Laced up and ready to run. No one else on the track. Perfect.

“I’ll show those bastards I’ve got what it takes.”

Portafoy has a point to prove. The guys down at the deli tease him. Lambaste him with insults. Throw slices of ham at him. Shove potato salad down the front of his pants. Plant pickles in his coat pockets. They see Portafoy as an “all-American” meal with shoes.

“Give me just five minutes with each of ‘em. One-by-one. I’ll take ‘em apart.”

He pulled out his stopwatch, wiped the sweat from his brow and knelt down in the start position. His knees groaned. He’d watched the DVD everyday. Memorized each move. Studied the techniques of the runners, and though he’d never tried it, he felt he could run. Run like the wind.

The day began in the afternoon. Portafoy got up, slid into his slippers and trundled off into the kitchen. The bathroom would have to wait. He was famished. Weeks ago he’d placed a mirror on the refrigerator door. The image he saw had lost weight. A ton. There was even a post card from Jared the Subway pitchman offering words of encouragement. Portafoy had done it. That’s what he thought anyway.

He lowered his eyes and planted his knuckles firmly in the black cinders. The stopwatch curled into his left palm, middle finger ready. Portafoy raised his head to take in the scene, the distance he would need to run now looked daunting. Sweat careened down his back. He was soaked.

On the DVD, the race began with an ear shattering silver whistle. Portafoy brought the whistle he’d won when he opened a box of Cracker Jacks. Yellow plastic, tiny and the sound it made was shrill.

In his mind, the announcer boomed, “On your MARK, get SET...” Portafoy eyed the crowd. “GO!”

He shot-up like a spring board diver, hoping his momentum would thrust him ahead of the imaginary pack. On launch, he thought he blew the whistle. The choking began immediately. Each breath whistled on the way in and chirped a thin squeak on the way out. He gasped for air, faster and faster, like a choo-choo train picking up steam. Dizziness chased him, caught up with the big guy and dropped him in a gelatinous lump to his knees. Before he winked out he thought he felt the arms of Jared from Subway, giving the him the Heimlich, cackling and dressed as a clown.

Portafoy woke and his stomach rumbled. As he tried to sit up, lights went on, brighter than the sun. Klieg lights from a movie set. The jeers and cheers came from the darkness behind the lights. He thought, It’s got to be them boys from the deli. Portafoy tried to get up. His neck was loosely bound to the pillows. His eyes darted around taking in a magnificent dish. In every direction, he saw mounds of food. Potato chips the size of a trash can lids, pork n’ beans in globs, ovulating the sweet smell of molasses. He looked at his arms, instead of “jammy” sleeves, he wore huge hot dog buns held in place with butchers twine. His neck tethered to humungous Polish sausages, spiting ejaculates of grease. Tinged yellow blocks, mountains of potato salad fell off into the horizon. Pyramids of goo everywhere.

Portafoy tried to lick his fingers but the buns wouldn’t bend. He whipped his head from side to side to suckle the clotting liquid from the sausages. He had it all. A dinner for the Kings of Summer, a picnic splurge of delectable delights. Then, dizziness pulled a black hood over his consciousness.

Someone kept called his name. He opened his eyes, rolled over and glanced at the pock-faced, portly middle aged man. He had a stinky old pipe in his hand.

“Hello Portafoy, I’m Dr. Brainard. Do you remember this place Portafoy? I’m afraid you’ve had a nasty time of it.”