A Commodore of Errors (4 page)

The Commodore practically frog-marched the bandleader to the main entranceway of Bowditch Hall, all the while spouting pleasantries to the academy personnel he came across in the hallways.

“Good morning, Miss Goodson,” he said to an administrative assistant in the Marine Transportation Department. “And what kind of day is it today?”

Miss Goodson smiled back and said, “Why, it's just another day in which to excel, sir.”

The Commodore marched his charge all the way to the main gate, greeting midshipmen, colleagues, workers—everyone he came across—on this muggy mid-summer day.

“Good morning, Morris,” he shouted to the one-armed groundskeeper who was busy butchering a hedge. “I do admire the way you trim a hedge, Morris!”

Morris waved the hedge trimmer at the Commodore and thanked him for noticing.

When the Commodore reached Vickery Gate, he thrust the bandleader toward the guard stationed there, smiling all the time.

“Good morning, Mr. Thompson, you're looking sharp as usual.” The Commodore clicked his heels and bowed. “Please use your uncommon abilities as a
uniformed guardsman to see to it that this man does not step foot on academy grounds again.” The Commodore's voice resonated off the thick stone walls of the old guardhouse at Vickery Gate.

Mr. Thompson, alcoholic and lucky to have a job, hurriedly turned off his mini TV set and ushered the bandleader out the gate.

The Commodore left the guardhouse and stepped back into the hazy sunshine. He took notice of the trees, the clouds, the sky. He smelled the freshly mowed grass and the evergreen bushes trimmed by one-armed Morris. He heard the birds chirping and the squirrels calling to one another.

Yes, indeed
, the Commodore thought as he strode confidently in the direction of his dreams,
today truly is just another day in which to excel
.

S & M

T
he Commodore spent the rest of the morning the way he spent most mornings: practicing his hand gestures, exercising his voice, and combing his hair in front of his huge office mirror in Wiley Hall. He had made certain to call Miss Conrad earlier that morning to cancel their luncheon date with Johnson. He wanted to make old Johnson's Johnson salivate at the prospect of meeting the leggy Miss Conrad. The Commodore wrapped up his morning by lecturing his secretary, Miss Lambright, on the importance of time management.

When it was time for lunch, the Commodore figured he better not push his luck with Johnson by crossing Barney Square during the Noon Formation. Instead, he ducked out the back of Wiley Hall and walked along the waterfront to the rear entrance of Delano Hall. This allowed him to stop at what he hoped would be the future site of the Mariners Monument, his pet project. In a few days, the Board of Governors were to hold a meeting to determine whether to proceed with the monument, and rumor had it that Johnson was making noises
about derailing the project. The meeting loomed large in the Commodore's mind. If necessary, he would retell the entire heroic story of fallen cadet-midshipman Edwin J. O'Hara, and the imperatives for why the academy should erect a statue in his likeness. If the Commodore succeeded, the monument would be finished in time for a dedication ceremony to take place in mid-October, three months from now. The Commodore wanted to be the one to make the dedication speech, wanted it more than anything in the world, but he knew that, as admiral, Johnson's Johnson would be the one to do the honors. The old horn-dog would undoubtedly give his stock speech, replete with sexual innuendos and gratuitous references to the role of women in the merchant marine.

The Commodore looked out toward the Long Island Sound. Not a ripple disturbed its black waters on this windless day. Where he stood on the hill overlooking the boat basin was the perfect location for the Mariners Monument. Posterior to the Memorial Arbors (which the Commodore considered deaf and mute) and anterior to the War Memorial (faceless and inarticulate), and set at a rakish angle, the Mariners Monument would dominate its neighbors. To position the monument askew of the geometric lines of the academy's architecture would send the Board of Governors into spasms. To a person, they lacked subtlety and nuance. Everything with these boors had to be geometrical: straight lines, hard corners, squares, triangles. The Commodore, who considered himself classically trained and broadly experienced, had the confidence to step outside the lines of classicism. But first he would have to overcome Johnson's objections. He would take care of that well enough at the meeting of the Board of Governors.

The Commodore heard the beating of the bass drums over in Barney Square and resumed his walk toward Delano Hall. The sound of the drums carried to the waterfront, but the effect was not the same if one was not in the thick of it. He walked along with his head up but without the usual spring in his step. When he entered Delano Hall through the commissary, the Caribbean cooks and dishwashers sang out greetings, “Today is another day to excel, mon.” The Commodore responded in kind, and his mood brightened. He took a seat at the center of the long and narrow table on the dais as the regiment filed in for the noon meal.

The orderly procession of midshipmen marching across Barney Square collapsed into chaos the moment they crossed the threshold of the dining hall. People immediately began talking among themselves, and the pent-up frustrations of a thousand midshipmen filled the cavernous mess hall with the roar of Niagara Falls. The noon meal hour was a time for letting go. By this time, the regiment had been up and running nonstop since 0530 hours. Every minute of their time had been consumed by musters, room inspections, classes, and lectures. And there never seemed to be enough time to get from one place to another, from class back to the barracks in time for a personal appearance inspection, or from the waterfront all the way to O'Hara Hall for PT. When the plebes walked anywhere on campus, they did so by squaring corners, which made their commute even longer. The upperclassmen did not have to square corners but they did have to stay constantly on guard in case they happened across an officer as they made their way about the campus. A proper salute was de rigueur, as well as a proper greeting. Saying “Good morning, sir,” instead of “Good afternoon” was enough to earn a stern reprimand. And springtime was the toughest for the regiment. One could not smell the roses, as it were, as one walked across the beautifully manicured grounds. One had to be alert to following the rules and regulations every step of the way. When walking together, a group of upperclassmen must not be too loud or walk too casually. They must always be on their best behavior. But the meal hour was different. The meal hour was loud—loud with the sounds of young men letting their guard down for the briefest of respites.

The Commodore let the cacophony wash over him. To him it was akin to the sound of children at a playground—it was music, a symphony, and it had a steady, resounding tempo.

Johnson's cologne preceded him as he approached the table from behind the Commodore. The cologne nauseated the Commodore—it was the same kind of bottom-shelf toilet water that wafted through the Seafarers' Union Hall in Brooklyn. The Commodore smiled, however, knowing that he wore it in anticipation of meeting Miss Conrad. The Commodore pushed back his seat and stood up to greet Johnson.

“Hello, old boy. Fancy meeting you here,” the Commodore said.

“Don't ‘old boy' me, Bobby.” Johnson looked around the dais. “Where's Miss Conrad?”

“Oh, didn't you get my message?” the Commodore said. “Miss Conrad had to cancel. She had a conflict of some sort. I told her we'd reschedule.”

Johnson looked crushed, just as the Commodore had planned. In fact, the only problem with the plan of stalling the appearance of Miss Conrad, as far as the Commodore could tell, was that he had to sit through one more meal smelling Johnson's rancid cologne.

Johnson's disappointment quickly gave way to anger. “What the hell kind of move is that? Canceling on short notice? Sounds unprofessional to me, Bobby. I'm not sure I want to meet with her now.”

The others at the table—the commandant, the assistant commandant, and several company officers—took their seats shortly after Johnson took his seat. They listened in on the conversation while a line of plebes filed past them carrying overstuffed platters of food.

“She's no flake, I can assure you, sir,” the Commodore said. “In fact, she's a rising star in her firm.”

“What's the name of the firm anyway?” Johnson said, as an anonymous plebe delivered a platter of steaming corned beef and cabbage to the table.

“She is with Smith and McClellan Public Relations, a PR firm out of Port Washington.”

Johnson placed his fork on his plate and turned to the Commodore. “Smith and McClellan? Wouldn't that be S and M for short? If Miss Conrad is a rising star in S and M, then, yes, Bobby, I do want to meet her.”

The others at the table burst out laughing. The Commodore pretended to join in on the raunchy joke.

“Isn't a public relations firm supposed to keep you politically correct?” the commandant asked, sitting directly across the table from the Commodore. “Don't they realize the name of their own company is not PC?”

“Maybe they can help dream up an offensive slogan for our campaign to raise funds for that monument of yours,” the assistant commandant chimed in.

Ah, yes, once again having a good time at the Commodore's expense. The Commodore did his best to steer the conversation back to academy business. Finally, he mentioned the trouble they were having with the Town of Great Neck—the town that neighbored kings Point, home of the United States Merchant Marine Academy.

“Great Neck?” Johnson said. “Don't tell me Mogie's complaining again. I thought we resolved our differences after our last dustup.”

Mogie Mogelefsky was the mayor of Great Neck. He had been complaining for years about midshipmen from the academy who sometimes made a nuisance of themselves in “his” town. According to Mogie, they drank at Hick's Lane Bar every weekend, and on the drive back to the academy, they would invariably tear up front lawns, run into trees, or knock down telephone poles. He claimed they drove into fences and gates, parked cars, and front stoops. According to Mogie, the midshipmen were constantly getting stuck in snowbanks in the winter, waking up the neighbors—Mogie's constituents—when they drunkenly tried to extricate themselves. The unhappy constituents always complained to Mogie first thing in the morning. The rowdy midshipmen evidently also frequented various all-night diners in town after a night of drinking where they would throw up on tables, harass the waitresses, and try to pick up whatever stray girl passed their booth. Of course, Mogie had to hear about
that
the next day, too. Mogie frequently called the academy and got the same reasonable response, “Boys will be boys.” That did not stop him from calling, though, much to the academy's chagrin. Indeed, it made him a reliable topic of conversation.

The commandant looked across the table at the Commodore. “So, Commodore, tell us, what kind of trouble are we in now?”

“We're not in trouble,” the Commodore said. “It's just that the mayor would like us to work on improving our relations with the town of Great Neck. He seems to think that if we had a better image within the community, it would cut down on the number of complaints he's receiving from his constituents.”

“His constituents,” Johnson said, “are a bunch of whiners.”

“Be that as it may, sir, it was Mogie who recommended we use Smith and McClellan. He said they were a nice WASPy firm out of Port Washington and that he knew of Miss Conrad personally.”

“Oh, shit.” Johnson slammed his fist on the table. “Mogie's not doing her, too, is he? It's bad enough he's banging Mitzi.”

The others at the table bobbed their heads. Mitzi Paultz was Johnson's secretary, a forty-ish (on her application she put down that she was thirty-nine) redheaded beauty hired solely for her sultry looks. He doubted she could type a lick, Johnson told his colleagues when he hired her, but what a body! Since she also happened to be Jewish, he figured he would get Mogie, who considered the academy a strange white Anglo-Saxon Protestant enclave, off his back at the same time. He assured his colleagues that hiring Mitzi would be good for business, as it would show Mogie the academy's diversity. But Johnson was disappointed when his usual moves failed to entice Mitzi into joining him for drinks in the officers' club. Mitzi said she liked celebrities as much as the next girl but the answer was no. “Besides,” she had said, “Mogie would be furious.” Johnson nearly fainted when he heard that Mogie Mogelefsky was banging his beautiful redheaded secretary.