Coffeehouse Chronicles… And Get Off My Lawn!

Three former Explorers made good. Papi Churro is the guy in the middle. Guess which one is Your Hero. Here, we stopped by Papi's parents' after a funeral at Rose Hills

What are you up to today? I’m just curious. Does your day have a routine? Mine does. I’ve been retired for about ten years now, and I don’t know if I had a particular routine while I was in the salt mines, but it certainly does now.

I wake up about seven-ish on most days, unless the HB and I were binging something that we were streaming and we just couldn’t pry ourselves away from the night before — part of my routine, too, I guess. I may talk about that later, because I was kinda just focusing on my morning routine.

But I digress, about seven-ish, I head into the den and start the pot. Turn on the news, let it run for a bit — have you noticed that they spend fifteen minutes briefly running down their stories and the weather, and then they start the SAME. DANG. NEWS. ALL. OVER. AGAIN??

Then I check to see if I got any texts overnight. I usually sleep with my phone in the drawer of my nightstand, and I can’t read it without my glasses on anyway. Usually, it’s just a text from the “Yew-Slash,” the New Guy, or Ryan Anthill. The four of us are always going back and forth poking the bear about something.

Anyway, about that time, the HB comes shuffling around the corner, rubbing her eyes and complaining to me once again about how when I left the room, I keep shutting the door, so as not to let any noise or light into the room, fooling her into thinking that one: I’m still in the bed with her, and two: making her think it’s earlier than she thinks it is.

I giggled, because I want her to sleep in, because she works too dang hard. I think she could use the rest.

It continues as we pour ourselves a cup of java, talk for a few minutes, and then look at the clock to discover that two and a half hours have elapsed!

— — 

That's Your Hero in the middle behind the late Sheriff and Papi Churro on the far right.

But I got sidetracked… Part of my routine continues when, on some days, I’ll call one of my buddies. I have a few that I periodically check in on; some of you may remember the Jarhead, whom I may call. Then there’s JK JK, and E Ham, all three of them are my photography pals. And of course, everyone’s favorite, Cmdr McCroc. 

I have one more pal that I have to call. Papi Churro. He asked, “Don’t you mean Papi Chulo?”

Uh. No. I don’t.

Papi Churro’s origin story started over forty years ago when we were both Sheriff’s Explorers, well, in truth, I was an Explorer, he was a mere Explorer Cadet, and I was his Explorer Drill Instructor, sitting at the desk of Bill Postmus stressing on making sure that when Bill got back to work on Monday, there was very little evidence that some snot-nosed wannabe Staff Instructor had used his workspace. 

Yes, folks, I was integral in Papi Churro’s growth as a human being. If asked, he will have to admit it was because of his former Explorer DI that he does not spend his days fighting for off-ramp space with a cardboard sign and a Magic Marker and his nights sharing a refrigerator box and a cheeseburger with a lab named DEE-OH-GEE. Nevertheless, Papi Churro started out as a soup sandwich when I first laid eyes on him, but over the last forty-some odd years has grown up to be a little less soggy.

The HB has met Papi Churro, and yes, she thinks of him much like a Starbucks brew and brown liquor; he is an acquired taste. The first time the HB made the pilgrimage to Pico Rivera was for the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and celebration of Papi Churro’s parents. This is when she was surprised to learn that I have Mexican roots. 

Upon our arrival, Papi Churro’s sister, “Yolie”, let out an ear-piercing shriek, grabbed my arm, and dragged both the HB and me over to meet her pre-teen son and daughter, “This is the brother that your Uncle George and I wanted to have! We just got stuck with your Uncle Papi. UGH!” 

I’m extremely proud to admit that Papi’s mom refers to me as her “mi hijito negrito”. 

I’m pretty sure that Papi Churro is jealous of my relationship with his (our) family. He still constantly protests that his mom always likes me best... Cue the sappy Smothers Brothers music.

Papi Churro in all of his finery

Papi Churro used to work for a government agency similar to the one I worked for. The agency that Papi worked for was not as big as the other two big companies in the area, but they were no slackers at number three or four in the area. Funny, because now one Papi’s favorite things to do is taunt agency members of the town he now calls home. 

Papi Churro will call me on the phone and tell me that he’s not wearing a seatbelt, or boast that he’s using his phone without the aid of a Bluetooth device. The thing he really enjoys doing is to drive really fast past a highwayman who’s already stopped and engaged with a motorist, stick his outstretched arm out his driver's window, shake his fist, and scream, “YOU CAN’T GET US ALL, COPPER!!”

On the few times when he has been contacted, I feel sorry for the poor young cop who has, because Papi Churro will always ask, “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” 

But of course, they don’t because one: Papi worked in a municipality 400 miles away from his current residence, and while he may have been “Sam One” in California years ago, right now he’s just an old guy speeding in a school zone, past the flashing red lights on a school bus. And two: back when he was doing the same job this officer is doing right now, the officer’s parents were probably in middle school.

Papi Churro is very quickly becoming the man who lives on the corner, watching the perimeter of his lawn from his front porch.

Look. All I can say is, “I tried.”

You know what to do!  Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles