OH, BROTHER

It was almost time for his big speech, and Ed Thompson sat at a table,
plucking ice cubes from a drained water pitcher and popping them into his
mouth. "We don't have too many people here," Thompson said, scanning the
sparsely filled convention hall. "I'd hoped the turnout would be better."

One of Thompson's supporters approached and grabbed his arm. "Here's some
trivia about Ed," he announced. "Did you know he has the same birthday as
Isaac Newton and Jesus?"

"I didn't know about Isaac Newton," Thompson said thoughtfully. "I knew
about Jesus."

The election-year convention of Wisconsin's Libertarian Party had just
gotten under way. Its main purpose was to promote Thompson's campaign for
governor. About 50 party loyalists milled around the banquet room, eating
catered lasagna and swigging pop. A rack of "Ed Thompson for Governor"
T-shirts sat unmolested by the door.

At first glance, this could have been a scene from any of the hundreds of
oddball political campaigns that are generally treated as the freak shows
of American politics -- when they're noticed at all. But this one would not
go unnoticed. Three camera crews lined up to hear Ed speak. The president
of the national Libertarian Party was there from Washington, bearing a
$1,000 check. So was New Mexico's Republican governor, Gary Johnson,
although he couldn't actually endorse Ed and had to leave before the
speech. Despite Ed's abject lack of credentials, financing or organization,
polls showed that a third of the state's voters already knew who he was,
and roughly 7 percent were inclined to vote for him.

The reason for all this attention, Ed admitted, had less to do with him
than with the fact that his big brother is Tommy Thompson, President Bush's
health and human services secretary and a giant of the G.O.P. Tommy served
for 14 years as Wisconsin's governor and probably could have had the job
for life; he may be the most popular politician in the state's history. Ed,
by contrast, is a former small-town mayor and local folk hero whose resume
includes stints as a bar owner, poker hustler and boxer.

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Tommy's name, that's the thing," Ed
explained. He looks owlish like his brother, though a bit more dusted up
from a life of bar fights and hard labor. "Of course, there are a lot of
differences between Tommy and me. As brothers, we're close, but on
politics, we're totally different. Tommy's the epitome of the career
politician." I asked him what made him so different from the man he
sometimes refers to as "my illustrious brother." He shrugged. "Tommy went
to law school and passed the bar, and I went off to town and bought a bar."
He paused and shook his head. "And to their dying day, our poor parents
wondered where Tommy went wrong." He laughed loudly, rose from the table
and slapped my shoulder. "First time I used that one!" It clearly wasn't,
but Ed is like a human card trick: he's so much fun that you don't mind
being taken in.

Ed didn't say much about Tommy by name in a convention speech that made the
case for his signature issues: marijuana legalization, school vouchers,
less state spending. But it was hard not to miss the theme. "I'm as common
as dirt," the 57-year-old candidate told the faithful dozens. On the other
hand, the "career politicians" in Madison, he said, were wasting taxpayers'
money to maintain 8,000 buildings, millions of acres of public land and a
fleet of 30 airplanes. "I don't know what they're going to do with all
those airplanes," Ed mused, almost to himself. "Maybe invade Illinois."

Although political insiders in Madison doubt that Ed can win the State
House, he could easily decide the outcome of a close election, most likely
by peeling off a critical layer of Republican voters. But what makes this
election more intriguing is the awkward situation that Ed has created for
his big brother. It is well known in Republican circles that Tommy isn't
especially enamored of the incumbent, Scott McCallum, who served as his
lieutenant governor. But the White House will expect Tommy to help keep the
state Republican -- which means that he will not only aid McCallum, but
he'll also have to campaign against his own brother at the same time.

Even without all that, Ed said he wouldn't expect Tommy to embrace his
candidacy. "I love him very, very much, but I don't want to die this young
of a heart attack," Ed said. "And that's what would happen if he came out
and supported me. I'd have a heart attack." He said this with a comic's
timing, but there was an edge to his voice. "It would be the first time
he's done that in his life. I don't know why he'd start now."

Inevitably, Ed Thompson's quixotic campaign has prompted comparisons to
Roger Clinton and Billy Carter, who also had famous governors for big
brothers and whose notoriety grew to national proportions. But Ed is not
looking to get rich hawking pardons or beer. Although his campaign will
strike some as silly, it is in fact rooted in a very real political
phenomenon: the growing alienation among working-class Americans toward two
stale political parties. And there's something poignant in Ed's quest --
something that can be appreciated by all the little brothers who ever
struggled in the shadow of the perfect sibling. His message, after all, is
aimed at the powerful establishment his "illustrious" brother has always
embodied. In an era when candidates labor to separate politics from their
personal struggles, Ed Thompson is binding them together and running for
redemption.

Whe had an hour to kill before Ed spoke at the candidates' forum sponsored
by the Ho-Chunk Nation at its casino in Baraboo, about an hour from
Madison. So Ed found us some open seats at a blackjack table with a $5
minimum bet. He tossed a crisp $100 bill at the dealer, next to my rumpled
Andrew Jackson, and began coaching me expertly. "Good time to double down,"
he advised, and when the dealer went bust he whooped with joy. After 40
minutes, he cashed out with an extra $100, which he used to buy his
entourage a steak dinner at a roadside joint on the way home.

"You have to play against the dealer's cards," Ed counseled as we headed
upstairs for his appearance. "It doesn't matter what cards you're dealt --
it's all about the dealer."

Sort of like life, I suggested.

"Oh, yeah!" he cried. "Life is cards, and God's the dealer."

Ed's cards were dealt in Elroy, Wis., the little town that Tommy made the
cornerstone of his political lore. Tommy was the second child of four, and
Ed was born three years after him. Both their mother and father taught in
the two-room schoolhouse nearby. But the family business was the grocery
store and gas station where the kids went to work as soon as they were
able. Tommy was the stellar employee, shining eggs and stacking shelves, as
he has so often reminded Wisconsin voters.

"We had to go to church all the time, pray the rosary," said Juliann
Martin, the oldest sibling. "Eddie and I would always be busting up, but
Tommy was very serious about it. And if our mother forgot to say the
rosary, Tommy would be right there to remind her." She laughed. "We just
wanted to kill him." Hoping to impress his father, whom he adored, Ed went
to work at the store in third grade. But he was too young to keep up, and
his father would holler at him: "Get out of the way! Move that box!" Ed
soon detested the store Tommy recalls so fondly.

"I remember sitting in the back and thinking, God, please let this place
burn down. But I never had the guts to tell him how much I hated it, so I
just kept on trying. I thought I was inadequate." Funny and athletic, Ed
was popular and managed to place eighth in the seventh-grade state spelling
bee (he whiffed on "sesquipedalian"), but Tommy was the favorite son. "It
seemed like my dad had all his hopes in Tommy. He was the one who was going
to go to law school." Ed loved and admired Tommy, he said, but he wished he
could say to his father, "Hey, I'm here, too!"

Instead, Ed found another way to impress his dad, who had been an amateur
boxer. He fought -- with just about any kid who'd take him on. Eventually,
he boxed for real in the local Golden Gloves, and Tommy announced the
fights. By then, however, Tommy had other pursuits on his mind. He went to
the university in Madison, graduated from law school and immediately
entered state politics. Ed spent a semester at the university and then went
on to the Navy, where he was discharged after suffering migraines. From
there, his life became an adventure in thankless jobs and doomed business
ventures.

Driving through flat Wisconsin cornfields, I asked Ed if he could list all
of his former occupations. "You'd better have two pens," he said. He went
on to describe baling hay, unloading turkeys for slaughter and cleaning
blood from the gutters, shoveling highway blacktop, assembling truck beds
in an auto plant (where a steel plate sliced his forearm), braking railroad
cars, butchering meat, fighting fires, guarding cell blocks, selling farms
and securities, cooking at a prison and running his own bars -- all while
trying to help rear four children from a marriage that ended badly in 1984.
A stint on the championship poker circuit in Vegas during the early 90's
ended when he won and lost $15,000 in the same game and used what was left
to buy a bus ticket home.

"Who could be better educated for the average Joe than me?" Ed said. "I've
done all their jobs."

Ed's path twisted aimlessly, while Tommy barreled straight ahead. Tommy was
elected governor in 1986 and spent 14 years in the mansion, pioneering
welfare reform and ushering in a new era of Republican governors. He and Ed
saw each other only a few times a year. "He'd say, 'Jesus, when you gonna
come see me in Madison?"' Ed recalled, sliding into his good-natured,
deep-voiced imitation of Tommy. "I'd think: Oh, yeah. When was the last
time you invited me? I know Tommy loves me. But Tommy is just so focused.
Being governor was everything. I don't think he even thought of me."

Until Ed made the occasional headline, that is. "Then I'd get the call," Ed
said, becoming Tommy again. "Jesus, now what'd you do?"' Like the time a
few years ago when Ed's pal Daisy got drunk and stabbed him in the rib. (Ed
refused to rat on him, pleading guilty to a misdemeanor charge of
obstructing justice instead.) Or the time Ed broke a leg parachuting --
then bolted the hospital, tripped and broke the other one.

I asked Ed how many times he'd sat in the governor's box at Packers games,
since tickets are all but impossible to score. "He took everyone he ever
met in Wisconsin except me," Ed said testily. He stared out the window of
his campaign van and mulled over this rejection for a moment. Then he
added, more softly, "You know, if I'd have asked for a ticket, I'm sure he
would have given me one. I never would."

The regulars show up by 9 a.m. at Mr. Ed's Tee-Pee Supper Club in Tomah, a
truck-stop town between Minneapolis and Madison. These days, Ed isn't just
the owner of the Tee-Pee, a solid steakhouse with a tin Indian mounted out
front. He's a local icon and caretaker. Each year, he serves up free
Thanksgiving dinners for more than 1,000 area residents. He drives home
drunks and takes in stragglers; his staff at the Tee-Pee includes an ex-con
and a guy who was homeless and now sleeps upstairs. He has starred in three
community theater productions: "Last of the Red Hot Lovers," "Plaza Suite"
and "Barefoot in the Park." Even Tommy, then the governor, came to see the
shows.

It was the Tee-Pee that finally caused Ed's life to come crashing down --
and then to reconstitute itself in ways he never imagined. It all began in
1992, when he sold the bar to a guy who promptly went bust and couldn't
make his monthly payments to Ed. Out of work for more than a year and
unable to get the Tee-Pee back, Ed was so broke, he likes to say, that he
wrestled his dog for the last bone. He even called Tommy for help, which
"was one of the hardest things I ever had to do." Tommy provided him
contacts at the state lottery and at Miller Brewing, but Ed never got any
calls back. Ed, who was drinking heavily, seriously contemplated "checking
out" of life altogether, but instead he dried out and found spirituality in
"A Course in Miracles," a book he picked up at a New Age bookstore. Finally
regaining control of the Tee-Pee, he did everything from flip burgers to
clean floors, living upstairs to save money and managing to rebuild the
business. Life was looking up.

Then, on a cold night in 1997, cops burst into the Tee-Pee and emptied out
the tills. It turned out that a local prosecutor with too much time on his
hands had decided to raid every bar with an illegal video-poker machine.
Thirty-nine bar owners pleaded guilty to minor charges. Ed's lawyer and
Tommy urged him to take the same deal. But obstinate Ed was the only bar
owner who wouldn't surrender. In a scene that is now Wisconsin legend, the
prosecutor took the case to trial but found that Ed was so well loved in
the community that prospective jurors refused to serve. The state dropped
its case.

Just as "A Course in Miracles" had driven Ed toward God, the video-poker
rebellion propelled him toward another passion: politics. Despite Tommy, or
maybe because of him, Ed had avoided discussing politics, even in his bar.
But now Ed joined the Libertarians -- the party leaders who approached him
saw the value in a local celebrity who had fought the government -- and led
a successful campaign to unseat his nemesis, the prosecutor. In 2000, while
Tommy was traversing the state on behalf of his friend George W. Bush, Ed
announced that he was running for mayor of Tomah. "Tommy guaranteed me I'd
lose," Ed said. "All my life, he's been guaranteeing me I'd lose, but I
never listen." This time, Ed won.

As mayor, Ed slashed the town's debt and abolished arcane committees. It
didn't take long for Ed's political backers to begin urging him to run for
governor. Ed wouldn't have much money for a campaign, but he'd have an
equally valuable asset: instant name recognition. He made a pilgrimage to
see Jesse Ventura, Minnesota's independent governor. When the papers ran a
front-page photo of the two men arm in arm, Ed called Tommy, hoping for
encouragement. "It was cold, man," he said, laughing. "I said, 'Tommy, what
do you think about them trying to get me to run for governor?' I just
waited a full minute. It felt like a year. Finally, he said, 'How are the
kids?"' When Ed resolved to run, Tommy managed to offer some brotherly
advice: buy some nice suits and lose some weight. Ed dropped 40 pounds.

Now Ed is using his brother's much beloved name to run against his
brother's record. He isn't above exploiting Tommy's position for publicity
either; a few weeks ago, he crashed Tommy's speech at the National Press
Club in Washington and demanded a meeting to discuss drug policy. (He also
admitted to The Washington Post that he had tried marijuana -- adding that
"when I did, I inhaled.") He also enjoys tweaking his brother as a big
spender. "Government grew under Tommy," Ed told me. "Government won't grow
under me." I asked if this means he would be a better governor than Tommy.
"Oh, yeah, there's no doubt about that," Ed said.

Tommy Thompson chuckled when he heard this. "I think I was one of the best
governors," he said, as if Ed were just some rival broadcasting an attack
ad. "I don't think that's possible. Anybody can say that, but it's a tough
job being governor. I'm sure he'd do a fine job if he was elected."

He spoke to me on his cellphone during a swing through his home state. He
tried hard to be gracious. For Tommy, answering questions about Ed is like
marching in the Memorial Day parade or cutting a ribbon; it comes with the
job, but there are things he'd rather be doing.

"I love him dearly," Tommy said. "I thought he should go for some other
elective position first. I've encouraged him to run for the State Assembly.
I've encouraged him to run for the State Senate. But he just doesn't want
to do that." Any difference he has with his brother, Tommy said, is
strictly political. "I love my brother, but I'm a Republican." Does that
mean he'd support Ed if he were a Republican? "He's not, so I don't have to
make that decision."

Tommy's main fear, he said, is that Ed might get hurt. Ed dismissed this
concern as ridiculous. "How'm I gonna get hurt?" he asked with an amused
grin. "If I get beat, I get beat. Been broke, been threatened with jail,
been stabbed, broke both legs, you know? What more can happen? I never got
away with a thing in my life. Nobody likes to be called a buffoon. But,
hey, I'm gonna give this my best shot. If I lose, I go on."

If you were going to pick a state in which to foment revolt against the two
main parties this November, Wisconsin wouldn't be a bad choice. The
incumbent governor is faltering in polls. The unremarkable Democratic
candidates are pounding one another in a primary. The state has a cavernous
$1.1 billion budget deficit, and a burgeoning political scandal in Madison
may bring indictments. And Wisconsin loves a maverick. Ed is building a
following in places like the Sports Page in Elkhorn, a struggling tavern
with a men's room painted Packers green. "I never liked a politician, but
he's different," I overheard a burly patron say as Ed trounced me in a game
of pool there.

Indeed, Ed isn't afraid to take a stand in front of a hostile audience.
Speaking before public school teachers in Wausau, Ed said he was for school
vouchers -- and against raises linked to good performance. "When they did
that at the prison I worked at in Oxford, it didn't work," he explained,
drawing snickers from a few teachers. "They had an employee of the month,
and everybody hated the guy and let the air out of his tires and I don't
know what else."

All that said, Ed Thompson isn't likely to become another Jesse Ventura. A
former pro wrestler and movie actor, Ventura may have been new to politics,
but he swept into the arena with a rare kind of polish and charisma. By
contrast, Ed pretty much froze during his first live national TV
appearance, with Greta Van Susteren. "They put you in this little tiny room
with this big camera in front of you, and you're just sitting there like a
big goof," he explained afterward. And at his first forum with the other
candidates, a nervous Ed stuck so rigidly to his note cards that he
answered question No. 1 with the response to question No. 3. His
22-year-old son, Joshua, held up a quickly scribbled sign: "Wrong answer."

Ed has had other frustrations. He was counting on help from the state's
Tavern League, which he has helped lead for years. But his fellow bar
owners abandoned him, explaining that they doubt he can win. Ed has raised
about $190,000 and spent most of it already; by contrast, his brother and
President Bush, during a swing through Wisconsin, helped McCallum raise
almost $1 million in a single night. There are days when all the hours on
the road hardly seem worth it to Ed. In Racine, he arrived at the
long-scheduled meeting of the Kiwanis Club, but the audience consisted of
10 senior citizens in a church basement. None of them knew who he was.

Afterward, Ed looked out the van window pensively. "If Tommy says, 'I told
you so,"' he said finally, "I'm gonna throw him out the door."

On another night, he arrived at a $35-a-plate fund-raiser at a steakhouse
in Elkhorn expecting 100 people. There were 17, counting the waiters.
"Where is everyone?" he asked. As the guests devoured roast turkey and
mashed potatoes, Ed talked about the corruption in Madison, about the need
to throw out career politicians, about all the attention his campaign was
getting. Suddenly, a man who had been drinking called out from the back of
the banquet room, "Isn't that because of your brother?"

Surprised, Ed nodded. Of course it had to do with Tommy, but. . .