You like the twinkies, and they really are the perfect food. But you're in the mood for steak. Ah, but Mannie's Chops doesn't open for a few hours still, and you need a mainstay. You could eat the leftover chili in the fridge; there's like 2 pounds of it left. That was a good party. You were kind of a big hit, weren't you? Your mom would never believe you had so many friends. Let's face it, a chili party was one of your better ideas. Some brought chili, some brought fritos, some brought beer, they all brought their appetites, and you more or less matched them all bowl for bowl. Chili is better with friends; someone in Texas probably said that once.

Ouch, back twinge. Been happening more and more lately. You must have pulled it. What were you thinking, putting on your old shoes when you left for the grocery store last week? You know laces are a waste of time. That's why you got slip-ons. So why didn't you wear those? Because they were close at hand, and it was time to go, the cab was waiting. The bus thing. And then every jerk in the grocery store. "Hey buddy, your shoelaces are untied." "Hey fella watch your step there." "Hey pal, careful with the laces." How about hey jerk face, mind your own damn business. Finally, relenting, finally, bending over, one shoe tied, heart pounding, and then a twinge, and to heck with it. Twinkies, 2 liters of coke, some fried chicken and a phone card.

Phone card, phone call, hi mom, hi son and how are you, I hurt my back I think, oh, is it as bad as the time I fell down the stairs that time it was icy? I guess not. And you called 911? Yeah, I mean no. Should I call 911? Naw, I'll be fine.

Last twinkie gone. Well, two left to go, but always leave some for later. That's discipline. Besides, there's peanuts in the living room; time to leave the tiniest kitchen ever constructed and go into the combination living room bedroom library. Books everywhere! Your other vice, you suppose. But today, befitting the smallest apartment you can afford on your dad's pension (mumble rest in peace under your breath: habit), the smallest non-portable TV. Something to tide you over till Mannie's opens up. And some peanuts. Salted. To heck with the thyroid! Or whatever it was they said should be checked out. Didn't the ancient Egyptians use salt as money?

In the chair, settle in, remote in hand, and, of course, perfect timing, the buzzer. Get up and answer it.

"Hello?"

"Jake Styles? "

"Yes?"

"Hello Jake. We're with NASA. May we come in?"

"What? NASA?"

"Yes. We'll show you our badges through the door. Your- ow"

"Sorry. Jake? My name is Steve, my partner is Edgar. We're with NASA, can we come up."

"Uh, okay, I guess. Let me buzz you in."

NASA?

In a few minutes, a knock on the door. Peer through the eyehole. Two men, one holding up his wallet. A NASA ID card. Okay that's just weird. But you have nothing to steal, no enemies. If these were psychopath serial killers, they were going to an awful lot of trouble. You let them in.

"Hi."

"Hello Jake. Steve Pontie, this is my colleague Edgar Irwin." Steve is short and sort of fleshy, with too much jet black hair. His partner is taller and thin and nearly bald. You all shake hands.

"Come on in. Let me get some chairs."

"Not necessary Jake. We like to stand. We sit all day at mission control!" This one from the taller, thinner one with more hair.

"Yeah, right," says Steve.

"Can I get you something to drink? Coke, wine, I've got egg nog too..."

The tall one curls up his nose. "Egg nog in June?"

"No, it's good, I get it made special at the dairy. They know me there."

"No thanks, Jake," from Steve. "You just sit. We want to make you a proposition."

You sit down. "Okay. Is this about that job I applied for at the post office a few years ago? I didn't pass the physical, but then my dad died, and I got his pension, so..."

"No Jake, nothing like that. Basically, here it is: how'd you like to go to Mars?"

You stare at them for a while.

"Excuse me?"

The tall one: "It's like this, see. We have a mission to Mars ready to go, but whoever goes is going to be up there a long time. Maybe 5 years just to get there."

You start to nod. "I see, sure. And you want someone who won't get bored easily, someone who's happy with books and crossword puzzles and video tapes."

Steve: "Well, not exactly. That's all good stuff. But basically, what we do is, we put you to sleep before you even go up. Now, the technology is good. We can put a man in a coma, and bring him out again whenever we want, no problem."

"That's black ops stuff, Jake," says the tall one. "Don't tell anyone, got it?"

"Okay..." you idly munched a handful of peanuts. "Do go on."

"The problem," says Steve, "is keeping a body fed for five years. We can do it in a hospital-- IV. And we can do it with machines, but to make them one hundred percent robust... well..."

"I'm not following you." The peanuts are good, but they make your hand oily. Wipe your hand on your pants.

Steve: "Jake, we need to send someone up who's already pretty fat. That's the long and short of it." Steve frowns. The tall one grins.

"Why?"

Tall one: "Because we can keep you in nutrients like vitamins and stuff, but the rest is your body living off your fat reserves."

You blink. You know you're fat, but, this is nearly insulting.

Steve again: "When you think about it, this sort of makes you the perfect human being. I mean, we've done almost everything else, Jake. As humans. What's left? Conquering space."

"And not that moon crap. REAL space," says the tall one.

"Yeah, real space. So we send you to Mars. And you're the first man on Mars, ever. And all because you have the body for the job. It's like you're the next step in evolution."

"We're turning sci-fi in to real-fi, Jake. That's what we do at NASA." The tall one grins some more. Steve glances at him, then gives you a nod.

"Hmm..." You scratch your chin. "Wouldn't "real-fi" be "real-fiction?" Since 'sci-fi' stands for 'science-fiction?' I mean-"

"Look, Jake," inserts Steve. "We're scientists, okay, we didn't study liberal arts. So excuse us if our analogies aren't up to scratch. The plain and simple truth of it is, we need someone to go to Mars, and we want you to be the one who does it. What do you say?"

You gaze around your tiny apartment. Your dad's pension would last another few years, more if you cut back on the books. But not much more. And then what? Home with mom, probably. And her ways. Sneaking out at night to the diner after her suppers of carrot sticks and no-percent milk. Waiting for her naps to find a nearby doughnut shop. Trying to hide old candy-bar wrappers, or sitting there muted while she talks a blue streak when she finds one in your sweat pants. No thank you.

You smile. "Gentlemen, I think you found your guy. I'll do it."

***

A few weeks later, County Hospital. You paid the forfeit on your lease, got rid of some of your stuff, moved the books back to your old room in mom's place. You were pretty sure she wouldn't believe it, and even more sure she wouldn't accept why they wanted you, but surprise surprise, she didn't even seem that excited about it. It would have been nice to get a "good for you, Jake," like dad would say when you got the summer reading ribbon two weeks before anyone else, but at least she didn't give you lectures about bowls of M&Ms anymore. You asked her to come with you, but she wanted to say her goodbyes at home. I'll see you in ten years, I guess, Jake. Might as well remember you in my own kitchen and not some smelly hospital. So here you are, on a bed, with Steve and Irwin, and a doctor and a nurse, both wearing masks. And an IV and some electrodes. Steve and the tall one aren't wearing masks.

Steve smiles at you. "Once we put you under, Jake, we'll make sure your vitals are all smooth, then we'll transport you to NASA and send you up. Next time you're awake, you'll be 200 pounds lighter!" Steve was all smiles. The tall one seemed distracted, even bored. Probably just jealous.

"Actually," you joke, "more like 300 pounds lighter."

"Alright Jake, let's not get carried away," says the tall thin one. "You don't need to lose-" Steve stares at him hard, and he shuts up.

But you're drowsy now, as the drugs are moving in. "No, I mean, the gravity on Mars is only one third of Earth's."

Steve smiles again, and laughs. "That's right! Of course we factored that into our calculations."

The tall one: "yeah, that's how we do it at NASA."

There's a familiar smell in the air. Cream of celery? Just celery? Your last meal was BBQ wings. Maybe you have some celery stuck in your teeth. No, you gave them a good brushing, the last one for 5 years. Who knows? Everything is foggy and nice. Like bein in clouds. Like bein clouds. You're clouds, you're Jake clouds. clowowwowowoooowooow woooowoowwwww....

***

The doctor: "He's out." He takes off his mask. "I still don't approve of this."

An old lady walks in. "Do you approve of the cash I'm paying you?"

"Mrs Styles..."

"Shut up. He's out?"

"Yes."

"Good." She reaches into her purse, pulls out a check, hands it to Steve. "Here's your other half."

Irwin: "Hey, lady we don't take checks, what kinda-"

"Have it your way, it's a check or nuthin. Now scram."

Irwin looks like he wants to say something. But Steve stops him. "Never mind, Al, let's just get outta here." They leave.

The lady looks down at Jake while the doctor scribbles something on a pad. "How long, did you say? Not five years?"

"No, Mrs. Styles. He should be sub 200 in about 4 months, and probably at 175 by next year."

"Good,"she says, gazing at her son. "Fat little fuck."