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Overview
The Commodore is quick to point out that the Academy’s by-laws require the Superintendent to have sea-going experience and that, unfortunately, it will be next to impossible to find a Jewish captain. Enter Mrs. Tannenbaume. Her sonny boy is captain of a ship, coincidentally! But Mrs. Tannenbaume has spent her entire life proclaiming it’s Tannenbaume with an E, and that she’s not Jewish. Oy.
Although the Commodore secretly plans to expose Captain Tannenbaume as a Gentile in the end, Mrs. Tannenbaume joins her son’s ship in Singapore to teach him and his new bride, a nineteen year-old Thai bar girl, to be the perfect Jewish couple. The crew on the M. V. God is Able have never seen the likes of Mrs. Tannenbaume before and they sit back and watch as she “takes the conn” from her son and everyone else who stands in her way.
A Commodore of Errors is a bawdy, sea-going romp full of lively oddballs and convoluted plot twists in the P. G. Wodehouse vein.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781628721720 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Arcade |
| Publication date: | 09/28/2011 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
SECOND IN COMMAND
Commodore Robert S. Dickey marched across Barney Square in full view of the cregiment of midshipmen. The midshipmen had just finished mustering for Morning Colors and were standing at attention in formation. The Commodore felt them follow his every step with their eyes and basked in their adoration.
Dressed in his summer whites, he knew that he was the very essence of "the officer and the gentleman." The crease in his pant leg was a knife's edge. His shined brass belt buckle glinted off the morning sun. The Filipino Martinizer at the Great Neck Martinizing Dry Cleaners knew that the Commodore liked his shirts pressed crisp, and this morning his shirt was so crisp it audibly crackled as he walked. And even though his hair was mostly covered by his gold-braided white hat, it, too, was perfect. The Commodore took great pride in his hair. His hair was patrician white and possessed a natural luster that needed no mousse, gel, oil, or spray. He looked forward to his semi-weekly visits to the academy barbershop. He liked the compliments he received as he sat, erect and smiling, in the barber's chair. His hair was gorgeous, the barber would say, gorgeous, and so thick and white. When the barber finished trimming his hair this morning, the Commodore asked if he needed any mousse or gel. He knew what the barber would say, but he liked to hear him say it anyway.
"Mousse? In your hair?" The barber placed his hand to his mouth in mock horror. "Commodore, please, your hair is so thick, so gorgeous. A good barber would never soil your hair with such junk."
As the Commodore strode across Barney Square — taking care to avoid the bigger cracks in the black asphalt — three regimental drummers began beating bass drums with mallets that looked like long sticks with marshmallows stuck on the end. Boom! Boom! Ba boom, boom, boom! Boom! Boom! Ba boom, boom, boom! The Commodore timed his walk across Barney Square to coincide with the beating of the drums. The sound of the big bass drums stirred his heart with pride. How he loved the United States Merchant Marine Academy!
Boom! Boom! Ba boom, boom, boom!
The Commodore pursed his lips and sucked in his cheeks. The effect on the midshipmen, he surmised, must be overwhelming. As he made his way toward Wiley Hall, the academy's main administrative building (and former summer home to a wealthy automobile magnate), he smiled up at Admiral Johnson, who stood at attention on Wiley Hall's balcony. The balcony overlooked Powell Oval and the flagpole, which stood at the epicenter of the academy's grounds.
Admiral John J. Johnson, the academy's superintendent, did not return the smile.
The Commodore entered the cool marble foyer of Wiley Hall, doffed his cap with a flick of his wrist, and tucked it beneath his left arm. He greeted the secretaries gathered inside the foyer — it was the only place in Wiley Hall, built before the advent of air-conditioning, that provided a natural respite from the oppressive heat — by pulling up with a click of his heels and then bowing like a butler. The secretaries responded as they usually did, by covering their mouths to muffle their giggles and comments, presumably about his beautiful white hair.
"Good morning, ladies," the Commodore said.
"Good morning, Commodore," the women sang in unison.
The Commodore walked toward the staircase to the left of the foyer. "And what kind of day is it today?" "It's another day to excel, sir," the women said together, before collapsing again into giggles.
"That's right, ladies. Today is just another day in which to excel."
The Commodore took the stairs two at a time. He did this out of habit, not because he was in a hurry. Indeed, he intended to join Admiral Johnson on the balcony at the precise moment the regimental band struck its first note of the "Star-Spangled Banner" and not a moment sooner. So the Commodore waited in the alcove until he heard the regimental band strike a few extraneous notes preparatory to playing the song. Then he stepped onto the balcony, whipped his hand to the brim of his cap, and saluted the flag.
Johnson stiffened. "Late again, I see." Even though they were alone on the balcony, Johnson spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Is the humidity messing up your hair this morning, Bobby?"
The Commodore angled his head toward Johnson and spoke above the din of the band.
"No, sir. The hair's just fine, thank you. I'm just not a morning person, as you know."
The regimental band fumbled through the National Anthem the best they could. Staying up half the night drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes while hitting the books was poor preparation for blowing on a trumpet first thing in the morning. More often than not, Morning Colors featured what sounded like the Star Mangled Banner.
The Commodore winced. "Isn't there something we can do about the band, sir? They are hopeless."
Johnson looked straight ahead at the American flag lying limp against the flagpole in the still air. "The band is fine. At least they show up on time."
"This new bandleader — where did we get him? Is the man not tone-deaf?"
The song was coming to its familiar close now. Try as they might, the stressed-out band jocks simply could not muster the energy to finish the song with the flourish the Commodore craved. This day, like every other in July on Long Island, was shaping up to be hazy, hot, and humid, the kind of weather that can sap the spirit, making it all the more imperative that the regimental band kick off the day with gusto. Couldn't Johnson see that? As the anthem died with a whimper, the Commodore dropped his salute and turned to Johnson. "Surely the United States Merchant Marine Academy can afford a proper bandleader. Might you want me to look into the matter, old boy?"
"Old boy? Enough with the Gatsby bit, Bobby. And no, I don't want you looking for a new bandleader. I like the band just the way it is."
"Yes, of course, sir. The band is perfectly fine. Fine indeed. I just wish they'd end the 'Star-Spangled Banner' with the flourish it deserves. What a wonderful reminder it would be that today is just another day in which — "
Johnson put his hand up.
"Spare me, please."
An awkward moment passed between the two before Johnson broke the silence. "So what's on your agenda today, Bobby? Anything special?"
The Commodore grinned, his mood brightening. "I thought I'd work on my Recognition Day speech, sir. It's coming up, you know."
"It's two months away, for Chrissakes."
"You never can be too prepared. It's an important speech, sir."
"You planning on giving them the 'Back End' speech, Bobby?"
"Well, I do think it is my best speech, sir. It does seem to get the best response from the midshipmen anyway."
"Whatever. Work on your speech, if that's what you want."
Johnson turned to leave the balcony but stopped and turned back when he got to the door. "Oh, and, Bobby ... don't think your cute little trick went unnoticed by me. The next time you join me for Colors, enter the building through the rear like you're supposed to. If anyone parades across Barney Square in front of the regiment, it'll be me, okay?"
The Commodore sought to reassure Johnson by clicking his heels and bowing — his butler's bow. The gesture was ignored.
"And by the way," Johnson said, "did I hear you say yesterday that someone is joining us for lunch today?"
"Yes indeed, sir. A Miss Conrad from the public relations firm I told you about."
The Commodore saw Johnson perk up. "Miss Conrad? You know anything about her?"
"Yes, sir. I've met with her before. She's smart as a whip, I dare say. And she's quite charming, as well."
The Commodore held back what he knew Johnson really wanted to know. He wanted to make the old horndog grovel for it.
"Is she good looking?" Johnson asked.
"That depends on what you consider good looking, sir. Miss Conrad is blonde, has piercing blue eyes, and a rather shapely pair of legs."
Johnson could not hide a lascivious grin. "I look forward to meeting her. See you at lunch."
The Commodore waited until Johnson left the balcony before he turned to face the flagpole and the rest of the academy grounds. He gripped the stone balustrade with both hands and spread his stance wide, devouring all that stood before him — the neat flower beds, the pathways bordered by white painted stones, the shined brass bell at the center of the oval. Yes, the asphalt-covered oval was just as badly cracked and splintered as Barney Square, but the Commodore chose, on this fine morning, to look past the unsightly aspects of the campus. He knew the physical plant of the Merchant Marine Academy fell far short of the other federal service academies, with their elegant brick and granite pavers, but he also knew that with the proper leadership, his alma mater could one day be as pristine as the others.
A group of midshipmen marched by, and one of them looked up toward the balcony and said, "Good morning, Admiral."
The Commodore did not bother to correct the midshipman. "Good morning, boys," he said, sounding, for all the world, like an admiral himself.
CHAPTER 2JOHNSON'S JOHNSON
The Commodore departed Wiley Hall with a spring in his step and started off across the academy's grounds to Bowditch Hall to practice his speech. Along the way he greeted still more midshipmen marching to class, only now, up close, they called him Commodore. He had to admit that hearing the midshipmen call him "Admiral" when he stood atop Johnson's balcony was music to his ears. Admiral Dickey had a ring to it, and he so desired to hear it again. But there was room for only one admiral at the academy, and if it was going to be him, Admiral Johnson would have to be taken out of the way first. The Commodore thought of Miss Conrad. She certainly seemed to be Johnson's type — not that he needed a specific type, of course. Any port in a storm would do for "Johnson's Johnson."
Commodore Dickey had dubbed the admiral "Johnson's Johnson" over thirty years ago, back when he and Johnson were brand-new ensigns working in the United States Merchant Marine Academy's Office of External Affairs. Ensign Dickey happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear Ensign Johnson seduce a young secretary on her first day on the job. Johnson was so preoccupied looking for the beautiful secretary he had heard about from the navy chaplain at their Morning Prayer meeting that he failed to notice Dickey working quietly at his desk when he squeezed into the new secretary's cubicle. Johnson asked her if she was the efficient new secretary he had heard so much about and then promptly invited her to join him for a drink in the officers' club after work. When the young secretary demurred, sighting the strict fraternization rule outlined in her employment package, Johnson assured her that some rules were made to be broken.
When the new secretary explained that she was married, Johnson assured her that there would be other married women at the officers' club enjoying an after-work cocktail with their colleagues. "Why, even the visiting navy chaplain would be joining in on the wholesome fun," Johnson had said, quite smoothly.
Still, the secretary was not sure about having a drink after work with one of her bosses. It just did not feel right, she told him. It was then that Dickey heard Johnson clear his throat, lower his voice, and say, "If size matters to you, young lady, I can assure you that I am the biggest the academy has to offer."
"The biggest? You mean you're the biggest ranking officer here?"
"Well, no, not exactly, although one day I will be," Johnson said. "No, what I really mean is, of all the, ah, johnsons here, I am the biggest."
"Are there other officers named Johnson here at the academy, sir?"
"Well, no, I am the only officer named Johnson." Dickey heard Johnson lower his voice further, almost to a whisper. "No, dear. What I am trying to say is that I have the biggest johnson here."
The next day her coworkers gathered around the new secretary at the water-cooler and asked her if she had met Ensign Johnson yet. Indeed she had, the new secretary said. "So?" her coworkers asked. The new secretary nodded her head over sips of coffee. "He's quite impressive," she said. The ladies collapsed into giggles around the watercooler and reminded each other how lucky they were to be working at the Merchant Marine Academy. Ensign Dickey listened in on this exchange as well. Yes, he was happy to be working at the academy, too. Ever on the lookout for an advantage over his colleagues, Dickey wasted little time in doing what he did best: damaging his adversaries through gossip and innuendo. That's when he decided to give his archrival Johnson a new moniker, Johnson's Johnson. By days' end, the nickname had stuck for good.
As the years raced by and Johnson and Dickey climbed the ladder at the Merchant Marine Academy, Johnson's Johnson's reputation as a lady-killer grew legendary. When visiting heads of state heard about Johnson's Johnson, they were eager to see if they measured up. Indeed, none other than Henry kissinger himself came calling, anxious to find out if what he had heard was true. In the locker room after a game of squash, kissinger saw for himself what all the fuss was about.
He didn't measure up. It wasn't even close.
To keep Johnson's Johnson quiet, kissinger took a personal interest in Johnson and saw to it that he was promoted earlier than his peers at each juncture of his career. As one of the youngest admirals in the United States Maritime Service, Johnson's Johnson became a shoe-in for the position of superintendent at the United States Merchant Marine Academy when the longserving Admiral Queen died from severe head injuries he sustained when his sailboat, Queenie, went aground off City Island. Admiral Queen had been showing a group of midshipmen just how close they could get to the shoals without going aground. What sad irony.
Commodore Dickey envied Johnson's Johnson's meteoric rise to the top — envied it mightily. After he turned fifty, his own career stalled. For seven long years now he had been stuck at Commodore which, as everyone knew, was not even an official rank in the United States Maritime Service — it was an honorific, a title, not a rank. The Commodore himself demanded the title as he liked the ring of it and it differentiated him from the other officers stuck at the rank of Captain, although he wasn't unaware that the other officers at the academy laughed at him behind his back for wanting to be called Commodore.
All of this played on the Commodore's mind as he crossed the academy grounds on his way to Bowditch Hall. He had high hopes that Miss Conrad would be of help in getting Johnson's Johnson into the hot water he deserved. If there was anyone who would not stand for an unasked-for peek at Johnson's Johnson's johnson, it would be Miss Conrad.
CHAPTER 3IT'S ALL ABOUT THE TEMPO
The Commodore swept into Bowditch Hall only to find the bandleader using the same auditorium in which the Commodore wanted to practice his speech. It felt like a slap in the face to be inconvenienced like this by a subordinate. The bandleader was busy lecturing several band members on stage. Why were they not in class by now? The Commodore took a seat in the last row of the darkened auditorium.
"Mr. Gillard," the bandleader said, "tell us how you think we can improve our rendition of the 'Star-Spangled Banner.'"
Midshipman Gillard stared at the floor in front of him. After a long silence, he said, "You play your Walkman too loud. It really throws me off."
The bandleader held up his hand to cut off a chorus of "Yeah, what's up with that?"
"Now, Mr. Gillard," he said, "you know we've been through this before. I suffer from dyslexia and I have trouble keeping the song straight in my head. I know my headphones are a crutch but I need them."
The Commodore writhed. A conductor who wore headphones while conducting? He could not contain himself any longer and flung himself out of his seat, marching down the aisle toward the stage. "Boys! Boys, that'll be all. Run on to class now, boys."
The Commodore did not have to tell them twice. While the boys hurried off the stage, the Commodore marched directly up to the bandleader and came to a halt within a nose of his face. The bandleader shrunk back.
"Those boys have classes to attend, my dear sir!" The Commodore's voice thundered across the stage. "They most assuredly do not have time to coddle you and your neuroses. We've hired a neurotic bandleader, have we? Well what's been done can surely be undone."
The bandleader froze.
"Who hired you? Was it that skirt-chasing ruffian of a superintendent? Or was it our vacuous Commandant, that philistine who thinks God's gift to music is Jimmy Buffett?"
The Commodore took a deep breath. He was winded by his rush to the stage, and a vigorous tongue lashing always left him breathless. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Wait. Is that Herrera I smell?
He took a step back and focused on the bandleader's attire. Could this cretin really be wearing a Paul Stuart bow tie? The Commodore recognized it from his own collection of fine ties. Might the man possess some refinement after all?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Commodore of Errors"
by .
Copyright © 2011 John Jacobsen.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Prologue,
BOOK I: The United States Merchant Marine Academy, Kings Point, New York,
Chapter 1 Second in Command,
Chapter 2 Johnson's Johnson,
Chapter 3 It's All About the Tempo,
Chapter 4 S & M,
Chapter 5 Plebe Knowledge,
Chapter 6 Bigger Fish to Fry,
Chapter 7 The Little Guy Is Bigger,
Chapter 8 Experience at Sea,
Chapter 9 Sticks, Steppers, and Stools,
Chapter 10 Short and Inadequate,
Chapter 11 Fetishisms,
Chapter 12 The Goyim Were Right?,
Chapter 13 A Standing Ovation,
Chapter 14 Woman on Top,
Chapter 15 Wolf Tickets,
Chapter 16 Phone Sex,
Chapter 17 Sex Ed,
Chapter 18 Flouncy,
Chapter 19 Raise Your Right Hand,
Chapter 20 Captain Tannenbaume to the Rescue,
Chapter 21 Midnight Musk,
Chapter 22 Suspectfully Remitted,
Chapter 23 Sylvia's My Name,
Chapter 24 A Handshake Deal,
Chapter 25 A Supernumerary and a Cadet,
Chapter 26 Bona Fide Board Members,
BOOK II: The MV God is Able, at Sea,
Chapter 27 Coffeepots and Paperweights,
Chapter 28 Indian Ocean Fog,
Chapter 29 Safety First,
Chapter 30 Breakfast in Bed,
Chapter 31 A Three-step Plan,
Chapter 32 Send It Back,
Chapter 33 Right-of-way,
Chapter 34 Doing for Others,
Chapter 35 Godspeed,
Chapter 36 Shalom!,
Chapter 37 Night Orders,
Chapter 38 Philadelphia Lawyer,
Chapter 39 Mitzi's,
Chapter 40 It's Called Leverage,
Chapter 41 Handsome Smooth,
Chapter 42 Kick It Up a Notch,
Chapter 43 Talking Business,
Chapter 44 Homecoming,
BOOK III: The United States Merchant Marine Academy,
Chapter 45 Like a Moth to a Flame,
Chapter 46 A Captain and His Comely Cadet,
Chapter 47 You Don't Know Gunnisch,
Chapter 48 A True Unveiling,
Chapter 49 The Butler's Bow,
Epilogue,
Acknowledgments,
About the Author,