By Mark Putzi
It’s the kind of enduring memory that makes me happy when remembering my brother, whose addiction led to his demise. And then it splits my chest and renders out my heart…
I endured a long line behind beer drinkers, my brother stationed outside, waiting himself. Afforded camel status, he was yet tethered to the giant Men’s room by me. I was a coffee drinker. I finished and met him in the communal passageway outside that field where so much NFL history had ground itself dead away, and yet resonated, garnering 13 championships in 100 seasons. He said, “I’d like to point something out to you.” He pointed to a poster affixed to the block wall separating the halftime pissers from the crowd at concessions. Framed in the center of the poster was a photo of a UPS truck. Above it in white block letters, the following slogan appeared: What Can Brown Do For You?
Mike said, “Well Mark, did your little trip in there have anything to do with brown? And if so, what did it do for you?”
I nearly teared up laughing, wondering what copywriter sought to give UPS exclusive color rights. Did they not realize brown had already been universally assigned via bilirubin? And even the simplest Cheesehead could associate by Aristotelean logic:
UPS is brown
X is brown.
Therefore, UPS is X…
A minute into the third quarter, we reached our seats. Brett Favre had already completed a short pass for a first down. This was a time of greatness for the Green and Gold, a 13 and 4 season, and none of us expected its truncation at the hands of the Giants and a dominant defensive line. My realization as Franks scored on a post: the placement of that poster wasn’t random. A staff member agent provocateur had planted that vertical landmine, begrudging a great American brand, known for reliability, regularity, predictability, even routine: an irreparable mutation posted strategically, inducing apoptosis, as if the brake lines on that familiar brown panel truck had been severed and pumped dry. As Crosby kicked the extra point, I poked my brother in the ribs, shouted my epiphany over the crowd at his unhearing attention to the goal post. Did the coffee induce a Kwik Trip stop halfway back to Milwaukee on an I-43 off ramp, there to encounter another sort of line, and yet a line of scrimmage, heterosexual this time, with grimacing dancers, nodding, smiling crookedly to Willie Nelson, all in green sweaters, uniting kidneys, intestines, concessions and a devotion to our team? Or did grief itself become a diuretic for Packer fans? Did they not after all, at 13/100, ultimately fail 87% of the time?
In a year Mike would tell me he was 40K ahead and anticipating life as a handicapper. “I’ve got a system,” he explained predictably, “I’ve finally figured it out.” However, attrition eroded his confidence. Attribution, stung by repeated trials. By Super Bowl Sunday he’d squandered half his winnings on a guess. “I’m taking the Under.”
“But who’s winning?”
“Baltimore.”
“Then why not Baltimore straight up?”
“I’m not sure they’ll cover.”
Inevitably basketball and baseball seasons followed, fostering desperation, turmoil. A year later I poked through his favorite songs, trying to pick out a playlist for the visitation. There was no “Had we known” here. We knew, just couldn’t stop him. And he wasn’t Michael Jordan, couldn’t simply drop 100K on a missed putt, then replace it thirty minutes later by wearing Nike AJ’s, dropping in a free throw. I pulled open a dresser drawer and found there a jar full of silver coins, my brother’s last. Twenty minutes later, I found the perfect CD in a shoebox: Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words. You didn’t live up to them, just lived on after them … Plath, Berryman … that was Mike in his way, my brother. And what you settled for, like the others, he could not. He could not settle. He could not eat his breakfast with regret.
Mark Putzi received an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Wisconsin — Milwaukee in 1990. His work can be found in Griffel, Rougarou, Litro-NY, The Autoethnographer, The Closed Eye Opened and many others. He lives in Milwaukee.
losing our grip on purpose 