“I quit the gym and bought a treadmill,” I told Carlton.

“Great,” he said. “How much clothing can you hang on it? They really free up the closet space. I can get two suits and six shirts on mine. I’m thinking of buying another one for my sweaters.”

Did I mention Carlton is trapped in an unhappy marriage, breathes through his mouth and is trapped in the body of a middle-aged, balding man? I tried to straighten him out.

“It’s not a clothes rack. I really use it. When I figured out how much it was costing me to drive to the gym: a gallon of gas every day plus the dues, it just made sense to buy my own equipment.”

“If you walked to the gym every day, you wouldn’t be using any gas, and when you got there, you wouldn’t have to exercise. You could just walk home,” he said, pretending to be rational. “You wouldn’t need the gym or the treadmill. And you’d be in better shape. They have these new things now, they’re called ‘sidewalks.’ You should try them some time. You could have bought something nice, like a giant, flat-screen HDTV instead of a treadmill.” This is coming from a guy who can’t see his feet. Did I mention Carlton has things like “eat a salad,” “find five more pall bearers” and “read a book” on his to-do list?

“And if I had better friends, they wouldn’t think I’m using my treadmill as an armoire. Have you tried walking anywhere in this town? It’s a death trap. It’s like “Death Race 2000,” where pedestrians are the targets. People in cars are out to get you.”

“That would make a great game!” Carlton said.

“I think it’s already been done. A few thousand times. Never mind, I forgot who I’m talking to. The last time you took a walk outdoors it was to receive your high school diploma.”

“That walk made up for all the gym classes I skipped. So, you’ve had the treadmill two weeks now, how many times have you used it?