you could even see his sharply defined abs. Of course he hadn't been a great fighter, but he'd gone the distance in a few amateur fights and hadn't disgraced himself. How many people could say that they'd done that?

Only he didn’t get up the next morning and work out. And he didn’t eat properly. And a week went by and he’d pretty much forgotten all about it until Mildred kicked his foot and woke him up while he slept in his chair. She was standing in the same spot wearing the same blue coat with the same battered brown suitcase in her hand that she’d had a week ago.

“I’m going back to Ohio to stay with my sister,” she said. “Don’t bother calling me. I’ll call you in a few weeks to see what we’re gonna do.”

And that was it. Mildred was gone. At first he was kind of relieved to have her out of the way, but then the dishes started to pile up. He fixed that by buying paper plates and eating frozen chicken and drinking Pepsi right out of that Big Gulp bottle. No fuss, no muss. Pop the chicken in the oven and forty minutes later you had a tasty and filling meal ready to go.

The trash in the living room got to him at first, but eventually he grew used to it. He had a nice path kicked clean of debris from his chair to the kitchen door and that was enough.

At five feet eight inches Jim had never been an exceptionally tall man, but the last time he’d looked at the scales he’d weighed 235 pounds and he thought it likely that he’d gained a little weight since Mildred had been gone.

Probably not that much though, he thought as he sat in his chair watching the TV. He drifted off to sleep.



Jim woke up the next morning and made his way into the bathroom. After showering and shaving, on a lark he kicked the scale out from underneath the sink tapped his foot on the red “Tap Here To Start” sign. He waited for the zeros to come up and then stepped aboard. The screen went blank for a minute and then popped up with 260. 260 pounds? He thought. How the hell is that possible? Goddamn scale must need to recalibrated. He picked the scale up and fiddled with it and then set it back on the floor. 260 pounds. Holy shit!

He stared in amazement at the digits. His doctor had warned him that if he gained any more weight since the last visit (the very same visit that prompted him to buy this scale) that he’d be in serious risk of a heart attack.

“Obesity is rapidly overcoming smoking as the number one cause of death in the U.S. Jim,” Doctor Hamm said. “You’re on your way to becoming a statistic.” Depressed he stepped off the scale and got ready for work.



A week later and he was still in a black mood. He’d been eating more than ever and he suspected that he’d gained another five pounds. The more he tried to control the food he ate the worse it got and the more he ate. Mildred still hadn’t contacted him and he was too stubborn to pick up the phone and call her.

He was sitting in his chair eating popcorn and watching TV when the infomercial started. “Want to lose weight?” asked a man who probably did his laundry on his abs. “This was me a year ago.” Cut to a picture of him as a poor pathetic slob wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt with his huge belly peeking out from underneath. In the picture he’s smiling and holding a beer in one hand and waving at the camera with the other. He looked happy enough.

The picture is pulled off the camera and the same guy is standing there in a pair of black skintight gym shorts and a pair of black Nike sneakers. His muscles stand out in relief and his veins look like a road map on his chest and arms. “This is me now,” he flashes a triumphant grin. “I’m 43 years old and I’ve never felt better in my life.”

Enter a stunningly beautiful blond girl about twenty-five years old wearing an outfit so tight it might as well have been painted on. She bounces perkily over to the guy and slides her arm around his waist. He grins and winks.

Jim was sitting up wide-eyed and staring at the TV. That guy was older than him?!? He looked like he was in his mid-thirties for crying out loud! Suddenly the infomercial cut to a man in a military outfit standing in front of a bunch of people doing some kind of obstacle course.

“Hi, I’m Drill Sergeant Endman and I can help you if you’re struggling with a weight problem,” he said. Sergeant Endman was wearing a smokie-the-bear drill sergeant hat and camouflage uniform. He was thin as a whip and had that telltale v-taper that said this was one tough and in-shape hombre, but had a jovial smile on his face. “I have a new program based on the military's workout programs for its new recruits. If it'll work for America's soldiers then by God it'll work for you!” he said as he thrust a finger at the camera just like Uncle Sam.

Jim sat mesmerized as Drill Sergeant Endman showed him how he'd whip his lazy butt into shape at his special camp in Northern Maine. Why so far away? Why, to avoid all those distractions of course! By the end of the infomercial Jim had the cordless phone in his sweaty hands and was waiting for the opportunity to place a call to talk to some of Sgt. Endman's people. By God, he was going to get in shape. When the 800 phone number came up on the screen Jim dialed immediately.

“Hi, this is Jim Price and I'd like to find out more about the workout camp that Sgt. Endman has up in Maine,” he said breathlessly when the phone was answered on the other end. He was going to get in shape.



A week later the plane landed at Portland International and Jim walked off the plane and into the concourse. He looked around and was surprised at how small it was. There were only two floors and they held everything he needed. Upstairs was a small bar and restaurant combination and he wondered idly if he might be able to get some fries and a couple of hotdogs before the exercise program started. Somebody was supposed to meet him here, but he hadn't seen anybody yet.

He turned and was headed for the luggage carousel when he saw a trim young man in military garb holding a sign that said, “Drill Sgt. Endman” in official lettering. Jim saw his luggage rounding the corner of the luggage carousel and grabbed it. He walked over to the young man, huffing as he carried his new suitcase at his side, and said, “I'm one of your new recruits.”

The trim young man smiled and pointed to a mid-sized van parked out front and Jim walked through the revolving door and presented himself to the driver. A half-hour later Jim and three other overweight men and a rather beefy young woman were heading for Northern Maine.

Jim, ever the salesman, struck up a conversation with the man sitting behind him. “Jim Price. Ya know, I'm excited about this. My wife left me a few months ago and when I told her I'd signed up for this camp she said she'd think about coming back to me.”

The man extended a chubby hand over the back of the seat. “Nathan Parker,” he said. Dark haired with a huge single eyebrow perched below his forehead Nathan could have passed for a Neanderthal if he'd been muscular. His brow ridge stood out prominently and Jim couldn't help think – a little unkindly - that not only was Nathan Parker hugely overweight he was also an unfortunate looking man. He seemed friendly enough though.

“My doctor told me if I didn't lose weight I'd probably die,” Nathan was saying. His morose expression said it all. “Do you think they'll have counseling sessions? I'm pretty sure I'm going to need counseling.”

“I mean, I try to stop eating, but I can't,” he said. His eyes welled up with tears. “And I don't want to die. Who wants to die Jim? I just want to live happily ever after like normal people.”

By normal he means thin, Jim thought. He recoiled a little. The last thing he needed was to be tied down to this emotional wreck. Hell, he'd need all of his motivation just to get out of bed in the morning and join the others without having to give emotional support to somebody like this.

He smiled. “Well Nathan, I'm sure they'll have counseling and I'm sure you'll do just fine. All of us will do just fine!” His cheerfulness sounded forced even to his own ears. He turned around in his seat and pretended to sleep. He heard someone else start a conversation in a low voice, but ignored it. Sheesh, I hope these next two monthss don't suck, he thought as he drifted off into an uneasy nap.



“Hi everybody! My name is Cathy and welcome to Maine! Wake up sir! Everybody please follow me!” said the stunning blond girl from the infomercial. She was so perky he expected her to squeal with delight at any moment. She bounced down the steps of the bus and walked along in front of them with a spry step and the five of them struggled to keep up with her fast pace. She had on a baby blue hat with a pigtail sticking out of the back that bounced as she walked. She waved at some people coming out of a building and exchanged a cheerful greeting as the others struggled along behind her. Jim's suitcase suddenly felt like it weighed about a hundred pounds.

The young girl in their group was gasping for breath. It was the first noise that he'd heard her make since they got on the bus and it cheered him a little that he wasn't the only one in lousy shape. The others were sweating and poor Nathan was wheezing along at the rear with a red-splotched face and rivers of sweat rolling down his face. They'd been walking for less than five minutes. Oh boy, thought Jim. It's gonna be tough for poor old Nathan.

Cathy led them into a large air-conditioned room and had them take chairs that were just a little too small for them. There wasn't quite enough space between the desks behind them and the chairs they were sitting in and Jim thought this odd for minute. Then realized the room seating was designed for people who were in shape. He'd gone to a Chinese restaurant once and saw an attractive couple sitting at a table. Although sitting wasn't quite the right word. They were perched at the edge of the seats in the booth and he wondered why that was. After a couple of minutes of thinking about it he looked around and realized with shame why the couple was having such a hard time with their seating. A good number of patrons in the restaurant were overweight and they needed the extra room so they could slide their extra girth in comfortably. The couple eating dinner was very athletic looking and if they leaned back against the chair they had a hard time reaching their food. They were very much wrapped up in each other and didn't seem to pay too much attention to what was going on around them. In stark contrast, in the booth to the right of them a man in his early fifties was gobbling a huge plate of chicken wings. He'd pick up a wing and take a bite and then stop to wipe his red, sweaty face with a damp cloth. He stomach was pressed up tightly against the table and Jim had realized that the seating was so that the larger people who went there could eat comfortably. This seating arrangement was like that except in reverse.

He squeezed his bulk into the chair and sat uncomfortably with his belly pushed up against the edge of the desk. He noticed that poor old Nathan (that's how he was beginning to think of him now – Poor Old Nathan) was trying to cram his bulk behind the desk next to Jim's and was making quite a production of it. The chair squealed along the floor as he tried to slide into it and the papers on the desk fell off like leaves falling on a windy day. Finally, he settled in.

Cathy had watched the whole production with no change of expression. “Everybody ready now?” she asked brightly.

God, what a cold bitch, he thought to himself. Didn't even offer to help the poor bastard.

The door behind her opened and Drill Sergeant Endman walked in and he marched crisply to the front of the class.

“Do you want to lose weight?” he asked without preamble. His voice was friendly and Jim was sure he saw a twinkle in his eye.

“Yeah!”

“Yes sir!”

“I do!”

The chorus of ayes seemed to be enough to convince him. “Today you are going to start on a rough two months. While you are here you will be assigned to what we call the Physical Conditioning Platoon. This is an actual military designation for a special platoon created for Marine Corps Recruit Training. When you see Marines you see the end product. Not what they looked like when they first came to us. Believe me folks, some of those recruits look just like you when they get to boot camp,” he said not unkindly.

As he was talking Cathy walked around and pointed out where they needed to sign the paperwork. Everybody was listening carefully to Sergeant Endman and signing away when Nathan lifted his pudgy hand in the air.

“Uh, um Sergeant?” he asked. His voice didn't quite quaver, but it was close.

Sergeant Endman didn't look like the kind of guy who was used to being interrupted, but he stopped in mid-sentence and looked at Nathan. “Yes?” he asked politely.

“Well, I was wondering exactly what we're signing here?” His voice was a little stronger now.

“Oh, that's just basic contract stuff saying that you agree to try your best to lose weight and waivers that say we're not responsible if you get hurt while training here. Don't worry, our lawyers put it together and it's all legit,” explained Sergeant Endman. “And don't worry about getting hurt or anything either. We've got the best medical staff around just to make sure that you all stay healthy.”

“Now where was I? Oh yeah, when you first start to lose weight that'll be your first really big ego..”

“Um Sergeant Endman?” said Nathan again.

“Yes?” the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. Sergeant Endman looked like he was starting to get annoyed.

“Um, on page two it starts to talk about...” Nathan began.

“You must be a lawyer right?” asked Sergeant Endman.

“How did you know?” said Nathan with surprise.

“Because the lawyers always want to go through the contract and quibble about the unimportant stuff and cause the rest of the team to lose valuable training time. I'll tell you what. Go with Cathy and she'll sit you down with one of our lawyers and he'll answer any questions you have,” he said. It was obvious that he didn’t want any more interruptions.

“Oh no no! That's ok. I just had a question that's all. It's probably not important. Please go on,” Nathan said. He started scribbling his name down furiously on the various forms.

“Thank you,” said Sergeant Endman dryly.



Twenty minutes later the indoctrination ended. Sergeant Endman looked at his watch. “It's 1700 hours now. That's 5:00 pm for the civilians out there,” he grinned. “Get a good nights sleep tonight. We start early around here. Training begins at zero-dark-thirty folks. Best of luck to you!” He did a crisp military about face and walked out of the room.

Cathy strode to the front of the class. “Ok folks. Follow me and I'll show you to your barracks.”

They fell in behind her as she walked across a large open area (called the Parade Ground she explained). She stopped outside of a large oddly shaped building constructed of corrugated tin called a Quonset hut and showed the men inside.

“You guys will be sleeping here,” she said. The beds nearest them were unoccupied and they walked over and threw their various luggage on them. There were green military footlockers under the bunk beds (racks she called them) and large upright gray lockers for them to stow their gear in. The rest of the barracks was empty, but it was obvious that there were people living here.

“You're late comers. The others have been waiting for you to show up. Tomorrow we start training. See ya boys!” and she was gone.

“God she's got a nice ass,” one of the other men said as he collapsed on the rack where he'd thrown his suitcase.

The others nodded in agreement. They all sat on their racks and introduced themselves. The balding guy with the funny sense of humor called himself “Big Ben Staples.” He chuckled as he said it and grabbed his ample belly. “I'm gonna come outta here twenty-five pounds lighter boys,” he said. Jim thought that he'd do it too with a positive attitude like that.

The one who had commented on Cathy's ass introduced himself. “I'm Nick Lowe. As you can see I could afford to lose a few L B S myself,” he said. He pronounced it ELL BEE ESS. “I used to be in pretty good shape, but I travel a lot and over the last two years I've really packed it on. I weigh about two-hundred and forty pounds and I need to lose at least sixty pounds to get back to my fighting weight.”

The rest were nodding. It was a common theme for all of them and they were glad to be in similar company. Nathan and then Jim introduced themselves around and they talked for awhile until they heard the rest of the group coming back from dinner. They were told where the “chow hall” was and after walking there (a ridiculous distance) and eating, came back and unpacked their stuff into the wall lockers.

Jim lay quiet for a minute letting his thoughts wander. This place seemed a little weird and he was trying to figure out exactly what it was that was bothering him. Thinking these thoughts he fell into an uneasy sleep.

He awoke in the middle of the night and the snoring coming from the barracks was unbelievable. Shit, I shoudda known that with this many overweight people in one place there'd be a lot of snoring. He thought. He slowly drifted back to sleep in spite of the cacophony.



Hell began at precisely 0430 hours military time the next morning.

“Wake up Porkchops! It's party time!” yelled a gleeful voice.

“Get your fat asses on my yellow line now!” screamed another voice.

Men were jumping and falling out of their beds as the three Drill Instructors ran back and forth making enough noise for ten men. The confused and startled recruits were running into each other in their haste to figure out what was expected of them.

Unfortunately for Jim he was an unusually sound sleeper. He had been from an early age. This morning when he woke up the first thing he heard was the screaming of the Drill Instructors. His first thought was, “What the….?” And then he opened his eyes and looked straight into the remarkably bloodshot eyes of Staff Sergeant Brown. Staff Sergeant Brown was the only black drill instructor in the platoon and his Smokey Bear cap rode low over his eyes giving him an even tougher and more sinister look than normal if that were possible. He stared at Jim in surprise as if he couldn’t quite believe that Jim had actually slept through the last sixty seconds without even stirring.

“Get uuuupppppp!” he yelled in a spray of spit and anger.

“Yeeeaaarrrrggggg!” screamed Jim and jumped out of bed only to remember too late that he was on the top bunk. He fell howling to the floor and thought for sure that he’d injured something more than just his pride.

“I don’t know what your malfunction is, but if you don’t get moving right now I’m gonna put my boot so far up your ass you’ll be able to polish it with your eyebrows!” yelled Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Brown. In Jim’s mind Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Brown looked mad enough to chew nails for fun and kill Jim while he did it. Jim clambered to his feet painfully and ran to the front of bunk and stood on the yellow line where the rest of the platoon had already lined up.

“Good morning Porkchops,” said Drill Instructor Sergeant Foreman. The satisfaction in his voice was audible to every ear. He had the voice of someone who would pull the wings off a fly and laugh delightedly at the same time. “Welcome to the Physical Conditioning Platoon. PCP or the Pork Chop Platoon among us friends here.”

Sergeant Claytor was walking up and down in front of the men while Foreman talked. He was short and wide and resembled a pitbull to such an extent that Jim nearly laughed out loud. Fortunately, his survival instinct kicked in and he managed not to giggle as Claytor stalked by.

Foreman talked and filled the men in on the rules. They were recruits, which meant they were lower than maggots. He’d never seen a bigger pile of pitiful crud in his long and distinguished career as a Drill Instructor for the Marine Corps. If they tried very hard over the next couple of months they might just be good enough to actually polish the boots of a real Marine recruit by the time they were done. As Porkchops their status was only one step above “Prisoner.”

Jim was getting ready to protest when a voice from down the barracks spoke up.

“Ummm Sir? We didn’t sign up for this kind of abuse and I demand that we be treated with the respect that a paying patron of this facility deserves.” Jim would have recognized poor old Nathan’s nervous voice anywhere.

Evidently the DI’s saw his words as a challenge to their authority and the weakness in his voice as an invitation to a breakfast of raw pork chop. They descended like a pack of rabid wolves on a wounded lamb and for two minutes all Jim could see was three Smokey-the-Bear hats bobbing around Nathan’s head as they screamed and yelled at him.

Jim had never seen a grown man cry just from being yelled at, but by the time they were finished Nathan was a blubbering mess. Tears rolled down his cheeks mixing with the snot coming out of his nose and he cried in big honking whoops. The DI’s walked away with disgust clearly written on their faces.

“Anybody else have any questions or complaints?” yelled Staff Sergeant Brown. “You guys are the ones who signed the contracts. We're just here to make good on them. Now if you want to cry to somebody you can see the Chaplin on Sunday. Until then I don't wanna hear it.”

“Now it's time to fall out for PT. Fall out means to get your gear on and get out in the street as fast as you can and PT stands for physical training. Get used to it ladies, we're gonna do a whole lot of it. You have three minutes to get dressed in shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers and to fall out in formation. GO!” He stood watching as the men scrambled for their lockers.

Jim had taken a few extra minutes to lay his stuff out neatly in his footlocker last night never dreaming how much that little act would help him out this morning. He threw on his (prescribed) red shorts and white t-shirt, put on his socks and sneakers and was ready with at least a minute to spare. A few of the other recruits were having problems. One guy had dumped the contents of his footlocker on the floor of the barracks and was frantically trying to find his other sneaker. Another unfortunate was standing in his jock strap – belly hanging down over his belt line –trying desperately to find his shorts.

Jim locked his footlocker and hustled out the door before the carnage could begin. He got outside and discovered that a formation meant standing stiffly at attention in four rows while the DI's waited for the recruits to get outside. It was cool this morning and he shivered slightly as he waited for the last minute to be up.

Sergeant Foreman was standing in front of the platoon looking bored. He suddenly snapped to attention and did an about face. Sergeant Endman himself came up and relieved Foreman who ran to the back of the platoon.

Jim was relieved. Now he'd be able to let the headman know what these sadistic bastards had been doing to them. He was getting ready to put his hand up when Endman spoke.

“You are the sorriest looking bunch of recruits I've had up here in a long time,” he began. “Each and everyone of you has Dunlap's disease and I intend to remedy that situation during your little visit with us. Dunlaps is when your belly has done lapped over your belt ladies. Each and every one of these Drill Instructors is a highly trained professional when it comes to motivating people to lose weight.”

“You have complaints. You don't like the way you're being treated and yelled at. Tough shit folks! You signed the contracts and we're just here to help you lose weight. Suck it up!” he crowed happily.

“When I say right face you will face to your right. Riiiiight Face! You're other right numbnuts!” he yelled at someone who had turned to his left. “Not only are we gonna get you guys to lose weight we're gonna teach you the difference between left and right.”

“Forwarrrrrd! March! Double Time! March! That means run ladies!” Sergeant Endman started them running.

Foreman sprinted up to the front of the platoon and set the pace for them. Jim knew it wasn't that fast a pace, but he was still out of breath after the first thirty seconds. They ran in a large loop around the parade ground and then they headed up a small hill behind the chow hall. The DI's weren't even wearing PT gear. They had on their uniforms and Smokey-the-Bear hats and weren't even sweating.

Halfway up the hill Jim started retching. He staggered to the side of the road and threw up until the only thing coming up was long strings of bile that hung from his lips. Sweat streamed into his eyes and when he wiped it away he smeared it into his eyes. The pain helped to focus him and when he could see again he was amazed at how many people had stopped to throw up. He started walking up the hill and passed a dozen men, most of them standing with their hands on their knees, but a couple were actually laying alongside the road. He stopped at the first guy lying down to see if he was still alive.

“Keep moving!” yelled a voice from down the hill. That spurred him on. He picked up his pace and by the time he made it to the top of the hill he was gasping for air again. Drill Sergeant Endman was now at the bottom of the hill with about five guys from the original forty who had started out. Jim started running down the hill finding it easier to breathe and caught up to the platoon before they made it back to the barracks.

“Quick time! March!” yelled Endman and the pitiful remnants of the platoon slowed to a walk. He looked at what was left of them. “Six of you actually finished the run,” he said in disbelief. He shook his head. “Well, you guys are the cream of the crop. Congratulations,” he said dryly.

He put them through a few calisthenics and as the rest of the platoon showed up they joined in. Jumping jacks, push ups, sit ups, crunchers, squats, more push ups, mountain climbers and then ten minutes of stretching. The whole time Endman was exercising he was explaining what muscle group they were using. He talked about the importance of stretching. Jim couldn't come anywhere near his toes, but he gave it his best effort.

As they were finishing up Poor Old Nathan came staggering up with Sergeant Claytor ragging on him like a pit bull on a pork chop bone. Claytor had him by one elbow and was nearly dragging him. Nathan's head lolled around on his neck like the plastic penguin head on the dashboard of Jim's daddy's car. His feet were tripping over each other as they came up to the formation and he was gasping for breath.

After the exercises they were marched back to the barracks to shower and change. They were lined up out front for chow at 0800. One of the Sergeants stood in front of the platoon and looked them over.

“Well, I see nobody's late for chow this morning. What a surprise.” The other DI's laughed. “Right! Face! Forward! March!” The platoon turned to the right (and they all got it right this time although it wouldn't always be the case) and started marching towards the chow hall.

“When I say LEFT! Your left foot strikes the deck!” chanted the DI as they marched. “Left! Right! Left!” Pause “Left!” Pause “Left!” he went on and on and the men gradually got used to walking in step with each other.

Jim's stomach rumbled as they walked and he wasn't the only one. He could hear bellys gurgling all over as they marched along. The DI was singing cadence and the rest of the platoon sang out after each line. It was obvious that these were real DI's with real military experience and it was also obvious that none of the group was going to stand up to them and say something about their rights. They weren't soldiers or Marines or anything like that. They were men and women, mostly in their forties, who wanted or needed to lose weight. He felt a hot knot of resentment growing in his stomach as they marched along.

Breakfast consisted of low fat milk, cereal, fruit, water, and whole grain breads with no condiments except sugar free strawberry jam. They drank coffee by the gallon, but they were only allowed to have it black. No milk. No cream. No sugar. Jim had been envisioning a large platter of scrambled eggs with juice, milk, toast and tons of butter. Tons. From the looks on the other guys faces they had been thinking along the same lines. The DI's, who'd seen this before, looked at each with bemused expressions.





After breakfast they were marched to another building where their education began. A lean and fit instructor they hadn't met yet stood at the head of the class and began talking. “For breakfast this morning you had about three hundred calories. You will have five more meals today consisting of roughly three hundred calories per meal.”

“We are going to teach you why we are doing this. By the time you are done with training you will know about diet, exercise, and how your body reacts to both. You will walk away from this training with a better understanding of those things than most doctors.” He looked around at the class and then pointed at one of the men. “Tell me, what is a calorie? Stand up and tell the class.”

The man lumbered to his feet. “Ummm, uhhhh. It's something in fat or food that makes you fat right?”

The DI shook his head and pointed at another man. “You. Stand up. What is a calorie?”

“It's something in food that makes you fat or gives you energy. If you eat too many of them you get fat and if you eat too few you start to lose weight.” He sat down abruptly with his cheeks flaming.

“Well, that's closer. A calorie, gentlemen, is nothing more than a unit of measure. The official definition is the amount of energy needed to raise one gram of water one degree centigrade. Now here's what it really means.....” and he began to explain.

Jim was fascinated in spite of himself. At 0930 a couple of serving trays were brought in and the men went through the line under the careful eyes of the DI's. The trays held fruit, whole grain breads, lean meats and other healthy foods. Once again they were limited to three hundred calories and after eating Jim had to admit that he was feeling better than he did on a normal day when he would have eaten a thousand or more calories at breakfast alone. They drank lots of water at the DI's instructions.

By noon all the recruits were so sore from the run they could hardly move. They were marched to the chow hall to eat and then back for more classes in the afternoon. Exercise basics, eating right, basic anatomy and physiology, body mass index tables and charts, diabetes (they were all severely at risk for this disease), heart disease, high blood pressure. The list of classes was long and impressive.

At 1600 they were taken back to the barracks and had to change into their PT (physical training) gear and back outside for practical application of the exercise classes they had taken during the day. Jim was lying on his back with his legs up in the air and quivering like a new born baby seal. The agony in his belly was beyond imagining and he was hoping that a truck would suddenly swerve out of control and slam into the platoon and kill him so that the pain would stop. Then it was pushups. He did one before he collapsed and that was a lot better than at least half the class. The DI's were screaming themselves hoarse and the recruits were all praying for death.

When 1700 rolled around Jim was too tired to walk to the chow hall for dinner. He staggered to his rack and collapsed into it and as he lay there he felt tears in his eyes as his body relaxed into the uncomfortable mattress. Nothing had ever felt this good. He fell into a deep sleep immediately and didn't stir again until the next morning at 0430 hours, when a new and deeper level of Hell began all over again.





Two weeks later Jim was awake in his rack waiting for the DI’s to come out and start the wake up call. As soon as the lights flipped on he rolled over the edge of his bed and dropped lightly to the floor, slipped into his shower shoes, and ran to the front of his rack and stood stiffly at attention. The DI’s stalked up and down the line of men and didn’t say a word. Jim took this as a victory. Even Poor Old Nathan was up and ready this morning although he wasn’t looking that good.

He lay awake most nights crying and the Drill Instructors weren’t cutting him any slack whatsoever. In every platoon there was always a weak link, the DI’s explained, someone who was going to get someone else killed and it was their job to toughen that individual up enough so that he could make it through the training period. That weak link happened to be Nathan and they had no problem pointing it out at every opportunity. Jim was getting tired of hearing about it and he couldn’t even imagine how Nathan was taking that much abuse everyday without going crazy. Those Marines must be some tough bastards, he marveled to himself.

They fell out for their run and the DI’s had actually changed into PT clothes with them. The warm-up calisthenics were getting harder every day and the run was a nightmare. Even the DI’s were sweating when Sergeant Brown called for the platoon to slow to a walk.

“Quick tiiiiiiime, March!” he shouted and they all went from a dead run to a fast walk. Jim felt like passing out, but then again he always felt like passing out after the morning run.

After they were formed up Sergeant Brown looked at them and said, “Today is your second weigh in! Today we find out just how much progress you’ve made over the last two weeks. I want to tell you that I’ve seen a hell of an improvement in you all and with some hard work you guys are gonna leave here looking better than you have since you graduated high school! Fall out!”

The praise was totally unexpected and the men gobbled it up. It tasted better than any cheeseburger had ever tasted. Accomplishment. Pride? That was a feeling that most of them hadn’t had in years and it was sweeter than a piece of pie.

On the way to the shower there were five scales set up and the men lined up while the DI’s and a couple of assistants wrote down the information on a chart.

“Baker! You went from 212 lbs to 199 lbs. That is fucking outstanding!” yelled Forman. “Next!” And so it went. Jim was finally up and he stepped up onto the scale gingerly with his heart hammering in his throat. Why am I so nervous? I know I’ve done pretty good so far.” He still couldn’t quite control his breathing though.

Claytor pushed the weights on the scale around and then double-checked it. “How in the name of hell did you do that Price?” he yelled. “You went from 260 lbs to 220 lbs! You lost 40 lbs in just two weeks. You’ve gone from a fat fuck to a chubby bastard. By the time you leave my base you’ll be a lean mean fighting machine. Next!”

Even Poor Old Nathan had managed to lose fifteen pounds and was given a slap on the back. He walked away from the scale beaming like a halogen headlight.



The classes had moved from being easy to the more advanced. They were now studying the different types of diets on the market and the good and bad points about them. Jim was fascinated in spite of himself and paid close attention as the instructor led them through the pros and cons.

“The Atkins diet will help you to lose weight, but it will also cause you to eat dangerous amounts of protein if you don’t do what?” he pointed at Tom Hawkins. Tom got to his feet slowly and thought for a moment before answering.

“Drink water to flush the protein from your kidneys?” he said.

“Is that a question or an answer,” demanded the DI.

“Sir! That was an answer,” he said firmly this time.

“Outstanding! Sit down pork chop! The answer folks, is because you eat so much protein that it can cause damage to your kidneys unless you drink lots and lots of water. You’ll lose weight, but this is probably not the best diet solution for most of you.”

And on it went.



The exercise portion of the class was always followed by practical application. In the first and second weeks it had been aerobics and calisthenics. They’d been shown how to do a proper push up and the correct way to do situps. Pullups were demonstrated, but for most of them that was an exercise still in the future.

On the first day of the third week they were studying weight training. Jim had done some weight training in college, but had never pursued it very seriously. He’d gone to the gym with the boys, slapped some weights on and lifted them with huge grunts and hoarse cries more to impress the women than to benefit from the training itself. Now he sat in class wishing that he’d paid more attention to his weight lifter friend back then.

The one time he’d gone to the gym to lift seriously had been a disaster. His friends name was Coyaso and he was from Peurto Rico. The guy was huge and he’d challenged Jim to come to the gym and lift with them and Jim had made fun of him. Regrettably, Jim had picked up the gauntlet and agreed to meet Coyaso and Aguilar in the gym the next afternoon at the gym. The memory of that day was still with the way that a car wreck will stay with you for years after.

“LIFT!! YOU’VE GOT ONE MORE!” screamed Coyaso. Jim had 165 lbs on the bench press and Coyaso was bent over and screaming directly into Jim’s face. Jim was pretty sure he didn’t have anything left, but made the effort because he figured Coyaso would just let him die if he didn’t at least try. He grunted and pushed and the weight stayed firmly on his chest. Nothing. Coyaso put two fingers on the bar and helped get it off his chest and then slowly assisted him to a full extension. Jim put the weight on the rack and sat up. His arms were totally useless and he flailed around for a minute until he got it his body under control and could sit up.

Coyaso then led him through some tricep exercises called face-breakers, biceps exercises called preacher curls, and a few back exercises to round up the whole upper body routine. At the end of each set Coyaso screamed and made him go to failure. Jim didn’t scream. Not then.

In the shower after they were done lifting he picked up the soap and went to lift his arms over his head. He couldn’t. “What the…?” he said aloud and he could head Coyaso laughing nastily from the next shower stall. He bent his head down and put his hands up as far as he could and just barely managed to wash his hair. He turned the water temperature up so that it was steaming and let it play over his sore upper body.

“Hey Coyaso!” he called. “I might be sore tomorrow!”

“Do you think so?” said Coyaso.

If he could have seen the nasty grin on Coyaso’s face he might have worried a little, but he didn’t see it and so he didn’t worry.

That night he opened his eyes and lay in bed quietly for moment. He had to use the bathroom and he liked to lay in bed for a minute to think about it. Jim sat up and that’s when the pain hit. His body cramped up from his belly button to the top of his head. He couldn’t even scream loud because his larynx and throat muscles were cramped too. His body from the waist up was locked completely. His chest felt like someone had attached electrical clips to his nipples and was giving him the full treatment. His hands curled into gnarled claws because his forearms and biceps cramped. When he tried to push down with his right arm to sit up his triceps locked up and really added an interesting perspective to the pain. His back and shoulders turned into huge knots of cramped muscle and it took him five minutes sitting on the edge of the bed to finally get himself under control.

Luckily he hadn’t worked his legs and was able to ease his way down to the bathroom. Another stroke of luck – he slept nude and therefore didn’t have to reach down and try to extricate himself from his underwear. He moaned as he settled back into bed and lay there for a good forty-five minutes before falling back into an uneasy sleep. It had taken a full week to recover and he had never gone back to a weight room again.





**Author's note: Due to size restrictions I did not post the whole story. If you'd like to finish it email me at [e-mail] and I'll email you the rest. -Bob