My Journal
By Harriman Nelson
13
We were finally on our way
home to Santa Barbara and I was sitting in on ‘front porch’, nursing a Scotch, when
Sharkey approached and cleared his throat.
“Want to talk about it,
sir?” he asked. “Normally it’s something the skipper would ask, but with him not
here and Mr. Morton busy, well....”
“What’s this all about,
Francis?”
“Well, sir,” he said,
sitting down, his hands clasped together, “it’s all over the boat that the
Japanese government decided against your formula. Idiots.”
“I can’t blame them. The
formula’s untested in the field. They’re only covering themselves. Rip out the
stock now and plant new. Voila, no more problem. Even if their supply will be
substantially reduced for awhile...now, what is it? Last time I saw that look
on your face you were trying to hide something.”
“It’s just...you’re
NOT a
failure, sir! That damn Dr. Wixom! He has no business saying those things about
you. A ‘waste of their time’, my ass! And that you’d ‘serve mankind better by
sitting on your backside in a retirement home’!”
“Francis, if I had a penny,
a mere one cent, for every time someone called me a failure I’d be rich, well,
richer. Success and failure go hand in hand. It’s the nature of the beast,
science. When I have setbacks or can’t prove something 100 %, I always try to
remember what Thomas Edison said. If I recall correctly, he said, ‘I have not
failed. I’ve just found ten thousand ways that don’t work’. He was about ready to
give up on the light bulb after another failure, did you know that? But he
decided to try just one more time, probably expecting the worst, and then, he
revolutionized the entire world. Life’s like that. And remember, I’ve had my
share of success. What’s a little failure now and then thrown in to keep me
from getting a swelled head.”
“Mr. Ames for you sir,”
Sparks called out. “On the videophone.”
“What’s up, Ames?”
I asked
as Lee’s assistant came into view. It was clear he wasn’t happy, and his desk
was littered with mail, huge bins from the mail room stacked and overflowing
next to his desk.
“How long’s that damn tour
of Lee’s...er, Captain Nelson-Crane going to last? I’m used to being up my
eyeballs in propositions for him, deadlines, auditors and the like, but...fan
mail? I’m a CEO’s assistant, an ex ONI operative and I’m expected to handle fan
mail? Drawn hearts, kisses, and offers of matrimony! Then there’s the stuff
from magazines like Playgirl, and TV stations for exclusive interviews...ever
since he’s been in the news...Oh he got stuff like this before, but not this
kind of volume. I’m calling, sir, to get permission to just trash the damn stuff.
I’d have called him myself, but he’s looked so...well...busy lately, that I
didn’t want to disturb him if I didn’t have to. I could just leave all this for
him when he gets back, but part of my job is to take care of things he doesn’t
really need to see...er...or intrude on his time. There’s just so much that I’m
having a hard time handling his official stuff.”
“Can’t you ask some of the
other
staff to help out, sir?” Sharkey asked.
“I
already have, but they all say they don’t
have the time….”
“You are Captain Nelson-Crane’s
personal assistant,” I said, “that means you can delegate such mundane jobs to
anyone you see fit to do so. You can even ask Angie. Tell her you have my
permission to do so. She may even be
better able to delegate things for you.”
“Yeah, well, I tried her. Said
she wasn’t his assistant and that since
I was, it was for me to handle
it. Sir, some of this crap is labeled ‘personal’, which means even if it has
little hearts drawn in ink, pencil and crayon over the envelope, I gotta’ treat
it as if it’s from his mom or something and leave it unopened for him to get
to. I know that before he left on this trip, he told me to go ahead and take
care of his personal mail unless it had his special code on it, something he only
gives to certain people, I have a list of them. But I’m really getting nervous
about opening any more of these...some are...kind of...graphic, sir. From love
stuck women who want to kiss his ‘boo boo’s and run their hands through his
hair and er...other places.”
“I see,” I said, trying
very hard not to laugh, "unfortunately, Mr. Ames, I’m afraid you don’t have a
choice right now. However, I’ll personally suggest to Angie that she assist. Between the
two of you, and anyone she delegates, I’m sure you’ll be able to get a handle
on things.”
“Yes sir...oh, I got a
couple of postcards from Lee, er. the captain, if you’d like me to fax them
over to you. Some real nice pictures of the places he’s been. Commander Jackson writes and signs for him.
“It won't be necessary to fax
anything,
Ames. I’m sure I can find out anything I’d like to know by going online.”
“I’m afraid this whole
culinary thing’s getting out of hand. It’s all the staff can talk about. I mean,
I’d like to be able to enjoy my lunch in the cafeteria without the topic of the
day being what the captain's had or didn’t have for breakfast, lunch, dinner. And the
cooks here are trying to fix some of the same stuff.”
“Cookie’s doing something
of the same, here. I can sympathize if they try Haggis. We've been lucky that Cookie hasn't.”
“That’s for sure, sir.
Well, thank you for letting me vent...I sure miss him, sir. Anyway, I’ll have
procurement ready to stock Seaview as soon as you get home. Your next
expedition’s to Alaska in about a week. You won’t have much in the way of
turnaround time. I need to know if you’ll be going along?”
“Undecided,” I said,
privately considering if I should fly out to Europe and join Lee.
“Yes sir. Well, that’s it
for now. Goodbye, sir. Ames out.”
“Run their hands through
his hair and ‘other’ places?” Sharkey muttered, turning red. “The nerve of
those dames!”
“Calm yourself Francis.
Lee’s...used to it...the suggestions, that is.”
“Aye sir...oh, um, thought
I’d better warn you, Cookie’s trying out Bannock Buns, but he’s already burned
them twice, so you might want to be prepared. I suggested he make English
Muffins, but he said they weren’t Scottish. Um, were those real Nelson and Crane
tartans the skipper and the commander had?”
Before I could answer, Cookie approached,
carrying a plate of what looked a little like burnt misshapen English Muffins.
“Thought you might like to enjoy some Bannock Buns," Cookie said, "you’ll have to do with plan
old grape jelly, butter and honey. We don’t have any Marmalade.”
“Er, thank you, Cookie," I said,
"I
could do with a bite.”
“And I made a pot of tea
too. It’ll be up here soon.”
“Tea?” I asked, incredulous.
“I thought I told you…oh, no, it was someone else...never mind. I’ll be
happy to try it.”
“And I got some Shortbread
Cookies baking in the oven and...”
“Did someone say cookies?”
Chip asked, climbing down the spiral ladder.
“Yes sir. Pure, genuine
Scottish Shortbread...got the recipe online...somebody called Mrs. McDonald, so
it has to be genuine. Handed down kind of recipe.”
“Yes, well,” I began,
“thank you, Cookie, we’ll be looking forward to them.”
“Enjoy your Bannock Buns,
sirs,” Cookie said proudly and left.
“Sharkey,” Chip said,
picking up the misshapen mass, “I don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”
“Uh...wouldn’t want to
intrude, sir. I’m sure you both got a lot of business to discuss,” he said and
fled.
“Doesn’t look that bad,”
I
said, handing Chip a knife to cut it with.
Knowing that I expected him
to be my guinea pig, Chip slathered jelly on one half, and honey on the other.
Then taking a deep breath, took a bite on the jelly side.
“Tastes better than it
looks,” he managed, and handed me the half with the honey.
It wasn’t bad at all. In
fact, soon, we’d both consumed the entire plate of buns, although the amount of jelly and
honey left had been substantially reduced.
I told Chip that Lee was
disappointed about not having a chance to visit Morton Castle.
“That’s too bad. You know,
sir, they have culinary tours in the states too. Maybe we should look into some
of them.”
“Just don’t let Cookie find
out about any you may want to go on. I do not want any Cajun Crawdads or Fried
Alligator.”
“Actually,” Chip began.
“Yes, yes, I know. Agent
Catfish swears by the alligator...but it sure doesn’t taste like chicken to me!”
I don’t know how long we
sat there, enjoying the view, and trying to down the tea that the mess
specialist brought.
It wasn’t very good, so it
was not a success as far as Cookie was concerned.
But then, even he prefers
coffee.
