A Commodore of Errors

by John Jacobson

  “Me, Mitzi, same thing. Mitzi does what I tell her.”

  “I am afraid I know otherwise. Mitzi and Putzie are back together. Your masquerade is over.”

  “Mitzi’s frustrated. Putzie’s being a putz—oh, there’s a surprise.” Mogie opened the humidor on his desk and picked out a cigar.

  “Are you able to refrain from smoking until we’ve finished our business, Mr. Mayor?”

  Mogie lit his cigar with his favorite lighter. The flame was a fireball. A billow of smoke enveloped his face. “Please, Commodore. Call me Mogie.”

  The Commodore would not let Mogie’s bullying tactics get to him.

  “We have a deal, sir.” The Commodore’s voice rose. “Don’t you remember? I would place Johnson in a compromising situation. You would demand his ouster. I did my part. Miss Conrad did her part. Now it is time for you to do your part.” The Commodore’s speech coach would not have been pleased to hear the shrillness creeping into his star pupil’s voice. “A deal is a deal.”

  Mogie’s response was to puff smoke rings.

  “Look.” The Commodore hoped he did not sound pleading. “Johnson is on the ropes. I have informed him that you, in fact, are in possession of the camera and that you intend to go public with it. He will fall on his sword. He will walk away. It will be a clean break. Johnson resigns and I take his place. Our plan as we conceived it is brilliant. Why tarnish a good plan?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Mayor, I beseech you to reconsider.” That, sadly, was pleading.

  “I said no.”

  “We had a deal that you would make a public demand for Johnson’s resignation. Why is that demand not forthcoming, sir?”

  “I’m stalling.”

  “Stalling?”

  “Yeah. I know you’re next in line to be admiral. I wanna see if I can’t find a Jew first.”

  “But why is having a Jew so important to you?”

  “Because WASPs are schmucks, that’s why. You got all these by-laws and rules and restrictions that you place on yourselves. We got a dumb WASP on the city council. He’s always bugging us about Robert’s Rules of Order. Who cares about Robert’s rules? See what I mean? You got all these titles and ranks. What the hell is a Commodore anyway? Isn’t he someone who runs a yacht club? You got a fancy title like Commodore but you got no saichel. Why should I go into business with some schmuck goy? Who needs it?”

  “But I’m different. Can you not see that? I am above the rules.”

  Mogie stood up from his chair. He placed his cigar in the oversized ashtray on his oversized desk and stepped down from the platform. He walked over to the Commodore and stood by his side. Mogie barely came up to the Commodore’s chest and had to lean his head back to make eye contact with the Commodore.

  “Look. You seem like a nice-enough guy. Why don’t you just keep your fancy title and your do-nothing job. Be happy with what you got. See what I mean? Find me a Jew who knows how to drive a boat and let us run things. You’ll still be part of the deal. You don’t have to worry about that. Look, the Jews have an expression, ‘I’ll take the gelt, you take the glory.’ See what I mean? Don’t be a schmuck. Take the gelt.”

  Mogie led the Commodore by the arm to the vestibule. The Commodore shrugged Mogie off, placed his cap under his arm, and marched out.

  When he left Mogie’s office, the Commodore spent the rest of the morning driving the streets of Great Neck. He hated himself for it. He hated himself whenever he wandered the streets where the lonely walked. The Commodore thought of himself as a dynamic man. He kept a rigid schedule and held himself accountable for how he spent his time. He earmarked every minute for serious endeavor. Hadn’t he just this past week upbraided his secretary for permitting him to dawdle? He had earmarked three hours to rearrange his office to improve its feng shui, and Miss Lambright let him waste an entire day on it. He had been very angry with her that day. Why did she allow him to dawdle? Was it because she herself dawdled? He made a mental note to spend more time accounting for Miss Lambright’s time.

  That aside, the Commodore’s wandering helped to put him in a better mood. As bad as his life was at the moment, he was surely better off than the mass of humanity that passed before him that morning. Did these people not have anything better to do with their lives? Walking, driving, shopping, running needless errands. He felt sorry for them and it made him feel better about himself.

  Now the Commodore sat in his LeBaron in front of the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners and waited for Mrs. Tannenbaume to leave. Mrs. Tannenbaume with an E. If he had heard it once, he heard it a hundred times. He knew for a fact she had been a clerical worker, a typist! She was a flunky, a gal Friday. He was in no mood to deal with that woman this afternoon.

  The Commodore wanted to get back to his office where he could think. He needed to come up with a plan B. His attempt that morning to persuade Mogie to stick with their original plan, the plan that would have made him admiral, had failed. Mogie made it clear he thought the Commodore was just another dumb WASP. Well, truth be told, he was another dumb WASP. Dumb like a fox.

  This, of course, was the WASP’s secret weapon. The Southern WASP hid behind his soft drawl and gentle manner, lulling a helpless “victim” into thinking his intellect was as slow as his speech. Do not be fooled. Behind the drawl was a cunning mind, a chess player’s mind, able to think three moves ahead. The Northern WASP hid behind his starchy shirts and lordly mien. It was easy to think of him as an outdated relic, out of touch with the modern world. Again, proceed with caution. Behind the well-worn clothes and high-miles automobile was a fierce competitor, an eager-for-battle warrior. The Northern WASP was not as cunning as his Southern brethren, perhaps, but what he lacked in strategy he made up in doggedness. As a breed, the WASP was easy to underestimate.

  The Jew, on the other hand, could not afford to be subtle. When one was surrounded by a hundred million sworn enemies, as were the Jews in Israel, one simply could not afford to ask questions first. It was shoot first and ask questions later. Mogie, who was about as subtle as a miniskirt, was so obviously of this school. So how does a WASP deal with a hard-nosed Jew? Simple. He plays possum with him. He lets him think he is winning. The Commodore knew that this was what he needed to do. But just how could he pull it off ?

  The Commodore got out of the LeBaron and entered the dry cleaners. Raymond was there to greet him at the door. He had the Commodore’s shirts with him.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Raymond said. “Here are your shirts.”

  The Commodore refused to take the shirts. Why was Raymond handing him his shirts at the front door? This was highly unusual.

  “Ok then, Mr. Commodore, I’ll take them to your car for you.”

  Raymond tried to rush out of the store with the shirts. The Commodore grabbed him by his arm just above the elbow and yanked him back in. He held him and looked toward the register. “Where is Mrs. Tannenbaume, young man?”

  Raymond made an involuntary, almost imperceptible glance over at the curtain.

  “She left early today.”

  The Commodore let go of Raymond’s arm and turned his back to the curtain. He heard Mrs. Tannenbaume and Putzie talking.

  He stiffened. “Please do not tell me there is something untoward going on behind that curtain.”

  Raymond clenched the shirt hanger so hard his knuckles turned white.

  The Commodore stomped his foot on the floor, spun around, and pointed his arm at the curtain. He could not bring himself to look in the same direction. He purposefully turned his head ninety degrees away from where his arm remained pointed and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply.

  “Raymond . . . this is a public place of business. This type of behavior is reprehensible.”

  The Commodore wanted Raymond to put a stop to whatever was going on behind the curtain. He did not have to say it. Raymond hung the hangar on the front doorknob and walked over to the curtain. He hesitated.

  “Um . . . Mrs. Tannenbaume?”
He said it so meekly it went unheard.

  The Commodore strained to listen. He heard Mrs. Tannenbaume’s gravelly voice but could not make out her words from where he was standing. He did not have time for this. If Raymond could not keep them from using a public space for Putzie’s rubdowns, he would have to do it himself. He dropped his arm, marched over, and pulled back the curtain.

  He closed the curtain as quickly as he opened it. “Oh, no . . . ”

  Raymond grabbed the Commodore’s arm to steady him and then led him over to a chair, sitting him down gently. The Commodore struggled to breathe. He implored Raymond to help him.

  “Why is this happening to me?”

  SEX ED

  Mrs. Tannenbaume heard the curtain open and close but she was too minvolved to notice who it was that had peeked in on her and Putzie.

  “Right there, Ira, that’s it, right there.” Mrs. Tannenbaume knew that Mitzi could be pretty impatient with Putzie. She figured the poor man just needed to hear a few encouraging words when he was in the act to boost his confidence.

  Putzie was behind Mrs. Tannenbaume, holding on tight to her waist.

  “Oh, yes, that’s it. That’s the sweet spot.” She knew Putzie couldn’t find a woman’s sweet spot with a Geiger counter, but what else could she do? She had to keep up the encouragement.

  The Commodore writhed at the thought of what was happening on the other side of the curtain. So Mrs. Tannenbaume was a talker! “Why is this happening to me?”

  “Nothing is happening to you,” Raymond said.

  “Oh, God. You’re too good, Ira. Too good.”

  Putzie was behind Mrs. Tannenbaume with one foot on the aerobic stepper now. “Hoo hoo. That’s it, Ira. Ha ha. That’s it. Right there.”

  “So that’s where the hoo hoo and the ha ha comes from,” Raymond said. “I sort of wondered where she got that.”

  The Commodore pressed his hands to his ears as tightly as he could, but he could not cover them fully enough to block out the woman’s vulgar pillow talk.

  “Okay, Sylvia.” Putzie climbed up on the aerobic stepper. “Here I come.”

  Mrs. Tannenbaume felt Putzie struggling behind her. What a rookie! “No. Don’t do it yet.”

  “Raymond! Listen to her. Could she be more demanding? Who could be intimate with someone as demanding as her?”

  Putzie had Mrs. Tannenbaume by the hair now. When Mrs. Tannenbaume smacked his hand away, Putzie lost his balance.

  “Don’t forget your rhythm, love.”

  “Why is she talking about rhythm, Raymond?”

  Raymond placed his hand on the Commodore’s shoulder. “I think that’s how Catholics practice birth control, sir.”

  “Hold on, Ira.”

  Putzie was slumped over Mrs. Tannenbaume’s back now. “I’m trying.”

  “We’re getting close now, love. Don’t stop now.”

  The Commodore could not stomach being present for the denouement. He pushed himself out of his chair. “I have to leave before it’s too late . . . ”

  Putzie was really wobbling on the aerobic stepper now and Mrs. Tannenbaume could not bear all of Putzie’s weight. She screamed out, “Oh, Mr. Paultz!” and they crashed to the floor.

  The Commodore had not made it out of the dry cleaners before this incident occured. His hands were at his ears when he turned around to seek out Raymond. “Raymond.” His voice was as small as a child’s. “Please help me.”

  “I think I sprained my ankle,” Putzie said. “Raymond!”

  The Commodore looked at Raymond wide-eyed. They want Raymond now?

  “Raymond! Help!”

  Raymond left the Commodore’s side and opened the curtain. Mrs. Tannenbaume and Putzie lay on the floor. Putzie was fully clothed on the floor clutching his ankle. Mrs. Tannenbaume was dressed in a leotard. Raymond helped Mrs. Tannenbaume up off the floor first.

  “We were so close, Raymond. The lesson was going so well.”

  “I know, Mrs. Tannenbaume. We heard.”

  “He does okay with two feet on the floor, but as soon as he gets on top of that stepper, he loses it. I encouraged him the best I could. It was part of my lesson plan. Did it sound realistic enough?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Tannenbaume. It definitely sounded like the hoo hoo and the ha ha.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Tannenbaume blushed. “I know a thing or two about slow learners. They need encouragement most of all, you know.”

  Raymond told Putzie he would go get some ice. Mrs. Tannenbaume looked at the Commodore with his hands pressed to his ears.

  “Oh, don’t be such a prude,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “Haven’t you ever heard of sex ed before?”

  The Commodore removed his hands from his ears. “I am aware that sex education exists, Madam. I simply have never been privy to an actual—oh, what would one call it?—session. And I certainly have never heard of a private session taking place in a public forum.”

  “Lesson. It was a lesson and I had a lesson plan. So you learned something?”

  “Yes, you might say so.”

  Mrs. Tannenbaume beamed. “Care to share it with the class?”

  “I learned that it will not be long before Mitzi is back in Mogie’s arms.”

  Raymond returned with the ice and rushed to his employer’s defense. “He can still get the hang of it. I think you’re a good teacher, Mrs. Tannenbaume. You’re patient.”

  “Thank you, Raymond. But much as I hate to admit it, I think Flouncy here is right.”

  FLOUNCY

  The Commodore was relieved to be back in his office. He lay down on his side on the couch and placed a drop of mineral oil in his ear. The oil was a salve, and he allowed the oil to coat the silica in his ears for over an hour, a half hour in each ear. After his ears were well oiled, he tested his hearing with the machine he “borrowed” from the infirmary. He sat at his desk, pulled out the individually packaged swipes of alcohol that he kept in the top right-hand drawer, and wiped the headphones clean. He placed the headphones over his ears, ran a terry cloth bandana around them, and tied a knot behind his head. He wanted to ensure a tight fit.

  His ears tested perfect. That he must protect his hearing was a given. It simply was not possible to produce soaring oratory with tinny ears. A tinny ear gives no feedback, no aural indication as to whether the speaker is producing nasal resonance, and without nasal resonance, one cannot affect a pleasing timbre. The Commodore admired the timbre of his own voice and was certain others admired it as well. It was an inborn quality, to be sure, but that did not mean he did not have to continue with his voice exercises. He stood in front of the mirror and checked to see that his jaw dropped when he opened his mouth wide, that his mouth formed a perfect circle and not an oval, and that his chin remained lifted above the horizontal. He always had trouble with the last part, keeping the chin up.

  He called in Miss Lambright and had her stand on a chair by his side to check for the jaw drop and the chin lift. After twenty minutes or so of checking from all angles, he dismissed Miss Lambright. But just before she walked out of the office, he remembered and called back to her.

  “Oh, Miss Lambright? Just one more thing.” The Commodore gathered his thoughts. “It is about your use of time, dear.” He looked toward the ceiling and sighed. He wanted to give the impression that something special was coming—it was a trick he used to get people to lean in closer for more.

  “It is a question of values,” the Commodore said, “of priorities, is it not? Do you value time, Miss Lambright? Do you guard it jealously? No, we both know you do not. You are profligate with your time, dear, we have talked about this before, have we not? I have noticed that you dawdle. And now you are allowing me to dawdle. We mustn’t allow that to happen, dear. There are too many things that I want to accomplish in my lifetime, things of great import, and so you must, always, every minute of every day, ensure that every activity in which I am engaged is truly the highest and best use of my time. I trust you to be a faithful keeper of my time, d
ear. Am I making myself understood?”

  “Sir . . . is practicing your chin lift really the highest and best use of your time?”

  The Commodore’s chest tightened. He noticed how his breathing became shallow and quick. The Commodore slowly counted to ten. Breathe! He stared at Miss Lambright’s face. He studied it, noticing the fine lines around her mouth, the result, no doubt, of years of worrying about the inconsequential and the prosaic. Small problems for small people, as the Commodore’s father used to say. The Commodore would not allow Miss Lambright to provoke him with her outlandish statements. He did not need her to account for his time. He was an expert in prioritizing and only meant to help the poor woman. The Miss Lambrights of the world were consigned to the junk pile of mediocrity largely because they lacked time management skills. And what happened when one tried to help the poor souls? They resented it, of course. Resentment. The hallmark of the “victim.” It happened to the Commodore every time he tried to help the unfortunate. They slapped him in the face. He resented it himself, but who wouldn’t?

  He turned his back on Miss Lambright, faced the mirror, and resumed his voice exercises. “You are dismissed, Miss Lambright,” he said in his best stentorian tone. “Please try to do something productive with your time for the rest of the afternoon.”

  No sooner had Miss Lambright returned to her desk than she was on the intercom. “A Mrs. Tannenbaume is on the phone, sir. Probably another Jewish charity. Shall I handle it? I would not want to waste even a moment of your precious time, sir.”

  Miss Lambright kept talking, but the Commodore was not listening. Of course Miss Lambright thought Mrs. Tannenbaume was Jewish. Didn’t everybody? She had a Jewish-sounding name. She used Yiddish expressions. She lived in Great Neck. And if Mrs. Tannenbaume sounded Jewish, how did Captain Tannenbaume sound? Why hadn’t the Commodore thought of this before? Mogie was so eager for a Jew who knew how to drive a boat that he would never question whether Captain Tannenbaume was a Jew. Tannenbaume with an E? Who ever heard of such a thing? Surely not Mogie.