This past weekend, the last of Summerfest, I was given a mission. My editor at Milwaukee Magazine presented me with an idea she called “Archer-coded.”
“What does that mean?” I said.
“Weird and a little off-putting,” she said.
Summerfest, it turned out, was hosting something other than its usual lineup of musicians: Bean Swag.
A Bush’s Beans booth was shelling out free bean bucket hats to a shockingly long line of revelers. There was even, at one point, a dog mascot on site, whose cuteness elicited great uproar. The phenomenon had been documented on social media, and now my editor wanted me to check it out.
It’s time to pick your Milwaukee favorites for the year!
“You like beans,” she said.
“I don’t like beans,” I said.
“You’ve said you like beans in the past.”
“I have no memory of that.”
“You are a bean man. I know this for a fact.”
“I don’t see how you could possibly know that for a fact. I have no affinity for beans, and certainly would never express an affinity I do not have.”
“OK, well, great. Can you go check out the Bean Swag anyway? Apparently, it’s a big hit. The bucket hats are flying off the shelves, Archer. People love Bean Swag. What’s that about? I want you to figure it out. Write an observational piece. Something interesting and insightful about the Bean Swag experience.”
“You want me to write something interesting and insightful … about the Bean Swag tent?”
“Yes, Archer, I do. That is what I want. And for once I would appreciate it if you would simply take an assignment without an attitude.”
“Poopy-pants says ‘what,’” I whispered.
“You’re almost 30 years old,” she said.
“OK, that’s not funny.”
And that was that conversation.
Fast-forward to Friday after the Fourth, the last weekend of Summerfest. I walked along the water toward the distant mecca of Henry Maier Festival Park in search of Bean Swag.
As I entered the park, the sunshine was already roasting my skin—normally the shade of a freshly cleaned toilet bowl—and sweat was soaking through my khaki shorts. This was not ideal, but at least my reddening skin and alarming perspiration kept the various pitchmen hawking goods along the fairgrounds from speaking to me.
Now to find the magical fruit. At the main gate, I made a 50/50 decision to turn right instead of left. This turned out to be foolishness. I could not find the beans I had been promised. What I did find was a woman singing “Baby Shark” in the child’s area.
Baby shark. Doo doo doo doo doo doo.
Baby shark. Doo doo doo doo doo doo.
Baby shark. Doo doo doo doo doo doo.
The brutal refrain mocked me as I power-walked like an 80-year-old at the mall, trying to find some glimpse of beans. After a full lap of the park, I spotted the distant, yellow glow of Bush’s Beans branding. My editor was right about the popularity of the Bean Swag tent. The line was shockingly long, especially for this early in the day, and it was moving at a glacial pace.
(As I write this, having referenced Bush’s Beans about eighty-three times already, I realize a savvy reader might suspect this is sponsored content of some sort for the bean behemoth. I would like to banish any rumor of that right now – I am not in the pocket of Big Bean!)
When I got in line, I learned that they were not simply giving away hats. There was a wheel one was expected to spin – depending what it landed on, you were given a different item: koozie, T-shirt, etc. A group, given multiple spins, could really clean up. Within seconds of my joining the line, it had already grown by four people behind me. Children were demanding Bean Swag.
There is an allure to the free. Of that I have no doubt. The sentiment was reflected around me. I heard couples debating whether to join the legume line. “I don’t really want bean merch.” “It’s free.” “Oh … yeah, OK then.” I’ve heard many times that Wisconsin is a frugal state (well, “cheap” is actually the word people use), quick to take advantage of the slightest deal. I wonder if Bean Swag would get this much attention elsewhere?
There is also an allure to kitsch. We are the state that birthed Liberace, after all. Sometimes a vibrant lack of taste is the most delicious thing of all – unlike beans, which are often terrible. To procure Bean Swag would mean to procure a unique piece of kitsch so silly that it could bring delight to even the surliest of grouches. This is something I very much could appreciate.
But there was more to the Bean Swag than simply its lack of cost and kitschiness. Even as I stood there in the heat, sweating and burning as that interminable line inched painfully forward, I began to share the desire for Bean Swag with my fellow line-dwellers. I was no longer simply a reporter on the scene – I was a participant in this madness. Not because I had a strong desire to wear a bean bucket hat around town (my fez suits me just fine, thank you very much) but because there was a strange sense of bonding amongst this large group of swag-searchers, all of us in it together.
This was a communal activity, a group quest for Bean Swag not unlike waiting in line for a concert, world premier or product release, and many a Milwaukeean wanted to be a part of it. We would leave this place with the trophies of our time spent in line dedicated to the beans.
Soon I saw why the line was taking so long. Before reaching the wheel, it seemed as though each person was forced to stop at an earlier checkpoint and interact with someone – I imagined the Bush’s Battalion was taking their email or some such. Could I trust these bean peddlers with my information? Likely not. I would use a fake name, a fake email. Call me Frankie Madoola, beefyfrank@hotmail.gov.
I continued to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And then something happened. Something I must admit if I am to report this story accurately. While I stood there waiting to reach that spinning wheel, as I’d been assigned by my editor, I was struck by an embarrassment so acute and so powerful that it almost manifested as spontaneous and violent screaming. (Thankfully, I held it together.)
I saw myself clearly. I was a strange man, sweaty and pale, alone in line for free Bean Swag. I was almost 30 years old. How had my life come to this? Was I really going to walk up to these bean people and spin the wheel like a child and leave with a bucket hat emblazoned with a photo of Bush’s Beans? I had no right to stand here with these families, these happy couples, these revelers enjoying Bean Swag for all the fun it brings, for its freeness, its kitsch and its weird community. No, I was a fraud and a weirdo and a loser. They would all point at me and laugh as I walked away clutching a koozie. Bean Swag could not heal my broken soul.
I tried to hold out in that line. I didn’t want to report my failures back to my editor. But alas, sick of the line and embarrassed by my own sweatiness and sadness and certain that everyone would mock me when I spun the wheel, I ran from the beans.
“I have failed you,” I texted my editor. “I am beanless. I am swagless.”
Once again, I had been thwarted by my proclivity toward intense embarrassment and withdrawal. I left the Summerfest grounds with my head hung low.
But now, as I sit at my desk typing this story, I see that it was not all a failure. I looked into the eyes of the bean people. I saw the Bean Swag given to the masses. I heard their joy over its lack of a price tag. I understood the appeal of its kitschy humor. I was briefly, undeservedly, a part of its strange community. I had felt the beans within me. I knew their purpose. I understood their meaning. The beans were a good deal; the beans were a fun souvenir; the beans were laughter in the form of branded nonsense; the beans didn’t take life too seriously; the beans didn’t judge; the beans were victory over inertia; the beans were chance and the spin of a wheel; the beans were a diversion on a sunny day; the beans were a memory of Summerfest taken home with many a child; the beans would never let a sentence run on too long at the end of an already unnecessarily lengthy and stupid story; the beans were a reward after an ordeal; the beans required only that you stand in line and face them forthrightly and also possibly that you give them your email; the beans were, in many ways, life, and while I had failed to procure them, to offer the necessary sacrifice, to receive the great reward, I was smarter now, enlightened, and when the beans returned, I would be there to take their swag.
