Peace, Brother

A Writer’s Cramp (1000 words/ 24 hours) Prompt: You've been approached by a government agency wanting your take on achieving world peace. Write the story/poem of how you respond.

Peace, Brother

It was on a Sunday that they approached me. I wasn’t at church where I should have been, according to my wife. I was playing hooky at the lake. My line was in. On my hook wiggled a big fat worm. I’d just popped an icy beer and was glugging it down when a speed boat came careening out of nowhere.

“You Jed Clemons?” a young, three-piece suit asked.

The speed boat had sent ripples across the lake. My little rowboat was pitching and bucking worse than a rodeo mustang. I grabbed at my pole, set down my drink, and started bailing out some of the water that fancy boat had just sloshed in.

“Yep, that’s me," I said, emptying a coffee can of lake water back where it belonged. “What can I do for you?”

The suit traded positions with an older guy, one that looked awfully familiar.

“Do you know who I am?” the gray-haired man asked.

The fellow had sunglasses on and was wearing a long-sleeved lavender shirt. I took a guess. “The new vet from the animal clinic?”

The four other men in the power boat all smothered laughs with their hands clapped over their mouths. I gave them a long look, wondering why an animal doctor needed suits to steer his boat. But those who come new from the city often act a little strange. I took another slug of beer and checked to see if my worm was still flapping about on the end of the line.

The turbulence must have knocked it off. I baited another one then tossed the hook back into the lake.

“No, Mr. Clemons. I’m not a veterinarian. I’m the president,” the gray-haired gent said.

I’d just been swallowing a sip of beer. The man's words made the liquid flow upwards instead of down. I coughed and tried to resuscitate myself with a couple of good, hard pats on the back.

“President of what?” I asked, just before I took another big swallow of my brew.

“Of the United States of America,” Mr. Lavender Shirt told me. He removed his glasses and showed me a big old smile.

“Right,” I said. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but . . . “ I would have kept going, completely discarding the evidence, but right then and there I felt a nibble on my hook. I grabbed that pole and fought the critter. It was a strong big feller,and it took me a good five minutes before I landed it -- all twelve pounds of shiny blue trout. I stared a moment at my trophy, then swallowed another gulp of beer, loaded up my hook, and cast it back into the lake.

“Now what were you saying. . . Mr. Prez?” I asked, accepting that the guy just might be exactly who he said he was.

The fellow was sweating like a hippo working out on a stair-stepper. I tossed him a beer, then offered one to each of the suits, but one-by-one they shook their heads and looked off into the distance. I didn’t offer twice.

“I need your help, Mr. Clemons,” Old Prez began. “Our White House computer has run the stats and come up with your name as being the best hope for achieving world peace.”

I let out a belch. I guess that wasn’t a good thing to do when you’re talking to the president. One of the suits pulled a gun on me and pointed it at a place slightly to the left of my right eye.

“Put that away,” the president ordered, giving the man a look that was capable of melting a hard-packed winter snowman.

“Much obliged,” I responded, swallowing hard. I figured I’d probably better lay off the beer. Didn't want to make any gun-toters edgy.

I took a moment, reflected on Mr. Prez's question. The answer wasn't too tough. Most of the details I'd already figured out. Fishing does that for you, dewrinkles life, if you let it.

“Well," I said. “It just so happens I’ve given that very question a heap of thought. What you need to do is this . . . “


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The single blue trout was the only one I caught that day, but I guess there are some things more important than fishing.

The fact is that president actually did take my advice, which is why the whole world started shaping up. Oh, not over night. It took about six months. You see, at first, everyone wanted to play violins, and no one was content to study the oboe. That’s why they hijacked me to Switzerland and made me take over the operation.

No sweat. I fixed up a lottery. After that things got better and better. All those world leaders took to their assigned instruments, and they sweated and toiled until they got good enough to sound like they weren’t scratching a blackboard.

Another six months after that and everyone was ready for their very first big performance. Everyone all over the world tuned in, all of us dying to hear them. It wasn’t too bad a beginning, but our president still needs work on his timing.

Now, I suppose you’re wanting to know how having a World Orchestra brought about world peace?

Easy. With all the leaders focused on making beautiful music, how could they possibly worry over weapons of mass destruction?

The idea spread like one of those fad diets. While the world leaders polished up Beethoven, the military commanders and their armies made up a band with lots of tubas and drums so they could compete, too.

And the lottery turned out to be a significant policy. Don’t forget that. Because each month, everyone put in a selection of composers and pieces they’d like to rehearse, and that's how they drew the pieces they were going to practice.

Why if you watched them all go about it, you just wouldn’t believe the changes in those leaders. They started laughing and jamming together even on weekends.

Of course, there’s one big drawback to the whole thing. It’s not world shattering, after all, but it does have a minor impact. You see, to keep those leaders all making progress on their music, I had to volunteer to become their conductor. Now, I don’t mind the travel, and my wife gets a real kick out of spending her Sundays inside a fancy French cathedral, but I’ve completely had to give up on my fishing. It's the sad truth; I haven’t caught me a single trout since I brought about world peace.


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