A Commodore of Errors by John Jacobson Page B

entertainment?” The nurse came up from behind Johnson and cupped her hands around his eyes. “Guess who?”
    The Commodore placed his hands on the table. “Before you guess, sir, I need an answer. The regiment needs an answer.”
    The nurse kept her hands over Johnson’s eyes. “This about the bandleader?”
    Johnson pulled away from the nurse. “No, the Comm—”
    â€œThey found the bandleader. He locked himself in one of the practice rooms in band land. He said he came back to pick up his oboe and accidentally locked himself in the room.”
    Johnson was dumbstruck. Why am I always the last to get all the gossip?
    The Commodore, however, was quick to pounce. “What did I tell you, sir? The man is hopeless.”
    â€œRight?” the nurse said. “What a loser.”
    Johnson put up his hands. “Stop it,” He felt an intense need to leave the scene immediately. “Okay, Commodore. I give up. Call a special assembly. We’ll meet in Dana Hall.”
    â€œI thought we’d do it in O’Hara Hall, sir,” the Commodore said. “The acoustics are always better in an old gymnasium.”
    Johnson grabbed the nurse by the hand and pulled her with him. “Let’s go sailing, sweetheart. There’s a nice breeze today. Now that I don’t have a missing bandleader on my hands, maybe I can relax this afternoon.” Johnson looked over his shoulder toward the Commodore. “Wherever you want to hold it is fine with me, Bobby. Just tell me where to show up.”

    A pall fell over the gymnasium when the Commodore finished his speech.
    â€œI thought this was supposed to be a pep rally,” the nurse whispered into Johnson’s ear. “Pep talks are supposed to be fun.”
    The Commodore stepped out from behind the podium on the makeshift stage in the gymnasium and walked to the edge of the stage. It looked to Johnson as if his toes might be hanging over the edge.
    The nurse elbowed Johnson in the ribs. “What is he doing?”
    â€œThe fruitcake is acting as if he’s getting a standing ovation,” Johnson said.
    The nurse elbowed Johnson again. “This is no pep rally. Do something, boss.”
    Johnson stood and walked across the gymnasium’s parquet floor to the stage, his steps echoing in the silence of the cavernous gymnasium. His eyes caught sight of the chaplain sitting among the midshipmen in the first row of bleachers. He signaled for him to get up on the stage. As Johnson and the chaplain climbed the steps to the stage, Johnson said, “Lead the regiment in a prayer or something. Another benediction, anything.”
    The chaplain walked to the podium and said, “Let us pray.” Johnson walked up behind the Commodore, who was still standing with his toes over the edge of the stage. “Your evocative speech is over, Bobby. Let’s go.” He grabbed the Commodore by the arm and led him off the stage.
    â€œSome speech,” Johnson said in disgust when the two were out of sight of the regiment.
    â€œThank you, sir,” the Commodore said. “I told you they would be speechless.”
    â€œYeah. You’re gonna wish I was. If you ever talk me into—hey, what the fuck is Mogie doing here?”
    Mogie stood with his back against the wall by the rear entrance of the gymnasium talking on a cell phone. His secretary, Maven, wearing a white dress with embroidered red tulips, stood beside him with her first-aid kit. Mogie did not appear to notice Johnson and the Commodore.
    â€œHe’s part of the entertainment, sir,” the Commodore said.
    â€œEntertainment? What entertainment?”
    â€œYou specifically said the regiment needed to be entertained. I’ve arranged for them to be entertained today.”
    â€œBy Mogie?”
    â€œI’ve arranged for a wrestling match. Mogie is one of the contestants.”
    â€œWait. Mogie is gonna wrestle here today?