The Liquid Kosmos

A Badger State

People ask me all the time, “What was it like growing up in Wisconsin?” Well, they don’t really ask me that all the time, but I sorta wish they did. Last night I watched the Tennessee/UCLA game and it reminded me of an infamous day in my childhood.

Back in the day, a friend of mine’s dad somehow knew the back up quarterback for UCLA. We actually got to meet him and he was a cool guy, but I can’t remember his name. Anyway, we met him in the summer and that Fall UCLA was actually playing against Wisconsin in Madison, so we asked him to get us 8 tickets. He’s like, no problem and we started counting the days.

My friend’s dad called a couple weeks before the game and told our UCLA quarterback friend to send the tickets to MY house. This is and was confusing to me because I barely knew the guy and on and on and on, but I proudly offered the mailbox for UCLA tickets. It was LA man… and valuable mail coming straight to my house!

I waited patiently for a week or so, then a little more anxiously as they never showed up. When should we start bugging him with phone calls? Always a tough decision and one that applies with women to this day.

The game was on a Saturday and it was now Wednesday. The second call was made and Mr. Quarterback assured us that it was taken care of. Cool… Thursday came and went. Friday had to be the day, right? Nope. So now, we’re in a pickle. Luckily my parent’s mail came in the morning and it offered hope. The decision was made. Early morning party at my house.

This is where things get interesting. There were eight of us set to go and that meant we’d need a lot of beer. One problem was solved when my buddy John showed up in his bright orange Plymouth Duster. He had ingeniously rigged his trunk to house a cooling unit for a ¼ barrel. The tube for the beer keg would then slide up through the speaker holes in the back window. What a priceless operation that was.

It was a beautiful Fall day in Wisconsin. We started throwing around the football and drinking beers around 9 am. The game was at 1:00 and we lived about an hour from Madison. The mail usually came around 10:30.

The debate raged on about whether or not this hot shot quarterback had stiffed us, but for the most part we were blindly optimistic. We met that guy and he loved us, too. It was a done deal.

Now, this was before FedEx was popular and things generally moved pretty slow, so in context there were many times when the mail actually did show up on the last day.

We knew our mailman. His name was Howie. If we would have had his phone number, we would have called him in advance. In fact, I think someone suggested we call him at home the night before, but cooler heads prevailed.

Just when we started to catch a little buzz, someone noticed Howie plodding his way up the street. Our world stopped. I remember looking at his mailbag and thinking, he is carrying gold in there. Then, just as quickly I would think, his bag looks a little lighter than usual. I think we’re screwed. Then, but tickets don’t take up that much room… plus, it’s a Saturday, mail must be slower, right? I couldn’t remember ever noticing Howie’s satchel before. But today it was more interesting than the hot new girl that moved in down the street.

The bag was weathered. Not as impressive when you looked closely, but for a brief moment I wanted to make love to that man purse.

“Hey Howie!,” we all shouted as he walked over from the neighbor’s yard… He was the kinda guy that seemed to beg for attention. He sold Amway and I think he actually started licking his chops at the site of potential fish in his sea of distributors. I can’t be sure, but I think he may have laid a brief pitch on us. “How would you boys like to make a couple extra bucks a week?”

We didn’t hear a word. We were laser focused on his right hand. All looking for that shiny gold UCLA envelop holding our destiny. We all stood back and watched our savior glide toward our mailbox (we knew tampering with mail was a federal offense and let the scene play out legally), then watched as he pulled one envelope from his pouch, drop it in the mail box, then walk away.

I scrambled to the box and flipped it up in a manner my mother would not have been proud of. As I reached inside, there it was. The last thing on earth I cared about. The phone bill.

We were stunned. Shocked. Mortified. Our fail was cemented by Howie.

“Howie,” I shouted. “Are you sure this is it??” Can you double check?

“Sure.”

For a split moment our hopes rose from the dead. I KNEW those tickets slipped into a side pocket.

“Well,” said Howie, “This is all I can find.”

(Ear to ear grins on the boys).

“But, I didn’t think you’d want it.”

He handed me a marketing flyer from K-Mart addressed to current resident.

We were officially screwed.

What happened after that, I’m not really sure, but I know how it ended.

Eight guys sprawled about in the park listening to Pink Floyd and taking tapper hits from the orange Duster.

I guess that’s one example of what it’s like to grow up in Wisconsin.

posted by The Oscillator @ 12:03 PM