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once out of his pajamas there are expectations that need to be met, his own, which he’s not sure about, and the world’s, that seem overwhelming and beyond his ability to cope. Is there a law against smelling bad? He really wants to know. The Captain looks down at his legs, the comforting black and brown plaid pajamas that haven’t been washed since he purchased them; of course they need washing but they’ve also done fine without that indulgence. Aromas such as beef jerky, chocolate, and b.o. commingle in fabric.
    An enormous fly enters the room even though all the windows are closed. It must be the same fly that’s here every day but waits until midday to get things started. The fly couldn’t be louder if it was playing the electric guitar. It travels through the room, taking stock. The fly hovers over the Captain as if he were a steaming pile, a compost heap. Eventually it lands on his big toe, and quickly figures out that he’s not fecal matter per se, but just a strongly scented living organism with flaky skin. Once a fly hater from way back the Captain experiences a heart pang. He loves the fly. As far as the fly is concerned the feelings are mutual.

CLARE
    Clare, who had recently customized her name to Clear, asked me if I’d be willing to get her pregnant, if I would have sex with her sometime soon, not just j.o. in a beaker and hand it over, but go somewhere romantic, and be a playful, studly friend, and fuck her so she could have a kid that looked half like me. I was on an informal honeymoon in New York City with my wife Heather Yellopey. Miss Yellopey is an architect. She is painfully beautiful with bright blond hair, big curious eyes, and lips thick enough to climb on. At night when she pulls down her black panties and exposes her astonishing buttocks and declares in a mock baby-girl voice that she’s been bad and is ready for her spanking, I leap into action. Ooh, my cheeks are aflame, she has said on more than one occasion after her haunches have been walloped. The abovementioned Clare was an old friend from high school. We had sex a couple times by accident. Drunken staring matches, naked grab ass, someone’s face buried in the other person’s planetarium, mushy humping, out of sync—nothing dynamic. It always felt like what I imagined incest would be like. The familiarity was disturbing. We were pals. Our complexions were identical. Freckles everywhere. We even had them on our privates. Her ass was spotted. My dick. There you have it, inside and out.
    Adjusting your name a little bit to suit your truest incarnation didn’t necessarily seem like an overt sign of a deteriorating brain. The day after high school graduation Clare was on a plane to New York, escaping her oppressive, superstrict parents. She went from country bumpkin to a rock star’s sex slave in a matter of weeks. The junkie bass player of the Dimples introduced her to sex with rope, toys, and knives. We stayed in contact writing letters, the occasional phone call. When I got a postcard from her signing off as Clear I assumed she was just doing some female version of peace, later, out. I didn’t realize she meant Clear, like a glass of water; free from clouds, mist, or haze, i.e., this is who I am now. Since I don’t have a middle name I used to give myself cool middles when I was in elementary school. I was fond of names of bullies in the neighborhood. I was Shane until Rocko pounded him into a fence like he was trying to tenderize him, and then I was Rocko, the badass greaser who threatened everything in his path. My parents told me that Jews didn’t have middle names. I finally settle on T-Bone.
    Clare’s name change wasn’t as disturbing as her insemination proposal. Heather, or Miss Yellopey as I sometimes like to call her, and I met Clare for a lunchtime breakfast at a Ukrainian restaurant. Nothing strange happened. The experience was normal except that the toilet in the men’s room was not in good working order. After