Coffeehouse Chronicles …and Remembering Ed, Again

The Two Amigos, circa 1985 just before graduation

Happy Friday, Chroniclers! I have another real-life Gomer Pyle story for the Spaniards. I have a bunch of good ones about my pal, Eddie.

This story takes place after we were probably about two-thirds of the way through the Sheriff’s Academy. I’m not sure of how long we were into it, but based on the following events, I’m gonna guess that we must’ve been getting pretty comfortable with the routine. During the first several weeks, we would have to spend the whole weekend studying, writing, shining, and buffing. The grind of not knowing what to expect in the next minute had a way of keeping us off balance. Looking back, kinda like going to work every day in a black-and-white fishbowl. No day was ever the same.

On this particular Saturday, right around 3:30 or so, Eddie & I looked up at one another and realized that we were ahead of the game for the first time in weeks. Our notebooks were complete, our shoes were so shiny we could see our smiles in the spit-shined toes, and we felt we knew our spelling words and radio codes backward and forward. 

What to do? Again, in the preceding weeks, we had literally spent every waking moment since the start of the academy doing something, studying something, or shining something related to preparing us to begin our careers in police work. As I looked at Ed, I was at a loss. It just felt wrong, as if something was out of place.

Wait…we must’ve missed something. I double-checked, then triple-checked all my work and all my gear, and nope. It all looked good. It had a very unusual feel. Eddie shrugged, turned on his heel, walked into the kitchen, and returned with two cans of Pepsi, handing one to me. 

Side note: Yes, this is where my addiction to Pepsi began. Eddie was my dealer. Just remember this, “The first one is free.”

Eddie and I spent the rest of the day sunning ourselves on the pool deck, drinking Pepsi, snacking on handfuls of Nacho Chees Doritos, resting, and wondering out loud if all of our other classmates were on top of their game like we were. In fact, we felt confident we would probably spend Sunday in much the same position, stretched out on lounge chairs next to Eddie’s parents' swimming pool.

Dinnertime came, and we ate leisurely instead of the usual wolfing it down as though we were inmates in a chow hall with a 6-minute time limit. Meanwhile, I still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that we had to be missing something. True to form, Eddie was as cool as a cucumber. He didn't have a care in the world.

At 8, Eddie decided he was going out.

“Out? What do you mean by ‘out’?” I asked him.

“It’s Saturday. Let’s go hit Don Jose!” Don Jose was a local restaurant/bar/club with a postage-stamp-sized dance floor. Eddie was itching to polish up the dance moves that he hadn’t used in weeks. The very same moves that hurt my eyes to watch as he performed them. 

“Um, no. I really think that is a bad idea,” I told him.

“Well, I’m going,” he insisted as he rifled through his closet, looking for his favorite pair of Sergio Valente jeans and a brown plaid western-style, snap-button shirt. 

“Really?” 

“Yup,” he said, lacing up his brand-new, brown suede hiking shoes that were more sneaker than boot. “See ya,” and he was gone.

About an hour later, the phone rang and woke me as I was dozing in a La-Z-Boy, the pulsating blue glow of the TV illuminating the room and keeping me company. 

“Hullo," I answered sleepily.

Eddie sounded excited, “You’ll never guess who’s here!”

“What? Where?” I asked him blearily, still not grasping where I was and what he was trying to tell me. “What are you talking about? Where are you?” 

“I’m at Don Jose! Guess who is here!” Eddie could barely contain himself.

“I give up, Ed. Who’s there?” I said, with a whole lot less enthusiasm than Eddie expected. I wasn't really in the mood to play 20 Questions.

“Deputy Kinsey! Deputy Kinsey is here too!”

HOLY CRAP! At this point, I was wide awake, and the mere mention of the name of one of our Drill Instructors, specifically Eddie’s DI, caused me to involuntarily spring out of that comfortable Barcalounger I had just moments before been asleep in and snap to the position of attention next to it! “SWEET HELEN OF TROY, ED! You’re outta there and coming home, right?”

“Naw, I’m gonna go over and buy him a drink!”

“YOU'RE GONNA DO WHAT?!?!” I’m sure that I sounded exactly like Goose did when Maverick told him that he was gonna hit the brakes with confidence that their target was gonna fly past them. “ARE YOU OUTTA YOUR MIND?? YOU’D BETTER — !!!  …Ed? …Ed?” It was useless; Eddie had already hung up. I was talking to a dial tone.

— — — 

I waited up for Eddie to get back. I was dying to know if I need to go to the Medical Examiner’s office and claim my best friend. Ed strolled in nonchalantly around eleven. “Dude. Are you crazy? Why didn’t you leave?”

“He was cool.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I bought him a drink and had the bartender give it to him, he sipped it, and I moved onto the stool next to his.”

“You’re an idiot. What did Kinsey say?”

“He asked me if I had something to study at home. I told him that we’d finished.”

Oh great. ‘WE’ Now Kinsey believes I’m in on this. “Thanks,” I muttered.

“We’re all good,” Eddie said. “A couple of girls came in, and we danced with them. He danced with one while I danced with the other.” Eddie seemed very pleased with himself.

“Did he yell at you?”

“Nope. We danced for a while, then he left.”

“Wait…you left after Kinsey did?”

“Yep, I was trying to get that girl’s telephone number.’ He held up a Don Jose monogrammed napkin victoriously, waving it in front of my face as evidence of his success.

All I could do was lower my head slowly into my hands, shaking it back and forth slowly. “Ed…Ed…Ed…”

“What?”

“Nothing,” and I went to bed.

— — — 

Sunday came and went, with me checking and re-checking all my gear, my notes, and stuff, unsuccessfully locating any of my shortcomings. 

— — — 

Monday morning, zero six-thirty hours, our class was where it was supposed to be; shivering on the grinder, because we didn't wear jackets, even though it was only 57°, standing in platoon formation, south of the solid white line, facing north. The platoon sergeants were taking care of the morning report, and the normal murmur could be heard amongst us, until the class spotter noticed our staff lining up for morning inspection.

The class instinctively silenced itself, snapped to parade rest, and awaited commands from the class sergeant. As we heard Sgt Willie Henderson call the staff to attention, the class sergeant sounded off, “CLASS. AHHH-TEN — “

Suddenly, he was interrupted, and we heard our class Ram Rod (the Lead Staff Instructor) yell, “CLASS SERGEANT!”

Immediately, per protocol, the entire class repeated the request in unison to ensure the class sergeant heard it and knew he was being beckoned: “CLASS SERGEANT!” 

The class sergeant was already on a dead run toward the staff, which was marching in our direction onto the grinder. “SIR, YES SIR!” he responded.

“YOU’RE FIRED!”

“SIR, YES SIR!” The class sergeant grinned as he turned and ran back to join his platoon, hoping he was going to blend in as an anonymous, faceless everyday cadet again. Because no one wants to be the class sergeant. No one in their right mind, anyway. There are too many eyes on you. Too much responsibility. Too many opportunities to make a mistake, which, after one misstep, would unfortunately avalanche into a cacophony of mistakes. And all under the constant scrutiny of our staff. 

“LEVY!” I could recognize our Lead Staff Instructor's voice anywehere.

“LEVY!” Again, the class echoed in unison.

“SIR, YES SIR!” Eddie sounded off and took off at a dead run toward the staff.

“YOU ARE NOW THE CLASS SERGEANT!” 

Oh no, I thought, poor Eddie. But Eddie was elated. He was grinning from ear to ear. Remember what I said, no one in their right mind wants to be the class sergeant? This is the same guy who would not leave a club when his Staff Instructor hinted he should, and who his roommate begged to do the same. I ask you, is this a person you believe to be in his right mind?  

But being the class sergeant was not the final humiliation Eddie was to face that day. Deputy Johnson ordered Eddie to remove his Sam Browne gun belt and hand it over to him. The Ram Rod spent the rest of the morning inspection and all of drill and ceremony strutting around the parade deck with Eddie’s gun belt triumphantly slung over his shoulder. “I am relieving you of your peace officer status, mister!” he told Ed. 

Eddie didn’t seem to care. He was the class sergeant. He grinned like a Cheshire Cat throughout the entire morning as he marched us around and called Jody. Eddie was in 7th heaven. He was flawless as the class sergeant right up until lunch. So much so that Deputy Johnson tired of punishing him, he fired Ed as the class sergeant before eleven thirty hours that day, before Eddie could really strut his stuff and show them what he could do at dismissal. 

That was Ed’s punishment. He was only the class sergeant for half of the day. None of us, his fellow cadets, could say anything to cheer him up at lunch. He had a ‘they-stole-my-Huffy-10- speed’ look for the rest of the day.

Yup, I’m telling you that I was best buds with the real-life Gomer Pyle! I miss you, pal! Rest in Paradise, brother.

It’s time for that second cup o’ Joe.

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles