Peanut Butter Diplomacy

Sometimes you have to wonder if peanut butter is the glue that holds the universe together.  Josh spread it generously on a slice of bread as the Regional Coordinator of the Greater Earth Diplomatic Contingent, Mom, or Ms. Westheimer to those who didn’t have to eat her cooking, pored over her notes.  Of course, he would have eaten it directly out of the jar, for bread was merely the vehicle for its conveyance, but mothers did occasionally look up, and he did whatever he could to keep from distracting her.  Her work was important.   So Josh spread the peanut butter on the bread, then folded it in half, squeezed it a little, and took a bite, getting that satisfactorily sticky feel as the bread turned to mush and the peanut butter stuck to everything.  Soon Mom was rushing out the door, a kiss on the forehead and some parental wisdom—“don’t spend all day playing on the computer, it’s nice outside, go out and play” all jumbled together into one sentence—which was similar to yesterday’s gems of worldly advice, akin to “be good, do your homework, don’t wait up for me,” and “be nice to the baby sitter,” although she was never really nice to him.  “Go out and play” was also an ancient parental imperative—he had looked it up, the Romans used to tell it to their kids.

Josh really didn’t mind—there weren’t many options for the 10 year old son of an interstellar diplomat.  You either stayed at home, wherever that was this week, or went outside and played with the children of other diplomats.  Luckily, this week they were Earthbound, and the facility where they were staying at least had an open field.  So once the morning formalities were completed and the parents were off to their secret negotiations with another extraterrestrial delegation, the klaxon of kids all met at the field.  There was Anna Selenokovic, Alek Gorborov, Joey Bosco, Tina from Philadelphia, Bruce Lee, who was really Lei Chu Chen but renamed after Alek started watching old karate vids, Jorge, the Hill twins Rashika and DeShawnda, and Baby Jane, who cried a lot if you left her out of anything.  Day one was spent in unplanned chaos—it was enough to just kick around, and certainly better than the space station, which wasn’t exactly built to handle the explorations of kids.  By day two, though, there was the familiar itch to do something, although “something” as used in the sentence “let’s do something” was nebulous and undefined, left to be shaped by those few who had the vision to make something out of nothing, so to speak.  Alek, the unspoken leader of the clan, was such a visionary, or at least he had ideas and was bigger than anyone else in the group, and he had decided that they needed to exercise their warlike tendencies.

“We should play Alien Invasion,” he said, and after several minutes of debate punctuated by Baby Jane’s whining and a short but impassioned speech by Tina objecting to the glorification of violence, which was her way of saying “we really shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ll play because this is what everyone else wants to do,” everyone agreed.  Of course, they didn’t ask just exactly how they were going to play Alien Invasion, and for Joey Bosco it really didn’t matter:  he would spend the next half hour in sugar-induced imaginary battles.  Son of the Earth Contingent’s Xenopsychologist.  Go figure.  Fortunately, Alek had plans—while stuck in transit, he had struck up a conversation with a pilot who played a game called “paint ball” which used real guns that shot paint.  Furthermore, he had requisitioned 10 guns and ammo from the facility storage for a “role-playing exercise”—they weren’t supposed to be able to order things like that, but for the offspring of diplomats who sat around the dinner tables and hid in plain sight at the receptions eavesdropping on the grown-ups, beating computer-based requisition protocols was, well, child’s play.

The group spent the afternoon of the second day in the industry of war, setting up the field of play where youthful carnage would occur, making barricades out of storage boxes and using old wire to mark off the boundaries. 

Then there were the rules.  The temptation, of course, was to make the girls the aliens, but Alek was going soft in the head and maybe hard in the other parts, and being the oldest and the biggest, he made the rules.  Josh wondered about that particular part of rule-making, but he didn’t argue, because he was younger and smaller.  So Alek and Bruce Lee were elected captains, and they picked sides, with the one rule that one side had to have Joey and the other side Baby Jane—obviously no team should have to have both.  Alek then explained that the object of the game was to capture your opponent’s flag, and in the course of doing so shoot people, although you could hit a person only once per game, and not in the head, and not during truces.  And if you got shot, you were dead. 

Joey Bosco loudly and vigorously protested this last rule. “Couldn’t I be wounded, and still play?  I mean, what if you hit me in the knee?  I’d still be able to limp to the flag.  And if you shot me in the hand, I could switch hands and shoot lefty.” “No,” was the spontaneous reply from all involved parties, except perhaps for Anna, who was probably weighing the benefits of killing him quickly versus getting the opportunity to shoot him more than once, and that was even if Joey was on her team.  They picked sides, and as chance would have it, though, Anna and Joey ended up on different teams.  Anna watched as Joey picked a barricade toward the front of the line, and then lined up directly across from him.

Joey wanted to charge immediately.  “Stay back,” yelled Bruce Lee, but such dire warnings fell on deaf ears, and who could stand in the way of a soldier plunging bravely forward into the teeth of the opposition?  Joey rushed out from behind the barrier, spraying bullets as he ran.  The opposing team plugged him five times before he could reach the first enemy barricade.  He went down, and, as a matter of history, less than heroically, for Joey Bosco found out in that one moment what being hit by a hardened ball of paint felt like.  The paint evaporated.  The little red circular welts didn’t.

They left him out on field as the battle progressed—no one was exactly going to chance getting shot just to drag him out of the line of fire, and if he wanted to lie there dead, that was his business.  Joey, of course, wasn’t actually dead—he was just too afraid to get up, and he spent several minutes yelling at Anna, who was whizzing shots just over his head and occasionally pinging balls against a nearby barricade just for effect.  Once Joey did finally crawl back behind the barrier, he stayed there for the rest of the first game.

Josh actually lasted only a few minutes longer than Joey did—Rashika and DeShawnda ganged up on him, which didn’t seem fair, but was clearly one of the advantages of siblings.   Hit in the chest, he dropped to his knees, never realizing that death would be so painful.   Ten minutes later, the first game came to its conclusion—only Alek and Bruce Lee remained unscathed, and after both leaders ran out of ammunition, it seemed rather pointless to continue.  It was called a draw. 

They did play several more times, but after a couple of hours, everyone was ready to try something else—war really wasn’t as fun as it looked, and Baby Jane was crying again.  Even Josh couldn’t see what grown-ups saw in this form of entertainment. Adult games hurt an awful lot.  He figured it must be one of those necessary evils, like dating and divorce, which seemed interrelated somehow—you did one to get to the other, and once you got through divorce, you dated again.  Mom, in fact, had done this very thing more than once, and had certainly spent a lot of her free time doing it.  As leader, Alek attempted to rally his forces.  The troops, however, were seriously considering desertion, and peace appeared imminent.  In fact, only Joey Bosco stood with the faltering general, which was ironic, since Joey was always the first to get killed.  It was a clearly a pivotal moment, and the group as a whole could sense the winds of change:  most of them liked Alek, yet if they chose to stop playing, Alek would lose face and someone else would become the leader. 

That’s when the Mugwumps arrived.

“Oh, they’re going to have to sterilize the field,” said Jorge, which wasn’t exactly the most diplomatic thing to say.  The children of all interstellar diplomats, however, knew it was true, or as Mr. Science, their online tutor, would say, “Look at the DoDo bird.”  Joey stared at the breasts of what was hopefully one of the females—the Mugwumps apparently were less than shy about their bodies, being clothed in Saran Wrap, and from what Josh could tell, all the parts were in the right place, even if they were a pale shade of green.  And no one was going to accuse what appeared to be the guys of being “little green men.”

They also had their own guns.

Tina voiced the obligatory “our parents would never give us permission to do this,” a familiar fallback position in negotiating which, loosely translated, meant “I don’t want to do this, but I don’t want to admit it.” It also gave her an out if they ever got caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing so that she could claim to be a victim of peer pressure.  For once, though, everyone—even Joey Bosco—listened, and there was that pause between battles when the enormity of their actions weighed upon juvenile shoulders.  They could really get in trouble, double detention, grounded until the next millennium, no dessert after dinner for the rest of your life kind of stuff.

The group looked to Alek to make a decision.  Like a hard-eyed general, Alek stared down his troops.  “So what’s the problem?  Now we play Alien Invasion with real aliens.”

All the pain was forgotten as arms were taken up once more.  No need to explain the rules, just load your weapons and take your positions.  The Earth team huddled together, with Alek down on one knee marking out battle plans in the dirt and calling out assignments.  Josh watched closely as pebbles became people and a stick became the enemy’s flag.  Josh and Jorge would protect the Earth flag.  The rest would sweep down the right side, effectively cutting the playing field in half and overmatching the aliens at a single point, punching through the enemy’s defenses.  The group as a whole joined hands in the middle, and Alek the leader spoke, sounding serious and patriotic—“We go forth, brave men, brave women, in the defense of Earth and its rightful territories from the alien scum.  Let us not ask why, or question…”  And so on.  Josh was so caught up in the moment that the words were lost in his own growing excitement.  This was different.  This was real.  He could imagine great ships landing, the horde of screaming aliens spewing forth in a green wave of non-humanity, this small band of humans holding a desperate line against superior forces.  They were all together now, a team, fighting for Earth.  Ready to fight and die.

Alek held his troops back until the aliens had committed to their barricades, then directed his forces to specific positions.  Josh and Jorge ran back to protect the Earth standard. 

“Why do I have to be back here?,” Jorge brayed, “I want to be on the front line.”

“Someone has to protect the flag,” responded Josh, who still remembered his first brush with death, and despite his present patriotism, wasn’t too eager to repeat it.

“But everything is going to happen up there.  I probably won’t even get to use my gun.” 

Josh didn’t have an answer for that one, for what good was having a gun if you weren’t ever going to get to use it?  He settled in behind a barricade and watched, yearning as Jorge did for action.  Maybe when things got started, when their side overran the aliens, Jorge and Josh could join in, charging forward as the other side retreated.  He held his weapon at ready. 

Strangely, for several moments nothing happened, other than Alek and Bruce Lee yelling directions to the front line, and the Mugwumps hooting unintelligibly to each other.  Then the battle was joined.  Josh could hear the pop of paint balls against cardboard.  The Earth forces were firing at the enemy positions.  The enemy, however, wasn’t firing back.  Josh turned to Jorge—“Why aren’t they firing?”  Jorge shrugged.  Such were the musings of foot soldiers, never to understand the bigger picture, their goal to dodge bullets and shoot their adversaries.  Josh’s position in the rear, however, did afford him a good view of the proceedings.  Alek motioned his troops to advance—the Earth forces were about to attack.

Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that things were not going as planned, and as the Earth group was finding out, the enemy had a battle plan of its own.  “They’re moving the barricades,” yelled out Jorge, a hint of panic in his adolescent voice.  Josh peeked from behind his cover, which for the moment was out of the line of fire—the Mugwumps were pushing the barricades forward, creating a semi-circle and flanking one end of the Earth group’s forces.  And they had cut holes in the cardboard to shoot from.  Amidst the yelling and confusion of his teammates as they watched the enemy advance, Josh had a thought, the same thought that many a soldier fighting on the losing side had:  “Why didn’t we think of that?”

It didn’t matter now.  The Mugwumps had already killed three of the Earth’s forces as they overran the front positions, and Alek was already down.  Bruce Lee was barking orders to the others, but as far as Josh could tell, his commands were falling on deaf ears—Anna was arguing with Joey Bosco, Baby Jane was crying, and the Hill twins Rashika and DeShawnda, as they did everything else, were retreating in unison.  In fact, if something didn’t happen soon to turn the tide, it would be a route.  Which meant that the aliens would soon be shooting at Josh and Jorge.

Jorge grabbed Josh by the arm.  “We need to get out of here!”

“But if we leave the flag, we’ll lose.”

“So?  You be the hero.  You stay.”  Jorge turned to run.

A paint ball nailed Jorge right between the shoulder blades. 

Josh stared at his fallen comrade for only a second—the aliens were advancing on his position, pushing their barricades forward.  He fired at them, but with no effect, and within the space of a thought, they returned fire, forcing Josh to take cover.  He sat with his back against the barrier as balls of paint pinged against the cardboard.  He couldn’t move from behind his barricade.  Jorge laid face-down in the grass several feet away.  “Jorge, what do I do?”  The dead soldier replied, “How should I know?  And don’t think I’m going to get up and help you.”

The enemy was getting closer, emboldened now by their success.  They would soon capture the flag.  Josh thought hard, what to do, what to do, other than run, which, based on recent vicarious experience, wasn’t such a good idea.  Josh lay down behind his barricade and aimed his gun into the air.  He sprayed bullets upward, judging the distance they fell away from him and toward the enemy. 

It was the enemy’s turn to be caught by surprise as death fell from the sky.  They hooted in protest, looking in vain for the unseen adversary, then realizing the direction of their dilemma.  The surviving Mugwumps used their barricades as shields, holding them above their heads, which then left them vulnerable from the sides.  The remaining Earth forces took advantage, and both sides frantically fired at each other. 

“Are we winning?,” asked the dead man, which if you stop and think about it is a stupid question for a dead man to ask, yet in that moment Josh thought perhaps they would prevail, although it was hard to tell, what with all the bullets flying and whizzing about.  His confidence grew, until, of course, his bullets ran out.

“Jorge, give me your balls.”

“I’m not going to give you my balls.”

“You don’t need them.  You’re dead.”

“But they’re my balls!”

Anna yelled out, “Jorge, give Josh your balls.”

Josh came out from behind the barricade to grab Jorge’s gun.  As he did, however, a Mugwump stepped from behind a tree and shot him.  In turn, Anna shot the Mugwump that shot Josh, and then was shot herself.

The fallen soldier looked up in his dying moments and saw, as Fate would have it, Joey Bosco was the last one from the Earth’s team left, along with one remaining Mugwump.  Joey Bosco, who had cowered behind his barricade as the Mugwumps had attacked, staying for once out of harm’s way as the bullets flew.  Josh almost hoped Earth wouldn’t win, because they would never hear the end of it from Joey.  Joey the Hero.  Joey the Defender of Earth.  It was things like this that catapulted men into running for President—if Earth won, Joey would be reliving this moment for their benefit for the rest of their lives.

Then the real disaster struck, something far worse than having to listen to Joey Bosco for the next eternity.  Bosco jumped from behind the barrier, spraying paint ball bullets in a wild arch as he ran, screaming some incoherent battle cry.  The remaining Mugwump chose the wrong time to come out from behind its barricade, and froze in place at the sight of a crazed human boy charging it down.  Josh didn’t see any paint balls hit, but the alien dropped to ground in a heap, screeching in ragged staccato like fingernails across an old chalkboard, raking long fingers across its face.  Everyone, both human and Mugwump, went silent, except for Bosco, ever-oblivious Bosco, who was doing a victory dance.  Bosco was strutting now—“I am the man.  Bleed and die, alien scum.” The downed Mugwump laid on the ground, its body twitching slightly.  A low groan rose to another full scream, a screech like worn-out brakepads jammed together.

“You guys are in such trouble,” whined Tina.

 “He’s just faking,” said Bosco, who didn’t want his moment spoiled by the fact that someone might have actually gotten hurt, or that the sons and daughters of interstellar diplomats may have just instigated Earth’s very first interstellar incident. 

Alek said, “Well, someone’s going to have to look at him.” 

Joey Bosco replied, “It’s not my job.  I just shoot ‘em.”

No matter, for Bosco was immediately elected, a vote which would have been unanimous except for Bosco himself.  The boy protested every step of the way.  “Why do I have to do it?,”  he cried.  “Because we’re all dead,” sang the chorus in reply.  Bosco knelt down and tentatively reached out a hand, but that was as far as he was willing to go, at least without being threatened.  Alek said, “Well, touch him.”  “No way,” replied Bosco, “what if it carries alien germs, and when I like touch it I end up getting little bumps all over my body…”

“Like cooties?,” asked Anna.

Bosco blushed, because aliens wouldn’t have cooties.  That came from girls, and it would be a couple of years before he figured out why anyone would want to kiss one.  Bosco reached down a second time, and finally he touched the Mugwump’s shoulder.  He poked it, then stepped back.  The Mugwump curled up tighter, a green ball wrapped in shiny plastic.  Bosco reached down again and shook it—“Are you O.K.?  I mean, I’m sorry that I hurt you.”  He looked like he was going to break into little boy tears, the enormity of the situation finally sinking in.  Bosco tried to turn the Mugwump on its back, but the alien resisted, keeping tight into its fetal position.  “Come on, you got to get up.  It’s just a game.  We were just playing.”  He pushed as hard as he could, almost stumbling on top of his fallen adversary.  Suddenly he was nose to nose with the alien.

The Mugwump shot him.

Joey Bosco fell backward onto his butt, a red splotch coloring his stripped t-shirt.  He was dead.

The Mugwump got on its feet and mimicked the dance Bosco had done just moments before.  Joey, however, wasn’t willing to die so easily.  He got up and pushed against the alien, and started crying, “This is bull.  I got him.  He’s dead.”  The Mugwump showed off its chest, strutting around like a rooster, flapping its arms and hooting.  There wasn’t a spot of paint.  One of the Earth girls started hooting in unison with the Mugwump, and then it became a chorus with everyone from both sides joining in.  The Mugwump danced in front of Bosco, pointing a finger at the ground, indicating in exaggerated motions where he belonged. 

In five minutes, it was all forgotten, the next battle joined, bullets flying from both sides of the field, and then at the end of the day, with the glow of the setting sun, both sides called a truce and went home to supper.  It had been a magnificent day, and with it Josh realized something new about war, something you couldn’t find in the historical narratives, that it could bring two peoples so much closer together.  “You know, maybe we should invite them to invade more often,” he said to no one in particular as he ambled his way home, for boys often do that, having entire conversations with no one, no one at all.  It was good practice for marriage and politics.

Mom got home late, and even after she did arrive, she was immediately on the comm link.  Josh spread peanut butter on another piece of bread and listened to his mom talking—“I can’t understand it.  We just can’t seem to communicate with them.  It’s like we have nothing in common.”  He bit into his sandwich, getting that perfect gooey feeling, chomping and smacking.  No jam.  No problem.  He got out two more slices of bread and started the process over again.  Too late for the Regional Coordinator of the Greater Earth Diplomatic Contingent to fix dinner.  They would be ordering out.  Mom would ask the obligatory “What did you do today?”  Josh would reply, “Oh, nothing much,” and tomorrow they would start all over again.

Michael Wallace is a successful grant writer with his own small business and a doctorate in communications. He is also the son of an electrician-turned-astrophysicist father and a librarian mother, which makes for a rather offbeat upbringing (you can only imagine the kind of dinnertime discussions at his house). "Peanut Butter Diplomacy" represents a first foray into fiction for him, as well as a creative outlet for the left side of his brain (or is it the right?).

Email: Michael Wallace

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