Just how practical is global peace? Just how possible is it? Beyond professors writing books for tenure, how practical is it for us to seriously entertain the thought of global peace? I’ve spent the last 15 years thinking about evil, about peace, about war. Whatever reason we’re going to Afghanistan, it doesn’t matter. For all we know, all of the lives lost could simply be for posturing. Russia invades Georgia; we escalate our military actions in Afghanistan to show we’re still #1. I’m no longer interested. People will die and wars will be fought.

Is global peace possible? No. It never will be. I’ve thought long and hard about it. It’s theoretically possible, but practically, impossible. There are too many vested in our suffering. So they keep us busy with ipods and gadgets, hdtvs and accessories, while they fight over resource. In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway because we’re all going to die. Schopenhauer was right. It’s absurd.

I saw him sell us a war and we bought it. I bought it. And, in a sense, I loved him for it. We need this war for reasons the public will never know, at least not for the next few decades. I’m not sure why we’re fighting anymore, but it must be important. I still respect all that our soldiers do to defend our freedoms. I still hold our president in the highest regard, but I no longer care.

After thinking about global peace, I came to the following conclusion: the closest we will ever get to global peace are tiny segments, brief moments in time where there is peace—and they are few, and they are fragile. Here’s my charge to the US and other superpowers. After we resolve our battles in the Middle East, why not try to go without war for just five years, just five years. Let’s start there. Of course there will be terrorist plotting to overthrow “the West” and they should be dealt with, but to commit all of our military forces. Really?

Someone out there reading this blog should start betting, like in the futures exchange, on just how long we can last without engaging in war. Why not bet on peace? Can’t that be profitable? I think we’re all weak, ten years tops. I doubt the 21st century will see 20 years of peace. Peace, if you think about it, is more difficult to maintain than war.

I remember being a young boy and watching one of the war movies. I don’t remember which one. The father would call his kids pigs, because that was the best he could do. It was the best affection he could show. Never crying, being hard and tough those were the signs of a real man. I’ve known countless men like that and none of them were real men. A real man provides for his family.

If the government was our father, how well has he provided for us? Are we eating? Are we being educated? Are we healthy? Does he love us? Will he protect us? OF COURSE HE’LL PROTECT US!!! He’s been out protecting us for too long though. The fridge is empty. There’re no jobs and we hold summits about jobs to distract us from the war. But I don’t care about that anymore. A neglected child, after a while grows cold, bitter, detached, disinterested, uncaring. When dad comes back home from protecting us, he’ll be surprised to find out that he’s a bit older, a bit weaker, we’re in our prime, fearless, cold and bitter, without jobs and with nothing to lose. It won’t be too good of a homecoming if he’s gone much longer.

Global peace is an illusion. I fight for as much of it as I can get. Those who fight for peace, as paradoxical as that sounds, still fight. Those who wait for peace, get slaughtered at the hands of those who are fighting. That is why, as all good economists do, I’m placing a bet on peace. I won’t bet recklessly and waste the prime of my life discussing foolishness like global peace, I’ll leave that narrative for the fiction writers. I also won’t entertain the eschatological doomsday gloom of the inevitability of our sudden demise because those guys wanna see the mushroom cloud. Some worship at the alter of the mushroom cloud. I’m trying to stay a step ahead of both these groups.

We’re resourceful, human beings. We get things done. And the truth is, the world really is a more moral place than it’s ever been, which is nothing to say of our past. We evolve and adapt, not out of koom-bye-yaness but out of necessity. I’m with Thomas Hobbes. We’re all psychological egoists out to get what’s best for us. In the end when all the calculus is done and it finally clicks, we’ll realize what Hobbes figured out centuries ago, our saving grace is a social contract. It’ll be broken and manipulated but it will remain because the day that it dies, we all die.

That contract is the only thing keeping us in check. People aren’t afraid of jail, there’s certainly enough evidence to demonstrate that it’s no deterrent. People aren’t afraid of death, some of us embrace a shot at immortality. But people are afraid of a world without that contract, without order. The interesting thing is, it’s not this academic heady thing called anarchy. It’s that beast inside all of us. We’re scared of what we’re actually capable of doing. Of all the books on Nazi’s and Khmer Rouge fighters, militia men and boy soldiers that I’ve read, one thing remains, as Waller and Arendt said it best, ordinary men commit extraordinary evil. Our government better get back to the domestic agenda. Dad’s been gone too long. Misfits and delinquents are popping up. Once paranoia sets in, all hell’ll break loose.

But hey, what should we care. I’m typing in an air conditioned room, on an expensive desktop, sitting in a swivel leather chair, crying about the troubles of Americanism to an army of virtual friends, none of which know me, none of which I know, while people are starving and being butchered. And then I remember, I have to get away from this computer, call my friend in the Congo, wire that money, finish writing that grant proposal, send those Band-Aids, help that young mother, excite some grad students about peace, do my part, spread awareness. I define myself in relation to my ability to help others. Without that, my life would be meaningless. And I refuse to live a meaningless life.

---the narrative contains profanity---

Love’s a funny thing, especially watching someone else’s love unfold. For Big Brett, I think I remember just that moment. She was so different, so genuinely different from anything he expected, anything any of us expected.  

We were all on drugs and she was clean, sober year round.
We were all poor and she was the daughter of a media mogul. She was an only child and her father left her half his empire.
Most importantly, though, we were all black and she was Jewish.

It’s funny because I always viewed Brett as being asexual. Jazz players got a lot a tail. There were always interested women willing to sacrifice their morals for a touch of inspiration, a touch of creative brilliance. Me and Brett would talk about groupies all the time.

Diablo’s Vanguard finished playing the set and stood to a packed, smoked filled room. They bow in unison and proceed to exit the stage. The roar of the crowd was nearly deafening.

Marcus turns to Brett as they walk through a small hallway lit by a dim red bulb.

“There’s sure to be some action tonight huh? You gonna stay with me and the fellas and catch some of these foxy ladies?”

“Nah, not tonight. I’m cool,” replied Brett.

“Man you ain’t fuck nothin’ yet, you sure you ain’t funny?”

You see, the thing I didn’t get about Brett, he couldn’t get back to the pad in Brooklyn without us. We always drove with all of our instruments, all in the same van. So instead of sticking around and getting some appreciation from the ladies, he’d go off by himself and wonder the city. But, hey, he was a grown ass man. I wasn’t ‘bout to baby-sit no grown man. We wanted to enjoy the groupies and he wanted to roam, cool.

Marcus and Brett reach the end of the hallway. Marcus opens the door. A young woman with a large afro inhales forcefully. She lifts her head and looks at Brett exposing both of her breasts.

“Wanna have some fun?” she asks.

Brett turns to Marcus. “I’m ‘a wait for ya’ll outside.”

“It’s twenty degrees outside.”

“I’m ‘a wait outside.”

Brett leaves. Marcus enters the room and approaches the young woman.

Big Brett navigates through the crowd until he reaches the club’s front door.

“Your jacket Mr. Calhoun.”

 It’s snowing outside and he adjusts his collar to keep himself insulated. 

“Hey that’s Big Brett Calhoun,” exclaims one of the female patrons.

“Brett!!”

“Brett!!” yell two separate women.

Brett knew there must be something about his music that attracted so many women, but he couldn’t identify what it was. He always felt ugly. He felt black and to feel black was to feel ugly. He remembered how the schoolyard kids would tease him when he was a young boy. Black kids can be even more racist than whites.
“Look at that monkey!” said a young black girl.

Brett is haunted by the memories of his childhood. He finds a bench just outside the club. He sits and removes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping the pack forcefully against the palm of his right hand. He removes a cigarette, ignites it and inhales.

“You listen here,” said Brett mother in a heavy Nigerian accent. She damps a bath rag with warm water and wipes the dried blood from her son’s swollen left eye.

“You can’t go around fighting everyone that calls you a name.”

“She called me a monkey mommy.”

“Are you a monkey?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

Brett slips back into reality. “A light? Can I use your light?” asks a young white woman.

“So sorry. I was…”

“Somewhere else,” said the young woman.

“Yeah, somewhere else.” Brett reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a lighter. The young woman leans in, inhales and lights her cigarette.

“You’re the piano player from Diablo’s Vanguard, aren’t you?”

“Yeah that’s me.”

“Ezra, Ezra Waltz.” Ezra extends her hand.

“Nice to meet you Ezra, I’m Big Black Brett.” Realizing what he’d inadvertently said, Brett corrects himself.

“I’m Big Brett Calhoun.” The two shake hands for the first time. 

-----------------------------------
I was listening to Mildred Bailey's "Don't Take Your Love from Me" while I wrote this section

© 2009 Jason J. Campbell

---the narrative contains profanity---

Brett wasn’t a likeable cat when he was sober. He had to maintain dat fix. Without a pack of smak, some blow or a bottle of vodka, he could be a son-of-a-bitch to deal with.

Marcus opens the drapes in Brett’s bedroom and sunlight pours in. Brett is asleep on a mattress, which is resting directly on the floor.

Brett recoils from the light. “Marcus, what the hell’s goin’ on? It’s too damn earlier for dat shit.”

He never liked sunlight in his room, said it made it hard for him to think. ‘Cause I know he’d lay up in ‘dat bed all day if I’d let him.

“We gotta do somethin’ today, gotta make some money, score a gig. Come on baby. We need this shit. You can’t be in here all day wastin’ time”

Brett mumbled profanity under his breath.

He opened his eyes and looked directly at me. “You ain’t know jack ‘bout no time! I ‘aint never been one to waste time. Sometimes a muthafucka need to sleep. It ain’t jazz all the time god-damn-it!”

“Come on now, we gotta…”

Brett sits up on the mattress. “You listen here you uppity city-boy coon, don’t you play wid me ‘bout my sleep.”

Marcus laughs. “Coon? Coon?” He tries speaking with a southern accent. “What you think we’s still in da south, Sa? I’m fixin’ ta whoop yo ass fa sho if you don’t let me get my sleep,” said Marcus in a taunting tone.

I thought he’d get a hoot outta me acting the fool. I was wrong. I later found out those southern boys got quite a temper.

Brett stands to his feet wearing only his underwear. He approaches Marcus.

“I’m a kill you!” he said.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t even look upset, but I could see it in his eyes that he was serious.

“I’m fixin’ ta kill you if you don’t let me get my sleep.”

He was a whole foot taller than me. He could easily rest his chin on the crown of my head, a massive man. “Cool out brother.”

I laughed nervously.

“Ain’t shit funny.”

He never said anything else. He stood there with this blank look on his face. He gave me the look a father gives his child, as if to silence my outburst with a stare. After a few seconds, I had to get outta there. That brother was crazy. It was two days before he finally woke up.

We just played without him.

His look scared me and I wasn’t gonna find out what he was capable of. Sometime accepting a man fa’ who he is, rather than tryin’ to change him fa’ what you what him to be, can be the best way to deal with a volatile personality. And he was a volatile personality. He’d be crying one minute, angry the next, and in love a few seconds later. That was Big Brett Calhoun.

-----------------------------------
I was listening to Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup's “That’s all Right” while I was writing this section.

© 2009 Jason J. Campbell

Needless to say, Big Brett Calhoun got the gig. Jazz was in a volatile state. Most of the artists were on drugs or addicted to alcohol. We were the underclass. We were the rebels. Jazz was, for us, an expression of ecstasy. It was a manifestation of our addiction. I never knew a serious jazz player that wasn’t on something.

I knew Brett was a drunk but I remember the first time I saw him shoot heroine. He was so fucked up he had a conversation about pirates! Pirates! He was trippin’! He was always in a state of intoxication, but at least when he was drunk he was productive.

“Don’t tie it so tight Brett. You just wanna get the vein to pop.”

Brett sits at the edge of the couch and removes a filled syringe. He injects its contents into his arm then falls back into the couch. Marcus loosens the rubber tunicate from his arm.

“What’s so funny?” asks Marcus.

“Imagination.”

Marcus sits across from Big Brett and removes rolling papers from his back pocket. He places the paper on the coffee table.

“What do you mean imagination?” he asks again.

Brett’s completely engulfed by the warmth of his tremendous heroine buzz. His speech is slurred and he is slightly drooling from the left side of his mouth.

“When you’re a kid…”

Marcus pinches a large marijuana bud in half, placing it on the coffee table. He grinds the bud into a fine leaf and places it inside the rolling paper with great care.

“When you’re a kid, you just get it. It comes so easy. You just…” Brett uses his sleeve to catch some of his spittle.

As if he were speaking in slow motion he continues, “…you just get it. Pretending is reality. You play pirates because you are a pirate. You’re not a pirate because you play a pirate. Ya dig?”

Marcus laughs briefly. “Man you fucked up. ‘Dat shit don’t make no sense, ‘bout no fuckin’ pirates. How you sound brother?”

Marcus holds the folded rolling paper between his fingers and begins to roll the joint. He licks the paper and completes its production.

“Nah man…you ain’t got it. You ain’t seein’ it like I’m seein’ it.”

Marcus inhales deeply. He extends his hand to Brett, then exhales a huge plume of marijuana smoke.
Brett takes the joint and holds it between his fingers as he continues speaking.
“The pirate, the pirate is the kid. The kid just happens to be playing a pirate. When we see him runnin’ ‘round talking ‘bout pirates, it’s not ‘cause he’s playing a pirate…”

Marcus interrupts, “Oh! I get it. It’s because he is a pirate. Right?”

Big Brett smiles and exhales, coughing forcefully. “Yeah…yeah…I am a pirate.”

---------------------------

© 2009 Jason J. Campbell