A Commodore of Errors (3 page)

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 long-serving 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.

IT'S ALL ABOUT
THE TEMPO

T
he 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?

“What cologne are you wearing?” the Commodore said.

“Carolina Herrera for Men.”

“And your tie. That wouldn't be a Paul Stuart, would it?”

“Yes, in fact it is.”

The Commodore suddenly looked at the bandleader with newfound respect. Surely a man who wore Paul Stuart couldn't be all that bad. Like a tornado that rips through a prairie town and clears the city limits without so much as a goodbye, the Commodore's outburst was over.

“Shall we take a seat over here, sir?” The Commodore motioned to a couple of stools off to the side of the stage.

When they sat down, the Commodore crossed his legs and stroked his chin. “I have an idea. Perhaps you wouldn't mind commenting on the speech I'm here to practice? After all, as a musician you must know a thing or two about rhythm, tone, tempo—the essential elements of a well-delivered speech.”

“I'd be pleased to help in any way I can, sir.”

The bandleader moved the lectern to the center of the stage while the Commodore stood up and began his preparations. He meditated for a moment then breathed in from the diaphragm, held it for a second, and exhaled slowly. His yoga instructor called this the Infinity Breath. He then did the quick stretching routine he learned from his personal trainer. Next, the Commodore exercised his voice—his voice coach recommended that he do his voice exercises every day to maintain his stentorian tone. Next he practiced the hand gestures and slow sweeping arm movements he learned from his acting coach, and the “pause, scan, and nod” technique imparted by his homiletics instructor. He performed the relaxation routine taught to him by his mental therapist, the finger flexes he learned from his physical therapist, and the self-administered neck massage he learned from his massage therapist. After breathing, flexing, and relaxing; exercising, stretching, and massaging, the Commodore was ready. He told the bandleader to take a seat in the front row, then he took his place behind the lectern. After a dramatic pause, scan, and nod, he launched into his speech:

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Commodore Robert S. Dickey. I am the United States Merchant Marine Academy's Officer of External Affairs and one of the most influential members of this administration. Today, what we call Recognition Day, is a great day for your sons and daughters. Recognition Day is the day upon which the academy officially inducts its plebes, your sons and daughters, as members of the regiment of midshipmen. I myself graduated from this august institution nearly thirty years ago—I know I don't look my age—and I can clearly recall the feelings of accomplishment that I felt on my own day of recognition. Your sons and daughters have
come a long way since you dropped them off at the front gate some months ago and you should be rightfully proud of them. I know that my parents were proud of me that day, and they continue to be proud of me as I climb the ladder of success to its highest rungs.
     Before we talk about the importance of Recognition Day to your sons and daughters, please, if you will indulge me, I would like to spend a few minutes talking about the stupendous work done by the Office of External Affairs, lead by yours truly. As Officer of External Affairs, I like to say that I take care of the “Back End” of things at the academy. The little things done behind the scenes that are so critically important to running this institution. The things that people do not see but, if left undone, would sink the academy into ruin. Yes, I, your humble servant, preside over the monstrously intricate machinations that allow this institution to run like a well-oiled machine. I have never been one who needs to be the marquee attraction—I truly prefer the “Back End” of things. In fact, it is the hard work done by my office that has enabled this day, what I like to call Your Day—because it is not about me—to be such a success. Your sons and daughters are to be congratulated, as I myself was congratulated so many years ago—with this head of hair, I know it's hard to believe. You're welcome.

The Commodore stood at the lectern and waited for his audience of one to burst into applause. When the applause was not forthcoming, the Commodore made a show of clearing his throat.

His audience of one clapped modestly.

The Commodore seethed.

“You are awfully quiet. Is that the best you can do?”

The bandleader shifted about in his first-row seat without saying a word.

“Come, come. Out with it, man!”

“Well,” the bandleader said, exhaling forcefully. “As bandleader, I naturally focused on the tempo of the speech.” The bandleader began to say something more but then stopped. Looking as if he was going to regret what he was about to say, he continued, “I think the parts where you transitioned to talking about
yourself, which were frequent, upset the tempo of the speech. Consequently, you never really found a pleasing rhythm.”

The Commodore held the sides of the lectern with both hands and squeezed so hard his knuckles turned white.

“If I talked about myself,” the Commodore said deliberately, “it was only to give the parents context so that they could understand the importance of the day. Do you know what context is?” The Commodore paused, daring a response from the bandleader. “It is absolutely essential to a good speech!”

“Yes, sir, I understand. But the tempo, the tempo.”

“Why you tone-deaf cretin! Don't you tell me about tempo. I know tempo!”

With that the Commodore marched down to the front row, grabbed the bandleader by the scruff of the neck, and walked him toward the door.

“You are through, Mr. Tone-Deaf Bandleader,” the Commodore said. “End of assignment and on to the next job for you, if you can find one. I'll be sure to tell Admiral Johnson the good news.”