A Commodore of Errors Read Online Free PDF Page A

or from the waterfront all the way to O’Hara Hall for PT. When the plebes walked anywhere on campus, they did so by squaring corners, which made their commute even longer. The upperclassmen did not have to square corners but they did have to stay constantly on guard in case they happened across an officer as they made their way about the campus. A proper salute was de rigueur, as well as a proper greeting. Saying “Good morning, sir,” instead of “Good afternoon” was enough to earn a stern reprimand. And springtime was the toughest for the regiment. One could not smell the roses, as it were, as one walked across the beautifully manicured grounds. One had to be alert to following the rules and regulations every step of the way. When walking together, a group of upperclassmen must not be too loud or walk too casually. They must always be on their best behavior. But the meal hour was different. The meal hour was loud—loud with the sounds of young men letting their guard down for the briefest of respites.
    The Commodore let the cacophony wash over him. To him it was akin to the sound of children at a playground—it was music, a symphony, and it had a steady, resounding tempo.

    Johnson’s cologne preceded him as he approached the table from behind the Commodore. The cologne nauseated the Commodore—it was the same kind of bottom-shelf toilet water that wafted through the Seafarers’ Union Hall in Brooklyn. The Commodore smiled, however, knowing that he wore it in anticipation of meeting Miss Conrad. The Commodore pushed back his seat and stood up to greet Johnson.
    â€œHello, old boy. Fancy meeting you here,” the Commodore said.
    â€œDon’t ‘old boy’ me, Bobby.” Johnson looked around the dais. “Where’s Miss Conrad?”
    â€œOh, didn’t you get my message?” the Commodore said. “Miss Conrad had to cancel. She had a conflict of some sort. I told her we’d reschedule.”
    Johnson looked crushed, just as the Commodore had planned. In fact, the only problem with the plan of stalling the appearance of Miss Conrad, as far as the Commodore could tell, was that he had to sit through one more meal smelling Johnson’s rancid cologne.
    Johnson’s disappointment quickly gave way to anger. “What the hell kind of move is that? Canceling on short notice? Sounds unprofessional to me, Bobby. I’m not sure I want to meet with her now.”
    The others at the table—the commandant, the assistant commandant, and several company officers—took their seats shortly after Johnson took his seat. They listened in on the conversation while a line of plebes filed past them carrying overstuffed platters of food.
    â€œShe’s no flake, I can assure you, sir,” the Commodore said. “In fact, she’s a rising star in her firm.”
    â€œWhat’s the name of the firm anyway?” Johnson said, as an anonymous plebe delivered a platter of steaming corned beef and cabbage to the table.
    â€œShe is with Smith and McClellan Public Relations, a PR firm out of Port Washington.”
    Johnson placed his fork on his plate and turned to the Commodore. “Smith and McClellan? Wouldn’t that be S and M for short? If Miss Conrad is a rising star in S and M, then, yes, Bobby, I do want to meet her.”
    The others at the table burst out laughing. The Commodore pretended to join in on the raunchy joke.
    â€œIsn’t a public relations firm supposed to keep you politically correct?” the commandant asked, sitting directly across the table from the Commodore. “Don’t they realize the name of their own company is not PC?”
    â€œMaybe they can help dream up an offensive slogan for our campaign to raise funds for that monument of yours,” the assistant commandant chimed in.
    Ah, yes, once again having a good time at the Commodore’s expense. The Commodore did his best to steer the