A Commodore of Errors (14 page)

Putzie quickly stood up on his tiptoes and placed both hands on the small of her back to steady himself.

“Stop pushing me,” Mitzi screamed, through her legs.

“I'm just trying to get a little purchase here.”

He grabbed her hair again.

“Let go of my goddamn hair!”

Putzie tried to stay on his tiptoes on the stepper. He pulled on Mitzi's hair and pushed on her back.

“Hold on to my hips,” Mitzi ordered.

When Putzie grabbed Mitzi's hips with both hands, he tottered backward and had to slump forward against Mitzi's back to break his fall. When he stood up again, he had his hands around Mitzi's neck.

“Stop choking me!”

“I can't seem to get any purchase here.”

“Forget the goddamn purchase, Putz. Are you gonna take care of me or not?”

“I can't concentrate with you yelling at me like that.”

Mitzi half straightened up, still bent over at the waist, and put both hands on her knees. Her back was arched, like a weight lifter.

“Okay, Putz.” Mitzi let out a huge sigh. “Okay. Here you come, Putzie.” She looked up toward the window near the ceiling. She was quiet now, resigned. “Here comes Putzie.”

Putzie, however, wasn't going anywhere. The fact was he didn't have the
chutzpah
to service a woman from behind standing up. Instead of wielding his manhood with confidence, he just poked around timidly. Mitzi tried to help him find his way, but as his confidence waned, so did everything else. In the end, it was like trying to open a lock with a rubber key.

Mrs. Tannenbaume sat on top of the store counter with her legs crossed Indian style. Raymond was standing, leaning against the counter. They had heard every bit of Putzie and Mitzi's encounter in the back.

“Poor thing,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said.

“It sounds like he's trying too hard,” Raymond said. “He's taking it too seriously. He should just think of it as, what you do call it? The ‘hoo-hoo and the ha-ha'?”

“That's right, love, the hoo-hoo and the ha-ha. That's what . . . oh no . . .” Mrs. Tannenbaume looked up when she heard the door to the dry cleaners swing open. “Not him again.”

The Commodore entered the sweltering storefront. He spotted Mrs. Tannenbaume, scowled, then crossed the room and stood at the counter. Mrs. Tannenbaume waited, but the Commodore just stood there, stone-faced.
What was with this kook? Does he think he's more important and doesn't have to say hello first? This guy really thought he was someone.
Finally, she said, “May I help his majesty?”

“My shirts, please.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume looked at Raymond. “Flouncy wants his shirts.”

“Raymond,” the Commodore said before Raymond could move, “be kind enough to deliver me my shirts now.”

“Why do you talk that way?” Mrs. Tannenbaume asked, looking over at Raymond. “Who talks that way?”

The Commodore raised one hand and placed it flat against his temple. He closed his eyes.

“Get a load of this guy!”

The Commodore lowered his hand, opened his eyes, and looked over Mrs. Tannenbaume's head. “Madam, I know not of which you speak.”

“Oh you know, buster.” Mrs. Tannenbaume bored a hole right through the Commodore, a technique she had learned in her thirty-five years in education. The only way to deal with the class bully was to bully right back. Although, truth to tell, she wasn't sure if this one was the class bully or the class clown. “You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“Authenticity is my watchword, madam. I am who I am. I can be no other.”

Authenticity is his watchword? This guy couldn't be more fake if he tried.
Mrs. Tannenbaume continued to stare the fake down.

The Commodore slammed his fist on the counter. “Come come, young man. My shirts, please.”

Just then Putzie emerged from the back of the dry cleaners. He grabbed the Commodore's shirts off the moving rack and placed them on the hook next to the cash register. He rang up the Commodore himself. Mitzi followed behind Putzie a moment later and pushed open the swinging half-door to the left of the counter. Her heels clip-clopped on the concrete floor as she walked by. She stopped at the full-length mirror next to the front door to flatten her
dress against her body. She pulled at her hair and combed it with her fingers, stood straight for one last look at herself in the mirror, flattened her dress some more, and said, “Goddamn humidity.” She left without saying hello or goodbye to anyone.

Mrs. Tannenbaume went over and placed her hand on Putzie's arm. “It didn't go so well, did it?”

“I think I blew it.” Putzie placed both hands on the counter and blew out a long breath. He stared at his hands. “My big chance.”

“Maybe you're trying too hard,” Raymond said.

“I just couldn't seem to get any purchase standing on that stool. I don't know how Mogie does it.”

“But you don't have to get any purchase,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “Don't you see? It's more like when you ride backseat on a motorcycle. It's better to lean into the turn than hold on to the driver. It's called rhythm, love.”

“I don't know if Mitzi'll give me second chance. She seemed pretty mad at the end. Did you see the way she stormed out of here without so much as a goodbye?”

“We'll work on it, love. We just have to break a few bad habits is all.”

While Mrs. Tannenbaume continued to talk with Putzie about technique, the Commodore tried to close his ears. He could not stomach the thought of Mrs. Tannenbaume, the self-proclaimed sex therapist. Better to think about his problems. The wrestling match was, admittedly, a misguided strategy, resulting, quite inadvertently, in an emboldened Mogie. But was he now hearing that Mogie and Mitzi were estranged? What larger implications did this import? And how might this new information favor him? The Commodore needed to find out more.

He once again became aware of the others in the room. He heard Mrs. Tannenbaume saying, “Let's start at the beginning, love. There are three basic positions: missionary, doggie style, and woman on top.”

The Commodore put an end to Mrs. Tannenbaume's vulgar musings. “Perhaps Mr. Paultz would benefit from a brief respite.” The Commodore smiled at Putzie. “An afternoon nap does wonders for the psyche, so the experts say.”

Raymond jumped up. “Yes, Mr. Paultz, your nap, sir. I'll turn off the Martinizing machines so you can sleep.” Raymond ushered a weary Putzie to the cot in his office.

“Raymond,” the Commodore said when Raymond returned, “am I to understand that Mogie and Mitzi are in some way estranged?”

“Yes, sir. Mitzi is mad at Mogie for the way he embarrassed her husband. She told Mogie she didn't want to be the kind of woman who allowed her boyfriend to disrespect her husband.”

“How honorable,” the Commodore said. “In a left-handed sort of way, that is.”

“But Mr. Paultz told me that Mogie keeps calling Mitzi, bugging her for the camera.”

“Camera?” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “What camera?”

The Commodore put up his hand to silence Mrs. Tannenbaume. “Did you say Mitzi is in possession of the camera?”

“What camera?”

“Mitzi took a picture of her boss, Admiral Johnson, with his pants down,” Raymond explained to Mrs. Tannenbaume.

“She's having a situation with him, too?”

“No, no.” Raymond laughed. “No, her boss is, shall we say, proud of his . . . his, uh, you know. He calls it Johnson.”

“Raymond,” the Commodore said, “are you telling me Mogie is not in possession of the camera?”

“That's what he just said, didn't he?” Mrs. Tannenbaume said.

The Commodore continued to ignore Mrs. Tannenbaume. His pulse quickened. If Mogie was not in possession of the camera, then he was in no position to make outrageous demands.

“Mr. Paultz tells me that Mogie wants to replace Admiral Johnson with a Jew,” Raymond continued.

“What's he want a Jew for?” Mrs. Tannenbaume asked.

“He says WASPs are dopey.”

“He's right, there, you know. They've got no
Yiddisher Kop
.”

The Commodore looked at Mrs. Tannenbaume for the first time since he entered the dry cleaners. “
Yiddisher Kop
?”

“It means ‘business sense.'”

“I know perfectly well what it means, madam. I am just surprised that Mrs. Tannenbaume
with an E
is so familiar with Yiddish expressions.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume waived her hand. “You live in Great Neck long enough . . .”

“I see.”

“So why don't you hire a Jew admiral? You got this wacko Johnson who likes to show off his situation, which, P.S., he calls Johnson, but you're afraid of a Jew?”

“We are not afraid, madam. There is simply a shortage of seagoing Jews.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume looked at Raymond.

“The academy has by-laws. The admiral has to have been captain of a ship,” Raymond said.

“My sonny boy is a captain.”

“He is? What kind of captain? Is he captain of a boat or a ship?”

“He's the captain of the MV
God is Able
. Has been for years.”

“The
God is
. . . ” The Commodore slapped his head. “Your son is Captain Tannenbaume?”

“You say that like it's a bad thing. Have you heard of him?”

“But of course.” The Commodore took a step back to have a better look at Mrs. Tannenbaume. He simply could not reconcile the fact that the well-regarded Captain Tannenbaume was related to the woman who stood before him. He was the kind of captain the faculty at the academy liked. He was known to take the job of training kings Point cadets very seriously—he kept them aboard ship where they belonged and did not set them loose in seamy ports of call the way other captains did. The Commodore heard that some captains even encouraged the cadets to go ashore to sow their wild oats. As far as the Commodore could tell, judging from the fitness reports Captain Tannenbaume wrote, the man was a serious-minded ship's master who kept the Commodore's boys on a short leash.

“My sonny boy would make a terrific admiral, don't you think?”

“He might at that,” the Commodore said. “But the fact remains, your son is not Jewish.”

Mrs. Tannenbaume looked away. She turned and walked to the end of the counter, grabbed her pocket book, and told Raymond her shift was over and that she was leaving. Raymond and the Commodore watched her walk out. When the door closed behind her, Raymond said, a bit astonished, “That was a fast exit. What got into her?”

“I'm wondering the same thing,” the Commodore said.

WOLF TICKETS

J
ohnson sailed his Vanguard 420 on a port tack into Hague Basin. The 420 was a nimble boat, and Johnson handled it with ease. He asked the nurse how she liked his boat. She told him she really, really liked it. “It's tippy!” That made Johnson smile.

Approaching the 420, on a starboard tack, was the entire sailing team in a long line of Lasers on their way out to practice Starts for their upcoming race with Fort Schuyler. Johnson held his course. The 420 quickly closed on the entire sailing team.