Free A Commodore of Errors by John Jacobson Page A

ceiling.”
    Just then the Commodore strode into the store.

    When the Commodore spotted Mrs. Tannenbaume, he doffed his cap with a flick of his wrist and tucked it beneath his left arm. He greeted Mrs. Tannenbaume by pulling up before her with a click of his heels and a deep bow from the waist. He stood there in front of the old woman and waited for the desired effect that his grand entrance had on all women and children—giggles, coos, avoidance of eye contact in the presence of his eminence.
    Mrs. Tannenbaume neither giggled nor swooned. Instead, with an irritatingly confident look on her face, she made direct eye contact.
    The Commodore fumed at the indignity of it all, the appalling lack of grace on the part of Mrs. Tannenbaume. Yet the old lady persisted with her offensive eye contact. The unseemly standoff ended when Mrs. Tannenbaume broke eye contact and looked the Commodore up and down. She lingered on the Commodore’s long legs.
    The Commodore shifted his gaze to just over Mrs. Tannenbaume’s head, his imperious thousand-yard stare.
    Mrs. Tannenbaume turned toward Raymond, rolled her eyes in the direction of the Commodore, and said, “Who’s the flouncy?”
    â€œHe’s . . . he’s the Commodore, from the academy. He normally picks up his shirts after you leave.”
    â€œHey, flounce,” Mrs. Tannenbaume said to the Commodore. “What’s the matter? You think you’re too good to say hello?”
    The Commodore maintained his thousand-yard stare. He would not be trifled with.
    â€œWhat’s with the glazed-over look?” Mrs. Tannenbaume said to Raymond.
    â€œHe’s angry.”
    â€œHe’s angry?” Mrs. Tannenbaume said.
    The Commodore’s posture remained ramrod straight, his bearing regal, his unflinching gaze aimed just above Mrs. Tannenbaume’s head. His breathing remained steady, his skin unflushed. At five-foot nothing, Mrs. Tannenbaume was clearly short and inadequate—she simply did not possess the corporeal wherewithal to matter to a man of his stature. He decided to let the matter rest.
    â€œI’m here to pick up my shirts,” the Commodore said.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” Raymond said. “Your shirts have been cleaned but we have not had the chance to—”
    â€œMy shirts are not ready?” the Commodore said, his voice rising. “Are you informing me that my shirts have been laundered yet they remain unpressed?”
    â€œThat’s correct, sir.”
    The Commodore slammed his fist down on the counter. “This is unacceptable!”
    â€œSmoke screen!” Mrs. Tannenbaume shouted back.
    â€œI want my shirts pressed crisp and I want them now, thank you!”
    Mrs. Tannenbaume pointed her finger at the Commodore. “Red herring!”
    The Commodore deigned to look down at Mrs.Tannenbaume. After all, the woman was wagging a finger in his face. “My dear woman of unfortunate stature, will you kindly refrain from shouting aloud these inane non sequiturs.”
    â€œDon’t go changing the subject,” Mrs. Tannenbaume scolded. “You’re muddying the waters is what you’re doing. Trying to get us off the fact that a shamed woman is crying upstairs and her cuckold husband is doing the same down here. Where were you five minutes ago, you long-legged lout?”
    â€œLong-legged?” The Commodore spoke the words clear over Mrs. Tannenbaume’s head. “My dear, my legs are neither long nor short.”
    â€œWhy won’t you look at me?” Mrs. Tannenbaume said. “Are you afraid of facing the truth?”
    â€œThe truth?” the Commodore said. “The truth is something a person of your unfortunate inadequacy cannot aspire to. You are simply too short to see the truth, madam, for the truth resides on a pedestal—”
    â€œSmoke screen!”
    Putzie, who had sat down and stayed down after Mrs. Tannenbaume rightly pointed out