Sheetman finds it hard to keep roommates. They never understand why he won’t wear clothes like everybody else. They dislike the shuffling gait, the dustbusting train, the impenetrable blossomlike folds. In public, though, it’s a different story. People on sidewalks and passing busses and clattering motorbikes that make their own onomatopoeias—brattahbrattahbrattah—all mistake Sheetman for a foreign dignitary from a country that they are embarrassed they cannot name.