“So, Bobby,” Johnson said to fill the silence, “how’s the incoming class of plebes shaping up? Have you heard any gossip?”
“As I understand it, their two weeks of Indoctrination for Training into the regimental system went smoothly enough. We saw no more plebes than usual show up at the infirmary complaining of the flu. You know—their way of trying to get a breather from the hazing dished out by the upperclassmen.”
“Oh, I know, you don’t have to tell me,” Johnson said. “It’s the yelling, Some of them just can’t take being yelled at.”
Both the Commodore and Johnson, having been plebes themselves once a long time ago, knew that the “gauntlets” were the worst. After an exhausting day that began at dawn; after all the calisthenics, drilling, and marching; after all the room inspections, personal appearance inspections, and duty-station inspections; after a day full of brainwashing and garden-variety hazing, came a specialized form of hazing. A squad of upperclassmen formed a gauntlet by lining up on both sides of the hallway in the barracks with the lights turned off. Another squad of upperclassman would then herd a platoon of plebes through the darkened barracks to the head of the gauntlet. One by one, the upperclassman passed the plebes through the gauntlet in the pitch darkness.
The upperclassmen in the gauntlet would then begin to scream at the plebes:
How many cadet-midshipmen died in the line of duty in WWII? I said how many? You’re not sure, you dumb shit? Those poor bastards died so your slutty mother can drive an SUV and you don’t know how many died? How high is the flagpole? The United States Merchant Marine Academy has the tallest un-guyed flagpole in the world and you can’t be bothered to learn how high it is, you worthless piece of shit? Do you have any pride? You’re a worthless piece of shit, do you know that? Oh that you know, but you don’t know how many cadet-midshipmen died for your sorry ass? Sound off, dickhead! Midshipman fourth class who? Midshipman Fourth Class Harris? Did your brother go here, Harris? He did? Your brother was an asshole, Harris. He stuck me. Gave me demerits for no good fucking reason. Get out of my sight, you sorry piece of shit.
Back into the gauntlet the sorry piece of shit went. Gauntlets lasted for no more than fifteen minutes, but to the plebes, it seemed an eternity.
“Yes, sir,” the Commodore said, “the wonderful cacophony of Indoc—the gauntlets, the cries of plebes sounding off in the barracks, the slapping of hands against the wood stock of parade rifles on Barney Square, all of the wonderful sights and sounds of Indoc have finally given way to the quiet of academic classes. The silence feels kind of eerie to me.”
“Suits me just fine,” Johnson said. He didn’t like Indoc. It pained him to see the upperclassmen hazing the plebes. The official term for the upperclassmen who volunteered to cut their paltry summer vacation even shorter to train the plebes during Indoc was “pusher.” Johnson called them “dipshits” and thought they oughta be chasing pussy on some beach somewhere instead of insulting some poor plebe’s mother for forgetting a ridiculous bit of plebe knowledge.
“Why the hell do the plebes have to know who Edwin J. O’Hara is, anyway?” Johnson asked.
“Why, old boy,” the Commodore said, “O’Hara is the academy’s first son, a war hero who died serving his country.”
“Bullshit. He was one of one hundred and forty-two cadets who died during World War II. How come the plebes don’t know the names of the other one hundred and forty-one poor bastards? And don’t old boy me.”
“O’Hara is unique, sir, a legitimate hero who deserves a monument.”
“Bullshit.” Johnson liked the War Memorial, which honored all one hundred and forty-two fallen cadets without singling out any one individual. They were selfless boys who never called attention to themselves and they deserved to be remembered that way. All for one and one for all, wasn’t that what it was all about?
In the meeting with the Board of Governors, Johnson explained his tiresome all-for-one-and-one-for-all line of thinking once again. The Commodore seethed. No, that is not what it was all about. It is about differentiation. All men are decidedly not created equal. Is it not obvious that a rare few of us walk alone? Without the elevating power of the elite, the rest would sink under the weight of their own mediocrity. Who will stand up for the few, the daring few, the difference makers, those willing to stick their neck out for an idea deeply held?
Granted, the Commodore had not yet developed the unique idea he would someday stand behind with all his might. And until that time, why take chances? If in order to become great one needed to take risks, and if one risked becoming great by not taking any risks, then that in itself was a daring risk, was it not? The dignity of risk! The Commodore first heard the phrase from his life coach. He embraced the phrase from the first and believed it with all his might. It was what set him apart from the risk-averse cowards who needed assurances and handholding. It was what made him special. And it was what made Edwin J. O’Hara special.
Edwin J. O’Hara was a strapping eighteen-year-old from Lindsay, California, who served as engine cadet aboard the liberty ship SS Stephen Hopkins during the Second World War. The Stephen Hopkins was one of the first liberty ships built and was on its maiden voyage when O’Hara, on his first assignment, joined the ship in San Francisco. The liberty ship’s first wartime assignment was to carry a load of war supplies to the South Pacific. After unloading its cargo in Bora Bora, the ship set sail for New Zealand to take on a load of bunker oil. The ship arrived in New Zealand after a long sea passage, loaded the bunkers, and departed for Melbourne, Australia. The voyage plan then called for the Hopkins to offload its cargo in Durban, South Africa, and proceed under ballast across the South Atlantic to Paramaribo, Surinam, in Dutch Guyana for a load of bauxite, a raw material vital to the war effort. The ship unloaded its cargo of sugar, took on its ballast, and put to sea once again. But the liberty ship never reached the coast of Dutch Guyana, and cadet O’Hara never again saw the shores of his native California.
A German commerce raider named Stier sank the Stephen Hopkins in the South Atlantic in one of the most heroic sea battles of the war. The Hopkins did not go down without a fight, and cadet-midshipman O’Hara led the charge, risking his life in a vain attempt to save the ship. He was not able to save his ship but he did score five direct hits on the raider Stier with the Hopkins’ four-inch aft-mounted gun, and the Stier sank alongside the Stephen Hopkins in 2,200 fathoms of water.
The Commodore embraced the heroic image of O’Hara with the fervor of an iconophile. Photos of the sunburned face of the young O’Hara lined the Commodore’s office. He admired the young man’s square jawline, the imperious gaze, the Roman nose, the erectness of his carriage. O’Hara’s image, and the story of his heroic sea battle, was something the academy could and should embody as its own, argued the Commodore. Another faceless war memorial was not what the regiment needed. The boys deserved something more, something mythic. Something that would inspire a desire for greatness. A hero. God knew, the Commodore endeavored to comport himself in a way that would inspire awe in the young boys, but he could not do it all on his own. The boys needed to be in the continual presence of greatness, to be reminded over and over of potential fulfilled. The boys desperately needed an icon. Fallen cadet-midshipman Edwin J. O’Hara, if the Commodore had his way, would be that icon.
In the end, the Commodore got his way. It had been a brawl, a real donnybrook as Johnson put it, but somehow the Commodore convinced the Board of Governors to erect a monument honoring Edwin J. O’Hara. In a nod to Johnson, they would call it, not the Edwin J. O’Hara monument, but rather, the Mariners Monument. The Commodore could have cared less, as long as the boys got their icon.
When the meeting ended, Johnson called the chaplain and asked him to meet him down at the boathouse for a cup of coffee. On the way there, he caught up with two plebes who were talking between themselves. Talking out-of-doors was a violation of the fourth-class Regs, and Johnson knew that they were aware of that. Before they realized
he was behind them, Johnson had a chance to listen in on their conversation. The bigger kid was talking about how he could’ve gone to Ohio State to play football. He said how when he visited the academy his senior year in high school he had thought it was so cool. He had never seen a large body of water growing up in Ohio, had never even been to Lake Erie, and the waterfront campus of the academy really made an impression on him. But now that he was here, it was like he couldn’t see what it was he had liked so much about it. With all of the regimental bullshit they had to put up with—getting stuck by upperclassmen for no good reason—it felt like they were living in a prison, not some beautiful waterfront estate.
When the two midshipmen realized Johnson was behind them, they stopped, braced, and shouted, “Sir, good morning, sir!” They looked scared, like they were in big trouble. He knew what they were feeling. They were sick to their stomachs, actually, sick because they were thinking, Ugh! After all of our hard work and being so careful to follow the rules we’re about to get stuck! That meant demerits, extra duty, and even more scrutiny from upperclassmen. They were scared, indeed.
But Johnson did not stick them. He knew they were good kids. He just smiled and said a quiet good morning as he walked past them.
BIGGER FISH TO FRY
The Commodore smelled Johnson’s Johnson’s rancid cologne the moment he stepped foot in Wiley Hall. So did Miss Conrad.
“What’s that smell?” Miss Conrad said.
“Smell?” the Commodore said. “I don’t smell anything.”
In his previous conversations with Miss Conrad, the Commodore mentioned nothing about the legend of Johnson’s Johnson. He did not want her to have her guard up when meeting him for the first time.
“You can’t smell that?” Miss Conrad said.
The Commodore sniffed the air. “Oh, that. Well, the truth is, Miss Conrad, Admiral Johnson does not have the best sense of smell. Years ago, when he was captain of a chemical tanker, he nearly vaporized his olfactory lobes in a tragic chemical spill. Poor chap never knows if he’s wearing too much cologne, I’m afraid.”
Miss Conrad seemed genuinely sympathetic. They climbed the marble stairs to Johnson’s suite of offices. When the Commodore and Miss Conrad approached the anteroom leading to Johnson’s suite, they came upon Mitzi wearing a surgical mask. Mitzi cocked her thumb over her shoulder. “Follow your nose.”
The Commodore and Miss Conrad entered Johnson’s lair.
Johnson’s eyes locked onto Miss Conrad’s legs the moment she entered the room. Miss Conrad’s business skirt came down to just above her knees and set off her long sinewy calf muscles and slender ankles. Johnson sat back on his red leather couch and never took his eyes off her legs as she walked toward him. The Commodore and Miss Conrad stopped at a respectful distance from the red couch. They waited for Johnson to acknowledge them but he continued to stare at Miss Conrad’s legs, never lifting his eyes above her knees. The Commodore cleared his throat. Johnson finally looked up and smiled without saying a word. After an awkward moment, the Commodore spoke up.
“Sir, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Conrad.”
Johnson stayed seated. “Hello, Miss Conrad, I’m Admiral Johnson, may I offer you a seat?” He patted the space next to him on the couch. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to sit on this side.” Johnson patted the space to the other side of him.
The meeting could not have gotten off to a better start. The Commodore watched Miss Conrad out of the corner of his eye and waited for her response.
“The red leather clashes with my outfit,” Miss Conrad said, looking around for another place to sit. Of course, Johnson did not keep a single chair in what he called his “bachelor pad,” nothing but sofas and love seats. Miss Conrad chose the pink velour upholstered love seat to her left and sat in the middle of it. “Here,” she said. “This looks comfortable.” Unfortunately, she crossed her legs when she sat down and her skirt lifted up, exposing her thigh.
Johnson leapt up from the red couch and squeezed in next to Miss Conrad. “I couldn’t agree more. This is my favorite seat!”
Miss Conrad looked up at the Commodore for help. The Commodore ignored her wordless plea. “Well, then, it looks like you two don’t need my help here. I’ll just leave you alone so you can get down to business.” He shook Miss Conrad’s hand, struggled to release her grip, and walked out of the room.
Mitzi stood when she heard the intercom buzz, straightened her surgical mask, and strolled into Johnson’s Johnson’s office.
“Do you have a cold today, Mitzi?” Johnson asked when he saw her.
Mitzi didn’t feel like she needed to answer. Besides, with the surgical mask on, she sounded like Darth Vader when she talked.
“Mitzi, it seems that Miss Conrad isn’t comfortable here. Would you please show her into my office? I have to make a phone call.”
Mitzi had noticed the leggy blond gal on the way in. She certainly looked a lot less comfortable now than when she first walked in.
Johnson turned to Miss Conrad. “This will only take a minute. Mitzi will show you where to sit.”
Where to sit. Right. Well, this Conrad looks like a good kid. She deserves a break.
Mitzi motioned for Miss Conrad to follow her. They left the bachelor pad and entered Johnson’s office. Mitzi walked over to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the right side of the office, looked over her shoulder toward the door for any sign of Johnson, and then pressed a hidden button.
A Murphy bed plopped out of the bookcase.
Mitzi touched the bed. “Satin sheets, babe.” She pressed the hidden button again and the Murphy bed sprang up, once more becoming a bookcase. Miss Conrad stared at the bookcase with her hand pressed to her mouth. Mitzi again looked out for Johnson, then pointed at the door next to the bookcase. A brass sign on the door said Conference Room. Mitzi pushed open the door so Miss Conrad could peek inside. Miss Conrad saw a hot tub, a wet bar, and a sauna. Mirrors covered the walls and ceiling. Steam wafted from the room.
She stared at Mitzi with her mouth open.
“Have fun, babe,” Mitzi said.
They heard Johnson coming. “He’ll want you to sit here.” Mitzi pointed to one of two rickety director’s chairs placed in front of Johnson’s desk. “Good luck keeping your legs crossed,” she said and walked out of the office, just as Johnson walked in.
Mitzi went back to her desk and pulled up the QVC Channel website that she kept hidden behind a Word document. She kept the corner of her eye on Johnson’s door.
Two minutes later, Miss Conrad marched out with Johnson right behind her.
“No!” Miss Conrad said. “I don’t want to be in the conference room, or this office with all these bookcases, or that, that, that room back there with all the love seats and sofas.”
“But, Miss Conrad.” Johnson stamped his foot on the floor. “I so much wanted to meet with you.”
Miss Conrad was already out the door. Johnson started running after her but stopped at Mitzi’s desk.
“What on earth do you suppose got into her?” he said.
Mitzi snapped her gum behind the surgical mask. She’d been waiting for this. “I guess she has bigger fish to fry.”
“Bigger fish?” Johnson said. “Did you say bigger fish, Mitzi?”
“Yeah, you know, bigger.”
“You do know, Mitzi, that I am the biggest this institution has to offer?”
“Yeah.” Mitzi snapped her gum. “So I’ve heard.”
“It sounds to me as if you don’t believe it.”
“I guess I’d have to see it to believe it.” Mitzi, acting as if she did not care either way, discretely slid her hand toward her desk drawer.
Sure enough, Johnson, after a lifetime of obsessing over the size of his johnson, did the only thing he knew to do when challenged. He whipped it out right there in front of Mitzi’s desk. Before he realized what was happening, Mitzi had reached into her drawer and pulled out a digital camera.
Johnson froze.
Mitzi snapped a close-up and ran.
Johnson’s Johnson stood there with his trousers around his ankles. “Mitzi! Get back here with that camera!”
Johnson chased Mitzi down the marble stairs and out of Wiley Hall. She ran as fast as she could, struggling to breathe through the surgical mask. She ran all the way to the main gate and kept on running down Steamboat Road and did not stop running until she got to the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners on Middle Neck Road, where Mogie was waiting for her in their secret hideaway upstairs.
THE LITTLE GUY IS BIGGER
“Well, what do you know,” Mogie said, looking at the photo of Johnson’s
Johnson’s johnson. “I’m bigger.”
“I knew you had to be, babe,” Mitzi said.
“Not when it’s down. He may have me beat there, okay? But when it’s up, I’m huge. Huge.”
“You are, babe.” Mitzi stroked Mogie’s hair while he obsessed over Johnson’s johnson. Men. If they weren’t obsessing over their virility, they were obsessing over money.
“We’ve got him,” Mogie said. “There’s no way they can’t fire the guy. After the flap the Air Force Academy had, there’s no way the government wants another sex scandal at one of its military academies, see what I mean?”
“I couldn’t believe he pulled it out when I was at my desk. One minute I’m working, ya know?” Mitzi snapped her gum. “And the next minute the creep is pulling out his schlong in front of me.” Mitzi laughed. “It was pretty big though, I gotta admit.”
“I’m bigger, baby. When it’s up, I’m bigger.”
“I know, babe,” Mitzi said. Bigger. Mogie was always trying to be bigger. Mitzi knew that Mogie’s father called him “Little Guy” and that Mogie hated him for it. When he became mayor, his father went around saying, “Can you believe the little guy is mayor?” Mogie was always reaching for more and it made Mitzi nervous. On the one hand, she was attracted to men like Mogie because they reminded her of her father. But on the other hand, she wanted to turn and run the other way, too . . . because they reminded her of her father. Men were complicated, at least for her they were.
A Commodore of Errors Page 4