A Commodore of Errors by John Jacobson

him.
    Midshipman Jones drove haltingly down Steamboat Road, over-braking at every stop sign in his nervousness, but the Commodore was too caught up in his own thoughts to reprimand him. Finally, the Commodore shifted in his seat and turned toward Midshipman Jones. He sighed.
    Midshipman Jones gripped the steering wheel tighter and shrunk farther down in his seat.
    â€œMidshipman Jones, what did you think of my hand gestures when I recited Frost’s poem.”
    â€œHand gestures, sir? What hand gestures?”
    The Commodore snapped his head around and faced straight ahead. “You failed to notice my hand gestures?”
    â€œThis is about hand gestures?” Midshipman Jones said. “I thought I was in some sort of trouble or something.”
    â€œWhat would give you that idea?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir, I guess the way that you’re acting.”
    â€œAnd how, exactly, am I acting, young man?” The Commodore said it “ex-act-lee,” as if it were three distinct words.
    â€œLike you’re displeased with me.”
    â€œIndeed, I am,” the Commodore thundered, slapping both hands on the dashboard of the LeBaron. “I made perfect hand gestures! Graceful, slow movements that started at the center and swept outward and returned to the center. Hand gestures that elevated the childish musings of Frost to something lofty and ethereal. And you missed it! All of you missed it. That insipidMrs. Tannenbaume missed it. Mr. Paultz—Putzie—such as he is, missed it. I can excuse Mrs. Tannenbaume her vulgarity—the poor woman will ever be a philistine—but you, young man! I will not have it. You must open your eyes to notice the finer points of life. You must discern. How else will you develop a healthy ego? Do you not wish to excel, young man? My hand gestures were textbook, I say, textbook. They were, dare I say it, gracious. A quality most men avoid, but which I embrace. Graciousness,” the Commodore thundered. “You must learn to be gracious!”
    The Commodore did not wait for Midshipman Jones to open the door for him when the LeBaron pulled up in front of the dry cleaners. He told Midshipman Jones to wait, that it would only take a minute to pick up his shirts. The Commodore stepped into the dry cleaners and stopped.
    Mrs. Tannenbaume was giving a shirtless Putzie a post-workout shoulder massage underneath the commercial blower in the front of the store. The Commodore could not believe his own eyes. He marched over and grabbed his shirts from Raymond.
    â€œYou allow this sort of thing in a public place?” The Commodore’s words were a harsh whisper. He spun on his heels and strode toward the door.
    The Commodore could not recall when in his life he had been more peeved and was relieved that he had Midshipman Jones to vent his feelings to on the ride back to the academy. So while the Commodore lectured his charge, and Raymond manned the register, Mrs. Tannenbaume continued to massage Putzie. Meanwhile, upstairs in the love shack, Mitzi drove Mogie foolish.

A STANDING OVATION

    J ohnson sat alone at the mess table in Delano Hall twirling a spoon in his hand. He was waiting on the Commodore. He had hoped to take a few minutes to run down to the ship’s store to get a new paint brush for his wife—he had seen an improvement in her mood lately and wanted to do whatever he could to keep her interested in her hobby—but then the Commodore sent word that he was rushing over to speak with him. The plebe who gave him the message said the Commodore said something about a looming crisis, no doubt something about the bandleader. The case of the missing bandleader had been hanging over the academy like a wet sweater for the past three days. So Johnson waited.
    When the Commodore arrived, he did not appear to be altogether ruffled. In fact he seemed to be his usual arrogant self. When Johnson heard what it was that was so “looming,”