Fly on the Wall

“What’s that fly doing on the wall?,” asked Bruno.

“I really shouldn’t say,” said Benito. 

Benito was a little annoyed. He wasted hours picking the perfect fly location, climbing up on step ladders and measuring the molding. And for what? So Bruno could walk into the place and immediately spot it. Didn’t seem fair.

“You’re not supposed to go looking for it. That’s not okay.”

“It’s hard to miss. A zipper fly I might’ve ignored, but a button fly? When do you even seen those anymore?”

Bruno wasn’t altogether incorrect. Button flies were a thing of the past – or so he thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore one.

“How many buttons are standard? Two? Three? More?”

Benito couldn’t respond. It’s not that he didn’t want to, but he had just consumed a healthy helping of organic peanut butter, the sort of spread that renders free speech problematic. He thought he just eat it straight out of the jar, no bread, no jelly, as if sandwiches were created by idiots. He knew better. Sandwiches, after nuclear fission and the telephone, were among man’s holiest of creations. Yet here he was, in the jar and out of his mind.

“Here, try this. I stopped by the bakery on my way over,” said Bruno, extending an olive loaf.

“That’s very sweet of you, but olive and peanut butter? Come on,” said Benito, providing a reasonable understanding of complementary tastes. 

“What’s fly for anyway? Doesn’t someone need it?” 

Benito paused for a moment, on the one hand, annoyed at having to explain his handiwork time after time, on the other, relishing the opportunity to elaborate on his own personal genius. 

“It’s a message to humanity. We’ve become an unapologetic sweatpants culture, embracing elastic drawstrings as talismans. It’s a reminder to all who enter how they’ve squandered the past year plus. What has it gotten us?”

“Better work-life balance?” 

“No, you fool. Look at your posture. You’re hunched over and your hands are aching into uselessness.”

“I like sweatpants. They’re oh so comfy,” said Bruno, torpedoing Benito’s whole scheme.  

“But you have no fly. You have no fly. Don’t you see what that means?,” said Benito, trying desperately to get through to his only friend.  

“Honestly, I was thinking about switching over to overalls. Then when the weather gets warm again, shifting to a more classic, timeless style. 

“Your toga’s still at the cleaners.”