SCOTT LUDWIG: A six-pack stomach

During our senior year at the University of Florida, my roommate and I lived in a trailer on Archer Road. Today you’ll find a Carrabba’s where our trailer park used to be. With enrollment now more than twice what it was back then, how the city of Gainesville justified the elimination of a perfectly good trailer park escapes me, especially with the local rental market being as tight as it is these days.

I’ll get off my soap box now.

My roommate’s name was Dennis. Still is, for that matter. Named Dennis, that is. However, he’s no longer my roommate. My current roommate is Cindy. We married right after we graduated from UF. Dennis was in our wedding party. There’s a story here.

Dennis was always a bit plump. According to Noah Webster, plump means soft, round and slightly fat. Dennis, however, was soft, round, and had the overall physique of a modern-day comedian who refers to himself as “fluffy.” Dennis’ problem — the reason he was plump — was that he drank a six-pack of 16-ounce glass bottles of Pepsi. Every single day. On some days, he’d even start on a second six-pack. When that happened, he would proceed to drink the rest of it the same day, because he always wanted to “start fresh” the next day, meaning with a full six-pack of Pepsi.

Back to the story. Dennis was always enamored with Cindy. So much so that one day he told me he was going to become “lean and mean, just like you.” To be honest I wasn’t particularly mean, and I was a far cry from being lean. Then again, I didn’t look anything like a fluffy comedian, thus his decision to get in better shape.

We received a coupon in the mail for a free day at the local gym under the tutelage of a certified trainer. Dennis called the gym to set up an appointment for the following day, then went to the local department store to buy a gray sweatsuit (sweatsuits were in style back then, and they only came in one color).

The next morning, Dennis was up bright and early. He jumped out of bed and put on his brand new outfit. He skipped his first Pepsi of the day, and headed off to the gym with a bottle of water instead. Two hours later, he returned to the trailer — soaking wet. I asked him how it went.

Dennis itemized the regimen the instructor put him through. Jumping jacks, sit-ups, push-ups, lifting weights, jogging on a treadmill. Basically, all the exercises one would expect from a trip to the gym. Dennis said he was both invigorated and encouraged by his morning workout.

That is, until Dennis was getting ready to leave and the instructor asked him when he would be back for his next workout. Dennis’ comeback was short and sweet, and left no doubt whether or not he would be back: “You mean I have to do all of this again?”

Dennis wasn’t always the sharpest crayon in the box. Let me say it a bit nicer: If there are 50 ways to skin a cat, Dennis knew all but 49 of them.

Dennis was so distraught when he got home that he polished off a couple of bags of those three-sided tortilla chips and washed them down with a six-pack of Pepsis. (Today, those tortilla chips come in any number of flavors. Back then they came in only three. Dennis’ flavor of choice? Cardboard.)

A few days later, Dennis had a revelation. He was going to start running.

So the very next morning, Dennis stayed true to his word. He got up bright and early and put on his once-worn sweatsuit. Then he put “Gonna Fly Now” on the turntable and proceded to do jumping jacks in the living room for the entire 168 seconds of the Rocky theme song. After the song ended, he bolted out the front door.

About 168 seconds later, Dennis came barreling through the front door and collapsed on the couch. I asked him why he was back so soon.

“I forgot something,” he said.

I asked him what he forgot.

“That I hate running.”

As I said, he wasn’t always the sharpest crayon in the box.

Several weeks and another couple of hundred 16-ounce bottles of Pepsi later, Dennis was standing beside Cindy and me as we became husband and wife. As a member of our wedding party, Dennis was wearing a tuxedo.

A tuxedo large enough for a fluffy comedian.