A Commodore of Errors (12 page)

The Commodore snapped his head around and faced straight ahead. “You failed to notice my hand gestures?”

“This is about hand gestures?” Midshipman Jones said. “I thought I was in some sort of trouble or something.”

“What would give you that idea?”

“I don't know, sir, I guess the way that you're acting.”

“And how, exactly, am I acting, young man?” The Commodore said it “ex-act-lee,” as if it were three distinct words.

“Like you're displeased with me.”

“Indeed, I am,” the Commodore thundered, slapping both hands on the dashboard of the LeBaron. “I made perfect hand gestures! Graceful, slow movements that started at the center and swept outward and returned to the center. Hand gestures that elevated the childish musings of Frost to something lofty and ethereal. And you missed it! All of you missed it. That insipid
Mrs. Tannenbaume missed it. Mr. Paultz—Putzie—such as he is, missed it. I can excuse Mrs. Tannenbaume her vulgarity—the poor woman will ever be a philistine—but you, young man! I will not have it. You must open your eyes to notice the finer points of life. You must
discern.
How else will you develop a healthy ego? Do you not wish to excel, young man? My hand gestures were textbook, I say, textbook. They were, dare I say it, gracious. A quality most men avoid, but which I embrace. Graciousness,” the Commodore thundered. “You must learn to be gracious!”

The Commodore did not wait for Midshipman Jones to open the door for him when the LeBaron pulled up in front of the dry cleaners. He told Midshipman Jones to wait, that it would only take a minute to pick up his shirts. The Commodore stepped into the dry cleaners and stopped.

Mrs. Tannenbaume was giving a shirtless Putzie a post-workout shoulder massage underneath the commercial blower in the front of the store. The Commodore could not believe his own eyes. He marched over and grabbed his shirts from Raymond.

“You allow this sort of thing in a public place?” The Commodore's words were a harsh whisper. He spun on his heels and strode toward the door.

The Commodore could not recall when in his life he had been more peeved and was relieved that he had Midshipman Jones to vent his feelings to on the ride back to the academy. So while the Commodore lectured his charge, and Raymond manned the register, Mrs. Tannenbaume continued to massage Putzie. Meanwhile, upstairs in the love shack, Mitzi drove Mogie foolish.

A STANDING OVATION

J
ohnson sat alone at the mess table in Delano Hall twirling a spoon in his hand. He was waiting on the Commodore. He had hoped to take a few minutes to run down to the ship's store to get a new paint brush for his wife—he had seen an improvement in her mood lately and wanted to do whatever he could to keep her interested in her hobby—but then the Commodore sent word that he was rushing over to speak with him. The plebe who gave him the message said the Commodore said something about a looming crisis, no doubt something about the bandleader. The case of the missing bandleader had been hanging over the academy like a wet sweater for the past three days. So Johnson waited.

When the Commodore arrived, he did not appear to be altogether ruffled. In fact he seemed to be his usual arrogant self. When Johnson heard what it was that was so “looming,” he nearly came out of his chair.

“A speech, Bobby? This is about a fucking speech?”

“Yes, sir. A speech, sir. The regiment appears lackluster. Forlorn, almost. A motivational speech will—”

“I thought this was about the bandleader. The regiment is forlorn, Bobby, because their bandleader is missing and word is their Commodore might have something to do with it.”

“But the bandleader is no longer missing, sir. And it seems I've gone from suspect to victim—the man tried to run me over.”

Johnson stared at the strange man in front of him. He was having difficulty processing what he had just been told, in no small part because of the manner in which it was told to him. The Commodore seemed completely unaware of the effect the missing bandleader had on the academy. Not to mention that he seemed totally unfazed by the fact that he was a suspect in the case. Johnson was beginning to think the man was a true sociopath.

“This place has been on pins and needles for the past three days, Bobby. Are you at all aware of that?”

“Pins and needles, sir?”

“Are you fucking with me, Bobby?”

The sad truth was that the Commodore was not fucking with him. Johnson knew that. The man had his head so far up his own ass that he was incapable of noticing anything or anyone else around him. How the hell did Johnson end up with this lunatic as his second in command?

“If the regiment has been on pins and needles, then maybe a speech is just what they need, sir.”

Johnson knew he had to surrender. There was no other way to deal with this man. He put his hands over his face and leaned back in his chair. He stayed this way for what seemed like hours. He eventually removed his hands and let out a long sigh. He looked up at the Commodore standing in front of him. It amazed him how sincere the Commodore could seem when he wanted something.

“What kind of speech, Commodore? Like a pep talk or something?” Johnson's words came out slowly, as if they were being uttered by a man facing defeat.

“Exactly, sir! A pep talk is what our boys need.”

“I don't do pep talks.” Johnson set down the spoon. “Speaking in public makes me nervous.” He looked over his shoulder for the nurse, who usually met him in
the mess hall after the noon meal ended. Johnson liked to take a sail with the nurse after lunch—it helped his digestion. His digestion could sure use the help today. “Besides,” he added, “the regiment was doing okay until this thing with the bandleader. They're probably just in their usual summer funk, maybe, like they always are in August. It's hotter ‘n hell in the barracks—it saps their energy.”

“It's not their energy that is sapped, sir. It is their spirit. We give them food to nourish their growing bodies, do we not? They deserve spiritual nourishment as well. Words nourish the spirit, especially when one backs one's words with emotion and delivers them in a stirring oratorical fashion. A well-delivered speech is an intoxicant, sir, an elixir for the masses.”

“So who the hell is going to give this stirring speech? The commandant? He can barely string two words together.”

“As it happens, sir, I have a speech prepared,” the Commodore said.

“Not your ‘Back End' speech!”

“No, sir.” The Commodore seemed oddly rushed today, in his own pompous, ponderous way. “I'll give a speech on leadership. It's a spellbinding speech, sir. Some have called it evocative.”

“I don't know, Bobby. The regiment has enough going on. Academics, regimental training, inspections, parade rehearsals. What the boys need is to get laid. The poor bastards are walking hormones at their age. They need pussy, not some evocative speech. They need entertainment.”

“Did I hear somebody say entertainment?” The nurse came up from behind Johnson and cupped her hands around his eyes. “Guess who?”

The Commodore placed his hands on the table. “Before you guess, sir, I need an answer. The regiment needs an answer.”

The nurse kept her hands over Johnson's eyes. “This about the bandleader?”

Johnson pulled away from the nurse. “No, the Comm—”

“They found the bandleader. He locked himself in one of the practice rooms in band land. He said he came back to pick up his oboe and accidentally locked himself in the room.”

Johnson was dumbstruck.
Why am I always the last to get all the gossip?

The Commodore, however, was quick to pounce. “What did I tell you, sir? The man is hopeless.”

“Right?” the nurse said. “What a loser.”

Johnson put up his hands. “Stop it,” He felt an intense need to leave the scene immediately. “Okay, Commodore. I give up. Call a special assembly. We'll meet in Dana Hall.”

“I thought we'd do it in O'Hara Hall, sir,” the Commodore said. “The acoustics are always better in an old gymnasium.”

Johnson grabbed the nurse by the hand and pulled her with him. “Let's go sailing, sweetheart. There's a nice breeze today. Now that I don't have a missing bandleader on my hands, maybe I can relax this afternoon.” Johnson looked over his shoulder toward the Commodore. “Wherever you want to hold it is fine with me, Bobby. Just tell me where to show up.”

A pall fell over the gymnasium when the Commodore finished his speech.

“I thought this was supposed to be a pep rally,” the nurse whispered into Johnson's ear. “Pep talks are supposed to be fun.”

The Commodore stepped out from behind the podium on the makeshift stage in the gymnasium and walked to the edge of the stage. It looked to Johnson as if his toes might be hanging over the edge.

The nurse elbowed Johnson in the ribs. “What is he doing?”

“The fruitcake is acting as if he's getting a standing ovation,” Johnson said.

The nurse elbowed Johnson again. “This is no pep rally. Do something, boss.”

Johnson stood and walked across the gymnasium's parquet floor to the stage, his steps echoing in the silence of the cavernous gymnasium. His eyes caught sight of the chaplain sitting among the midshipmen in the first row of bleachers. He signaled for him to get up on the stage. As Johnson and the chaplain climbed the steps to the stage, Johnson said, “Lead the regiment in a prayer or something. Another benediction, anything.”

The chaplain walked to the podium and said, “Let us pray.” Johnson walked up behind the Commodore, who was still standing with his toes over the edge of the stage. “Your evocative speech is over, Bobby. Let's go.” He grabbed the Commodore by the arm and led him off the stage.

“Some speech,” Johnson said in disgust when the two were out of sight of the regiment.

“Thank you, sir,” the Commodore said. “I told you they would be speechless.”

“Yeah. You're gonna wish I was. If you ever talk me into—hey, what the fuck is Mogie doing here?”

Mogie stood with his back against the wall by the rear entrance of the gymnasium talking on a cell phone. His secretary, Maven, wearing a white dress with embroidered red tulips, stood beside him with her first-aid kit. Mogie did not appear to notice Johnson and the Commodore.

“He's part of the entertainment, sir,” the Commodore said.

“Entertainment? What entertainment?”

“You specifically said the regiment needed to be entertained. I've arranged for them to be entertained today.”

“By Mogie?”

“I've arranged for a wrestling match. Mogie is one of the contestants.”

“Wait. Mogie is gonna wrestle here today? In our gymnasium? Have you lost your mind, Bobby?”

“Indeed, I have not, sir. Wrestling is a sport rich in tradition. It goes back to Greco-Roman times. A wrestling match is appropriate entertainment for this august institution.”

“I can't believe what I'm hearing. Who's Mogie gonna wrestle?”

“His opponent will be Mr. Paultz.”

“Mitzi's husband?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Isn't Mogie banging Mitzi?”

“I am not privy, sir. I do know that the two are adversarial. As to the nature of their dispute, I simply have no way of knowing.”

“But, Bobby, a wrestling match? Couldn't we have just gotten Jimmy Buffett for Chrissakes?”

“Please, sir, Jimmy Buffett? The man is tone-deaf.”

“Look at him over there.” Johnson nodded toward Mogie. “You hear anything more about that picture Mitzi took of me? I thought for sure she'd show it to Mogie. I can't believe the prick isn't demanding my resignation.”

The Commodore did not dare make eye contact with Johnson.

“You know something, Bobby? Your little wrestling match just might be a good thing after all. If Mogie gets his ass kicked, he wouldn't dare demand my resignation. He'd look like a sore loser.”