SPRING! At last: Off the leash of a LONG-ASS winter! Tulips popping up. Mockingbirds pontificating. Bees chasing each other about and boats happily emerging from tarps and shrink-wrap. But best of all . . . no more SNOW. No more ice. No more frozen, aching pinkies and toes.

I donned my stinky gray sweats and red bandana, Rocky Balboa style—planning on doing a little jogging. I was afraid that my wife would have to grease my thighs to get me out the door but, thankfully, that wasn’t necessary and I set out at the approximate speed of a Galapagos tortoise. I was pacing myself. Like a freed dog, my eyes were wide and I was sniffing the air.

I headed down North Road to Narragansett Avenue and toward the marina, a personal marathon. Shuffling and jiggling along on my red Converse All-Stars, I must have looked like an escapee from the Fat Farm.

I smelled The Village Hearth, our Italian bakery. Gritting my teeth and, with steely determination, I pistoned my arms, chuffed out exhales. I was able to shuffle past in an exceptional show of will power!

But on Narragansett Avenue, EAU D’ PEPPERONI and the tempting aroma of plump grinders assailed my flaring nostrils; I got blindsided by Freddie’s House of Pizza.

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Gasping like a terminal emphysema victim and sweating like a blast furnace operator, I veered off and entered Freddie’s. I plopped down at a table. Once I regained my breath, I ordered a LARGE pepperoni, with extra cheese.

And a DIET coke.

I HAD JUST folded over my first greasy, artery-clogging slice and was throwing an anxious lip over it, when my friend Vinnie came in. We hadn’t seen each other since before the brutal winter.

Vinnie grinned. He sauntered over, grabbed a chair, and raised his eyebrows. “What happened to you?” he asked, pointing to my belly.

Wiping sauce and pepperoni oil off my lips, I shrugged. “Oh, you noticed, huh? Well, it’s like this: after porking out during the TV marathons of March Madness and the Chase for Saddam, I put on a little, um, er, ah, poundage.”

He snorted. “March Madness? LITTLE poundage? . . . Man, you’re the size of a baby Beluga. I’m talking whale, buddy. Big time.”

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I scowled. “Last January, I had all the good intentions. I decided to cut back on carbs, eliminate sugar, and slim down. Hell, I even went to one of those chubby-checker-type twelve commandment thingies.”

“You mean a twelve step program.”

“Pardon?”

“A twelve step program. Not a twelve commandment thingy.”

“Whatever. Anyway, those Food Nazis order each other to WEIGH food portions and actually COUNT carbohydrates? Sheesh.”

Vinnie rolled his eyes.

“What’s more,” I said, “I actually did some stomach crunches. I was going for that Six-Pack Abs look, you know? Like that guy on the endless TV commercials? The one who looks like his oblong head and scrawny neck were transplanted onto Arnold Schwartzenegger’s bod.”

Vinnie grinned. “It looks like you got the six-pack part right.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m just saying that I DID slim down some. I’m not lying, either.”

“Yeah, huh? I’m guessing SOME is the operative word here. Maybe down to EMBRYO Beluga size?”

I sniffed. “Like I said, I was watching the NCAA basketball tournament, too. And Dick Vitale’s commentary got me nervous. The man should definitely be on Ritalin. Ever hear of the guy whose alligator mouth overloaded his hummingbird ass? Well, that’s Vitale. Dubya shoulda dropped HIM on Baghdad.”

Vinnie cracked up. “So it’s Vitale’s fault that you’re EL BLIMPO? You’ve got a point, though. They coulda gave Vitale a megaphone, drive Saddam crazy—”

We were beside ourselves, doubled over in laughter.

“Anyway,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. “ I just HAD to have a FEW snacks, you know? Soothe my nerves. Besides, we live near the Village Hearth Italian bakery and the SMELL was drivin’ me nuts!”

Vinnie nodded. “Their bread IS to die for.”

“So there you go. THAT’S how come I got this new ‘Baby Beluga’ look.”

He rose, saying, “Uh-huh. Well, listen, Baby Beluga. My grindah is ready. I gotta go.”

ONCE VINNIE had gone, I got SERIOUS about my pizza and before long, I was washing down the last bite with the remainder of my diet coke. Wiping my mouth, I emitted a long, low burp redolent of carbonated pepperoni. I paid the bill and, moments later, was plodding up Narragansett Avenue, headed home.

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Uh-oh, I thought. I’m gonna have to pass by The Village Hearth bakery AGAIN . . .

I sighed. It HAD been a long, cruel arctic winter. And I WAS off the leash, so to speak. Besides, how does a guy deal with temptation?

He gives in.

About the author, J. Evan Whitford: J. Evan Whitford, a frequent contributor to RIRoads, is a freelance writer living in Jamestown, RI. He specializes in humorous fiction, has had short pieces published in several different magazines, and his novel will be out in the bookstores in 2005

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