The Commander
I am fully aware that many people reading this don't believe in God. But, I do, and I think that God blessed me with a great wife and great friends. This is about one of them. Also, I've been trying to find this for months, and finally had an inspiration. I found it in an old sent-mail box from my "unix pine" days. Yeah, God and backups! Backups from before I was a Christian! Timeless God!
I wrote this in March 2001, after our heyday together. Thankfully, I think Commander has been out making memories for a long time since, with all sorts of lucky people.
Anyway, let me introduce you to ... The Commander. I love you dude.
The Commander
3/12/01
We called him Commander a lot more a few years ago than we do now. If I was with him and ran into someone I knew, now I'd introduce him as Scott. A couple of years ago I wouldn't have dreamt it. A few years back you would have hardly known his mother hadn't christened him Commander at birth, everyone called him Commander. His mother did contribute, though, she's the one who gave him the vanity license plates that read "CMDR" for his old green boat, a circa 1970 hunter green four door behemoth of a Plymouth.
I met Commander when I worked at Z100 in the early 1990's. He was a part-time deejay, as was I. He was the best of the part-timers, and better than most of the full-time staff to boot. My roommate Chad and I would talk about him when he wasn't around and before I knew him. We talked about him as though he were a star.
Chad was an audiophile, with an ear for even the slightest musical or audical distortion. Between rock and roll songs, when Commander opened his microphone and started yelling, you could hear him throughout the two story radio station, right down to the dungeon-like dark video-editing room on the basement floor. His voice was distorted over the air, or so I was told by Chad, as my ears often fail me.
The distortion indiscretion aside, Chad admired Commander, as did I. Commander was admired by everyone who met him. We all loved him, even his boss who simultaneous would coach us to be more like Commander, but don't do what he does because only he can do it. Commander had an irreverence that came with not giving one lickety-shit about his job. He just didn't care if he worked at Z100, and was frankly and openly sick of it.
***
Just as Commander wasn't his given name, it wasn't his radio name either, at first. He tried out several monikers, at one point settling on Englebert Humperdick, a variation on the one-hit-wonder oldies artist. That lasted about two hours into a six hour shift, when he was called by our boss, the station Program Director, who reigned him in a bit and told him to lose the new name.
He was christened Commander by none other than Old Fat Dad, the locally famous oldies station deejay well-known in the halls of the Z100 and KYLT radio stations. Fats, obviously, has quite a name himself and was the perfect person to anoint Scott.
Fats used to have to call Scott at home, to arrange times for him to fill-in for ailing full-time jocks and such. During these calls, Scott was usually attending class at the University, a life-long task to this point. Fats would leave a message, but only after having to sit through a thirty second audio clip taken from an episode of Star Trek, in lieu of the standard message requesting the caller to leave a message. The clips would change frequently, but they always had something to do with a commander or captain, and that's what Fats started calling him.
***
I knew Commander for awhile, then didn't. Before I knew him as more than someone who couldn't stand my barrage of questions about radio and music any more than the other jocks, he up and quit. I didn't hear of or see of him for months, maybe a year or more.
I graduated from the University, quit Z100, moved to Las Vegas, then to Arizona, before being called back to work full-time for the stations.
At that time, recently back in Missoula, I was at a bar with a couple of friends, tipping some beers, trying to look more bored than I was, a theory for winning girls that seemed to work for the better looking guys, but consistently failed me. Commander strode in wearing his black leather jacket, army boots and otherwise old and faded and well-worn clothing. He picked up his free beer at the bar and tipped the bartender handsomely, ensuring more free beer to follow. I yelled Hello at him.
That moment would change my life. Even though he didn't know me enough to probably even remember my name, he grinned broadly, walked over and said hello. He said HELLO, as only Commander could say it. His voice boomed from every corner of the small barroom, over the stereo, over the chatter, over the televisions recapping the day's sports.
It was a greeting that I would witness time and time again. I relived it every time he saw someone he knew, whether he knew them well or had met them a year before working at a radio station. Commander had a knack for friendliness. I've never known him to shy away from a conversation and I've never known anyone to not like Commander. I can't think of a single thing I've ever heard anyone say about Commander that wasn't at least flattering. He's that kind of guy.
My first year in college I went to a party my English Composition instructor invited the class to attend. In hindsight, he was probably only inviting the female members of the freshman course, but he made the invitation and I accepted by way of attending.
At this party, Halloween 1990, my first party in college, I met a creepy, weird red-bearded red-headed Irish looking fellow wearing a dress. Not a kilt, a dress. It was Halloween and I didn't think much of it, even after being cornered and holding a "conversation" with this stoned and drunk man for twenty minutes.
I saw the bearded red-headed man -- he always wore a dress, turns out he hadn't dressed up for Halloween -- many times over the next few years, and I always avoided him, based on those first twenty minutes which were based on the first sight of him. It was to my shock that one day, hanging out in our favorite bar, Commander and I ran into this man and Commander greeted him as he'd before greeted me, shaking his hand as though he were a long lost relative.
Commander greeted everyone that way. People I'd only speak to if cornered he'd warmly greet and talk for at least a couple of minutes. He wasn't some charlatan who was chummy to everyone for the sake of it. I never heard him turn away from a warm greeting and say "I hate that guy" or "she's a bitch." He genuinely liked these people, all of them, and they genuinely liked him. Whether it be a drunk dress-wearing man or the head of the Anthropology department, with whom Commander attended Lady Griz basketball games, he was liked. And he listened to what they had to say, too. He didn't just hear them, he listened. His attention span and ability to listen to people that I wouldn't even say hello to astounded me and more than once caused me to change my perception of people, especially my perception of myself.
That night in the barroom, after I called Hello at him, he'd crossed the room and taken my hand shook it and said hello. I then sat back down with my friends, thinking that that would be it. He'd move on to people he knew better, and I'd rejoin my thoughtful boredom, trying to pick up chicks in my own way. But he remained, towering over me in his six-foot-three frame, six-foot-four in the army boots he was wearing. He asked me if I could hook him up with a job at Z100. I knew that the program director, the boss that I dealt with regularly, would dearly love to have him back, so I told him it wouldn't be a problem.
***
Back at work at Z100, Commander flourished. He began using "Commander" as his on-air name and I took to introducing him to people I knew as, "Commander, Joanne. Joanne, this is Commander." He hated this. I couldn't help it, he was The Commander, and deserved to be introduced as such. At work, he immediately fell back into the routine, and was better than ever. He wanted the job now and made the extra effort that made him better than almost anyone there.Then he up and quit again. I was very disheartened by this, but he was excited to be departing for Romania to teach English to Romania kids, and I was excited for him.
It was more a sabbatical than a quit, he was even on the radio in Budapest once while he was there. I often wondered if the Romanian students ever knew if he was The Commander. Probably, yes.
When he returned, about a year later, I was wrapping up my short tenure at Z100, having found more lucrative work in the new world of the Internet. Commander had nowhere to stay, fresh from Europe, and moved into my small studio apartment for a week. During that time I know he showered because he used the same shower I did and the wet bath towels on the floor were a clear indicator that he did. But during that time I never once saw him open a suitcase or wear anything but the clothes he arrived in. Such was the care-free vagabond lifestyle of the Commander.
He fell into a full-time job at Z100, moving up in the world. He was an immediate hit in the midday slot that he took when I left my afternoon shift and the midday guy took over my slot. The opening was a natural and he took a strong station and made it stronger. Once again, the Commander was back.
***
Though we no longer worked together, Commander and I became good friends. My nicknames have always been rather pedestrian, "Hans Solo, Hans and Franz, Hans Christian Anderson" and the like. For some reason, Commander began to call me HANS KASFELNIK!! He always said it that way, loudly, and he snapped his fingers and waved his arm in a way that made me think he thought I was homosexual. Several of his gay friends thought I was gay. It's a fact that the only time I've ever been in a gay bar I was asked to dance by a female. It's also true that it was the only time I've ever been in any bar where anyone -- male or female -- asked me to dance.
I didn't know where the name came from, or what the name meant, and was afraid to ask because maybe it was a forgotten inside joke I should know. My semi-deafness often leads to these nagging doubts. When I finally asked he said merely that I looked like HANS KASFELNIK!! (snap, wave) and that there was no other reason.
This German-sounding moniker is what he'd begin to introduce me as, in retribution, I suppose, for me always introducing him in my manner. One night at our favorite bar we ran into some woman he knew but I had never met. He introduced me -- This Is HANS KASFELNIK!! -- and before I could say a word, he told the woman that I was from Germany, middle Bavaria specifically, and that I couldn't speak English.
This sitcom-sounding situation went on for about an hour, and the girl was so drunk and not terribly bright to begin with that she fell for it hook, line and sinker.
Commander, knowing a bit of the Slavic languages, could muddle his way through the "translations," making credible sounding Germanic/Romanian/Russian phrases and sentences. I sat there for a full hour and couldn't think of a single German-sounding thing to say, regardless of the fact that I was only two years removed from my senior year in college, where I fulfilled my foreign-language requirement with a full year of Russian. I would say things that sounded Germanic, but only to a not-too-bright drunk woman. Commander could have fooled Hitler.
So, I sat there and listened, as I preferred to do when around Commander anyway, to a girl honestly talk about me. She could discuss me to my face, confident that I hadn't a clue as to what she said. Whenever she'd raise her voice and speak slowly to me, I'd mumble something Germanic and make an effort to look confused. Over her shoulder Commander was choking on his beer and desperately trying to erase the grin from his face.
I've never forgotten that night, partly because of the fun of it, and partly because Commander gave me the out-of-body experience that only flies on walls of women's bathrooms are privy to. Some of what the woman said was a little disheartening, I remember, but much of it was flattering. When it comes to the flattering part I try to forget that she was drunk off her rocker.
***
Commander had good advice in the best times and great advice in the worst times. His garage was the storage shed for all of my then-coworker, future-girlfriend, now-wife's possessions when her husband left her and she lost her home. Commander always asked how I was, and how my girlfriend, and eventually wife, was.
I hardly ever asked him these questions, something I have always regretted, even though I still don't do it. Commander actually wanted to know, and he would listen. He wouldn't tell you what you wanted to hear, but what you should hear. And he could back it up with a wide range of experience. I'd be ready to call it quits with a girlfriend and he'd help me out, either prodding me towards finishing it off, or prodding me towards sticking with it. He knew which way to prod, even if I hadn't a clue.
I once proudly showed Commander a wallet I made myself out of scrap leather. It's a wallet that I've always wanted, thin and compact and made by me. I still use it. I handed it to him and proudly stated that I made it myself and he handed it back and said that it sure looked like something I would make. That's hardest bite of criticism Commander has ever said to my face, which shows you what kind of guy he is.
***
Commander scowled at me when I told him to put on his seatbelt as we pulled out of Missoula, heading for Helena to see my singing idol, John Prine, live in concert. I'd just broken up with my latest girlfriend and was bummed -- not so much that we'd broken up, but because I thought there was a good chance I had contracted the HIV virus from her. Stupid me. My step-father had recently had another heart-attack, and my brother was getting married in a month and I was to be the best-man, something that scared me more than HIV. Commander offered to take the trip with me, but I thoughtlessly didn't offer to pay for his ticket.
In the car, Commander informed me that he doesn't wear seatbelts, never had, never will. I told him that if we wrecked and he died or was seriously hurt because of my bad driving and I lived only because I was wearing my seatbelt, I'd be distraught. He told me to pay attention to the road and stop worrying. I told him to put on his seatbelt or I'm pulling over the car and he could walk back to town, about five miles in mid-November. His scowl grew deeper as he pulled the lap belt over his midsection and groaned that this was going to be one hell of a long trip wearing a seat belt and how he didn't think to smoke a quick cigarette before he got in the car.
I told him to crack the window, pull out a cigarette for us both and light up. He looked at me, mouthed "really?" then immediately brightened and wore the seatbelt painfully but silently the rest of the trip, both of us chain-smoking the entire time.
After that I almost always smoked when I was around Commander, and never cared to when I wasn't. It was my small way of letting loose around him.
To this day, I am glad I didn't have to resort to kicking him out of my car, as I surely would have had he not acquiesced. Commander was too important to me to not make a stand on the seatbelt issue. I'm grateful because it was a concert I'll never forget, partly because I saw John Prine live in concert, but mostly because of the man who saw John Prine in concert with me.
Commander knew Helena better than I and we found the venue without a hitch. We took the best seats we could find, at Commander's encouragement. About the time the first act was over and John was due onstage, the late arriving owners of the choice seats booted us and we retired to our rightful seats the balcony, much further back.
I snapped pictures and sang along with John and the rest of the audience and had a great time. After John's encore I stood up, told Commander it was a great show and "let's go." He laughed his booming laugh, grabbed my arm and took us to the stage, where he told the lady who was guarding the backstage entrance that we worked for a Missoula radio station and would like to meet John Prine. Without hesitation, we were escorted back to meet John, and Commander snapped several pictures of me with my arm around John's shoulders. These pictures didn't turn out, though, because they were the fourteenth and fifteenth shots on a roll of twelve. Commander has never let me forget it, and I would never forgive him if he did.
***
It was three weeks before the Prine concert, a few nights before Halloween, when I met Commander at a showing of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," where he was the emcee in full drag. Commander has thrown parties in which he has done a striptease wearing a yellow-brick-road lion's outfit, I've seen him in a tuxedo on his wedding day, and nice suits since, but he never looked so much like Commander as he did that night, in drag.
After the show, we went out with a few of his friends. They were people I didn't particularly care for, but I was with Commander and he liked them and we went out. One was the girl I'd be breaking up with about two and a half weeks later, ruing the day we'd met. Commander knew her and warned me, but I didn't listen.
After drinks, a strip club and more drinks I took Commander home. He was quite drunk and at one point asked me to stop the car so he could spit. I wasn't able to pull off the road quickly enough and he vomited on the floorboard of the passenger side of my car. I cleaned it up the next day and a week later he was in the car again and asked me why it smelled like Pine-Sol. I told him and he laughed his booming laugh. I'm sure he would have apologized had I wanted him to, but just being able to have that story in my past eliminates any need or desire for an apology.
***
Commander was the guy who dropped into an outhouse and dug out the remains of the guy whose family killed him, tried to burn him, realized a body made of ninety percent water wasn't particularly flammable, then dumped him in an outhouse before someone ratted them out. When I asked Commander why he would do such a thing he said only that someone had to do it, and none of the sheriff's deputies were about to get shit on their boots.
The only time I would shut him up was when he'd launch into similar stories about the Saturday morning autopsies he'd assist on for a quick fifty bucks. Otherwise I would try to say only enough to keep him talking. For a couple of months, we met nearly every night at one of our bars, taking the same tall table in the corner, next to the bar so we could interact directly with the bartender and skip the waitress who would never offer free drinks. We tipped more than we should have, and received a lot of free beer because of it. When the night too soon ended, as they always did when I was with Scott, I knew there would be a tomorrow.
***
Commander would have been my best man at my wedding but I had the one candidate that he would have to take a second fiddle to, my brother Brent. Commander did show up at my reception, though, drunk as a skunk and driving a huge pickup he managed to finagle as a loaner while his recently purchased and more recently wrecked Jeep was in the shop.
He played with the kids for awhile, had a few beers and dodged a hailstorm with the rest of us. He probably doesn't remember it too much -- he was very drunk. He didn't attend mentally, but his presence was felt just by the fact that I was getting married.
There were times when I wasn't sure marriage was what I should be doing, times when I felt that I shouldn't be living with my girlfriend and her two children.
Commander was always there, a sage in army boots, an orange soccer shirt, green cut-offs and a cigarette gripped between his middle and ring fingers. I don't think I'd be married today if not for Commander, and I wouldn't have my little boy that I adore more than anything in the world, more than Commander even.
***
I miss Commander a lot. Married, Scott has taken to wearing suits to work, leaving his cut-offs, old t-shirts and army boots at the bottom of his closet, forgotten remnants from a previous life. He's become the boss at the radio station where he once asked me if I could hook him up with a job, though we both knew he could have a job any time he walked in and asked for it.
I don't see him much anymore, but I miss him, painfully. I realize now that I was using Commander because he had the verve and panache that I would never, could never have. He was great to be around for those times when I needed him. I don't know if he ever needed me, but I probably wouldn't have been around anyway. Another regret. Scott had so many friends that I suppose he had many people in which to confide. I had only him, and it was all I needed.
I know what he has now, and I'm glad he has it. He seems very happy with his wife, and the life the two of them lead. He doesn't smoke his Lucky Strikes, doesn't drink his famous "Loaf of Beer," his penis is no longer pierced (I'm told) and if he could get rid of the tattoos covering his arms, I suspect he would. He attends church, writes letters to the editor and spends nights with his wife and her cats. The Commander is gone, and I find that I don't know Scott at all. I want to. I want to be able to be a bit of the person Commander showed to me.
Commander finally grew up, shedding the child that Scott nurtured until his early thirties. I have some great memories of times with Commander and I like to relive them, but I also want to continue making them. Maybe I'll call him more often to badger him, or maybe I'll try to more often describe to him what he has meant to me as a person, whether he be Commander or Scott. I'll start right here.
---
11/27/01, note: shortly after I wrote that, I decided to move a long way from Montana, to follow a dream that I had forgotten about. I have no doubt that I wouldn't have been in position to follow this dream if I hadn't known Scott.
03/02/09, note: I just cried when I read the end; I never did really follow up with this. I'm so amazingly dumb. Anyway, cheers to everyone who knows Commander, no matter what you call him.
