A Commodore of Errors
Page 9
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.”
“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!”
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?”