A Commodore of Errors (13 page)

“Very astute, sir. I hadn't thought of that.”

“What does Mitzi's husband look like? Think he can take Mogie? I mean, look at him over there. Mogie's built like a fire hydrant.”

“I am told that Mr. Paultz has been training assiduously. It is a grudge match of a sort, I am told.”

Mogie finished his call and handed the phone to Maven without looking at her. Then without hesitating he walked right up to Johnson and got in his face. “I heard you were captain of a boat once, Johnson. That true?”

Johnson made a show of clearing his throat, something he did when he was pissed off.

“Why does the superintendent of a school need to know how to drive a boat?”

“Ship. I was captain of a ship.”

“Well, this place ain't a ship or a boat. It's a school, see what I mean? Why do you gotta be a captain to run a school?”

“It's in the by-laws.”

“By-laws. You WASPs and your by-laws. You got no common sense but you got by-laws.”

The Commodore stepped between Johnson and Mogie. “It is time for you to change into your wrestling gear, Mr. Mayor. The locker rooms are right over here.”

Mogie shrugged the Commodore off. “I don't need a locker room. Just take me to the mat.”

Johnson watched the Commodore lead Mogie to the wrestling mat.
Why the hell did I agree to all this?

After he took a seat in the first row of the bleachers, Johnson made eye contact with the chaplain and signaled with his hand for him to end the benediction. The regiment of midshipmen began to stir when they saw Mogie walk out with the Commodore to the center of the gymnasium. Mogie spun
around in a small circle and surveyed the crowd. He stripped off his suit jacket like a thug getting ready for a street fight, tossing it to the mat and removing his tie. He stalked the mat and took off his dress shirt and flung it in the air. The regiment ate it up. When someone in the crowd whistled, Mogie pumped his arms up and down to egg them on. He removed his shoes and socks and kicked them aside, spinning around in a tight circle in just his trousers and a white tank top. His shoulders and biceps bulged, but his pecs hung out of the sides of his shirt and flopped up and down when he raised his arms. Dark body hair covered his back like a sweater. His belly hung over his belt and jiggled when he moved.

The regiment was really starting to wake up. They whistled and hollered at the sight of the barefoot mayor of Great Neck in his undershirt and trousers. Mogie searched the bleachers, and when he spotted Mitzi, he flexed his biceps in the classic Charles Atlas pose. The crowd roared.

While Mogie mugged on one end of the mat, Putzie emerged from the locker room in a terry cloth bathrobe too big for his scrawny body. He stepped onto the mat opposite Mogie and removed his bathrobe. He had white tube socks with red stripes pulled up to just below his knees. His gym shorts were baggy and made his skinny legs look even skinnier. He too had a white tank top on. Unlike Mogie, his arms were reeds, and his chest was sunken and hairless.

“He looks like Woody Allen, for Chrissakes,” Johnson said to the nurse. “This twerp ain't gonna beat Mogie.”

The Commodore took the microphone from the podium and strode to the center of the mat. He then introduced the two wrestlers and explained that the match would consist of three three-minute rounds. When he signaled for the two wrestlers to shake hands before the start of the match, Mogie pulled Putzie's eye patch away from his eye and let it snap back in place. The midshipmen went wild.

The Commodore saw to it that the athletic department had a referee present, along with an official timer and a scorekeeper. The timekeeper pressed the buzzer to signal the start of the match.

Mogie charged like a bull toward Putzie.

Putzie was caught off guard—he was busy adjusting his eye patch—and crumpled like a house of cards when Mogie smashed into him.

The referee slapped his hand down three times on the mat. Pinned! The match was over before it even started.

Mogie jumped up and the referee grabbed his fist and thrust his arm over his head. Johnson fell to his knees and slapped his hand on the wood gymnasium floor. The midshipmen in the first row of the bleachers saw the superintendent do this and so they, too, got on their knees and slapped at the floor. The rest of the regiment stomped their feet on the bleachers. The sound of all the wood slapping and stomping was deafening.

Mogie basked in the pandemonium. Putzie walked over to Mogie and held out his hand, a gentleman in defeat. Mogie gripped Putzie's hand and squeezed. Putzie's knees buckled under the pain of Mogie's viselike grip. The regiment howled. When Mogie loosened his grip, Putzie jerked his hand free and walked away with his head down. Mogie scampered after Putzie and pulled his baggy gym shorts down to his ankles. Putzie stood helpless, his eye patch askew, his baggy shorts around his ankles, his jock strap droopy.

The regiment of midshipmen chanted, “Mogie! Mogie! Mogie!”

Johnson sat on the floor on his haunches, stunned. Mogie was in possession of that damn photograph that Mitzi took. And now this. Did this dumbass wrestling match just seal his fate?

The Commodore stood up and walked across the gymnasium floor with the palms of his hands pressed tight against his ears. He walked ramrod straight, as if he was lord of the manor.

Johnson leapt to his feet and crossed the floor. “Look at what you've done, Bobby. I'm fucked now, thanks to you.”

The Commodore did not remove his hands from his ears. “I cannot hear a word you are saying, sir. I must protect my ears.”

The Commodore walked away from Johnson and out of the gymnasium.

Mogie, meanwhile, continued to egg on the crowd of midshipmen by thrusting his arms up and down. Putzie pulled his shorts back up and walked off the mat with his head down. Mogie ran up behind him and stole the eye patch off Putzie's head and placed it over his own eye. The bleachers rocked with chants of Mogie! Mogie! Mogie! Putzie did not even bother to try to retrieve
the eye patch. He simply walked out of the gymnasium with his head down and his shoulders sagging.

While Mogie jumped up on the stage, Johnson found the commandant. “Get the regiment quieted down and back to class.” Johnson walked past Mogie.

“You're finished, Johnson,” Mogie yelled. “I've got evidence. Pack your bags.”

Johnson continued walking without so much as a glance at Mogie. The chaplain fell in step alongside him. They walked together in silence.

When Johnson and the chaplain exited O'Hara Hall, Mogie followed them, still yelling.

Johnson and the chaplain passed through the arcade joining Jones and Barry Halls and into the confines of the barracks, Mogie right on their heels. When Mogie followed them into the barracks area, Johnson whirled around. “You're in a restricted area, Mogie. Get the hell out of here.”

Mogie laughed in Johnson's face. “I've got a picture of you with your schlong—excuse me, whaddya call it? your johnson?—whipped out right smack in front of Mitzi's desk.”

A group of midshipmen entered the barracks. The chaplain ushered the boys away, telling them that the admiral was fellowshipping with the mayor.

“I'm telling you for the last time, Mogie. Get the hell out of where you don't belong.”

“Boy you just don't get it, do you? I'm in charge now. From now on, I tell you what to do, see what I mean? Mitzi's got pictures.”

Johnson stared long and hard at Mogie without saying another word. Finally, he looked over at the chaplain. The chaplain, as good as anyone in the art of stonewalling, nodded toward Wiley Hall, telling Johnson, without words, to retreat. Johnson took a deep breath and looked back at Mogie.

“Good day, Mr. Mayor,” Johnson said with a sigh. “Congratulations on your win today.”

Johnson and the chaplain turned and entered the barracks. Mogie puffed out his chest and watched them until they turned the corner. When they were out
of sight, he spun around and pushed his way through the doors and into the arcade. A shaft of sunlight came through the foliage and blinded Mogie.

He never saw Mitzi coming until she slapped him across the face.

“How dare you humiliate my husband like that,” she said. “Putzie trained so hard for that match. You didn't have to pull his shorts down in front of all those people. You're nothing but a bully!”

Mogie stood there in his wrestling getup. His back hair lay dank with dried sweat. Mitzi, in her red pumps, stood a head taller.

“But, Mitz,” Mogie said. “I was only doing it for you. It was all for you.”

“I'm taking my stepper back. You don't deserve it. You're nothing but a creep.”

Mitzi shoved Mogie aside and marched off in her red pumps. Her long sticks carried her to the parking lot outside of the MOD's office in no time flat, where she climbed into her red Mustang convertible and sped off. A group of midshipmen walking past whistled at the sight of the red-haired beauty in the convertible. When they saw Mogie, they shouted, “Mogie!” and high-fived him.

Mogie managed a momentary display of bravado but he was too preoccupied to enjoy his sudden fame. He wasn't thinking about the sticks or even the stool. He was thinking about the camera in Mitzi's possession.

WOMAN ON TOP

“I
‘m ready for Putzie, baby,” Mitzi said, naked except for her Victoria's Secret bra, and bent over at the waist in her red pumps. “I'm ready for my Putzie.” Putzie stood behind her on top of Mitzi's aerobic stepper, the one that Mogie called his “stool.” As soon as he moved, the stepper wobbled, and he slumped over Mitzi's back. He clutched a handful of her hair to steady himself.

Mitzi kept up the encouragement despite the hair pulling.

“I'm ready for Putzie.”

The two of them were in Putzie's office at the dry cleaners. A hazy light filtered through the lone dirty window high up near the roof. The dim sunlight was supplemented by a single naked bulb that hung from one of the steam pipes that formed a sort of drop ceiling, and Mitzi's head kept hitting the bulb. What with the humidity and the hair pulling and the scorching-hot lightbulb, Mitzi's beautiful red hair was taking a beating. They had been trying for over an hour to have sex using Mitzi's aerobic stepper. It was not going well.

“My hair, Putz,” Mitzi said, over her shoulder. “Let go of my hair.”

Putzie held on to her hair like a cowboy holding onto the reins of his horse. “Did you say something, Mitz?” Putzie, after years of working in the dry cleaners, yelled whenever the Martinizing machines were on.

“My hair!”

When Putzie let go of Mitzi's hair, he lost his balance and fell off the stool and crashed onto his cot. Mitzi's head snapped back and hit the lightbulb again.

“When you gonna get a real office, Putz? My head keeps hitting this stupid lightbulb.”

Putzie scrambled off the cot. He moved the stepper away from the light-bulb and climbed on top.

“Over here, Mitz,” Putzie said. “Let's try again.”

Mitzi refused to budge. She stood there in her red pumps and bra with her hands on her hips, snapping her gum and glaring at Putzie. There were worse things in the world than pity sex, but this was getting ridiculous.

“Please, Mitz?”

“It's the humidity, Putz.” Mitzi looked away and stroked the frazzled ends of her long beautiful hair. “I hate this dry cleaners, it's too humid in here. When you gonna get air-conditioning in this place?”

“It's too expensive to air-condition a dry cleaners,” Putzie said. “Come on, Mitz, one more try.”

Mitzi clomped over in her heels and faced Putzie in front of the stepper. Her hands were on her hips again. Without a word, she turned around and bent over at the waist and held on to her ankles.

“I'm stretching for my Putz.” She said it without a shred of enthusiasm.

Putzie hesitated on the stepper. “What did you say?” he yelled over the Martinizing machines.

“I said I'm stretching for my Putz!”