Coffeehouse Chronicles …and The Day Pretty Boy Learned About Mexican Math (One family + one family = everybody)
Whaddup, Chroniclers? Ya got yer cup? Okay, let's go.
You ever wake up and spend half the day trying to remember what you did over the weekend? That's where I'm at. For the life of me, I cannot remember what happened Saturday. At this point, I think my memory is running on Windows 95, and somebody forgot to save the file.
Sunday, though? Sunday I remember.
Pretty Boy Floyd and Mrs. Floyd were looking at a property in Norco. Nice place. The interesting part is that it's directly adjacent to the homes of two of Floyd's work partners, Pablo and Cesar.
Now, for those of you who don't know, there is something that happens when a Mexican family adopts you.
It is swift.
It is permanent.
There is no paperwork.
There is no appeals process.
One day you're saying hello at a barbecue, and three weeks later someone's aunt is asking why you haven't called your cousin lately.
You're family.
The End.
Pretty Boy Floyd and Mrs. Floyd haven't fully accepted this reality yet, but resistance is futile. They're Avila-Guzman adjacent now. They're in.
The HB and I understood this years ago. Shoot, we've been part of the Avila-Guzman clan for nearly 40 years. Before that, I was a Rodriguez. Apparently, I got traded in free agency.
Anyway, it turns out Saturday night was Pablo's 50th birthday party.
Now let me tell you something.
If you've never been to a Mexican milestone celebration—a quinceañera, wedding, anniversary, birthday, somebody's graduation, retirement, promotion, or successful purchase of a lawn mower—you need to ask somebody.
Those parties don't have end times.
They have seasons.
Saturday was apparently the official birthday celebration.
Sunday was Celebration: The Director's Cut.
When the HB and I arrived to look at the property, we stopped by Pablo's house first to wish him a happy birthday and meet some family members. His mom and dad were there. Cesar's parents were there. Folks had come all the way from Tucson.
There were cousins.
There were aunts.
There were uncles.
There were people introducing themselves as cousins who probably weren't cousins but had been around so long nobody questioned it anymore.
At one point, I think I met three Tías named Maria.
Cesar looks up and says, "Hey, where were you guys last night?"
I said, "Nobody told us about it."
That's when the entire patio got quiet.
I'm talking record-scratch quiet.
Thirty pairs of eyes slowly rotated toward Pretty Boy Floyd.
Thirty faces.
Thirty side-eyes.
Floyd looked around nervously.
"What?"
Pablo's uncle looked offended.
"What do you mean, what?"
"You didn't invite your parents?"
Floyd blinked.
"I was invited. I didn't think I should invite extra people."
The collective gasp could probably be heard in Riverside.
"No, no, no, mijo."
"Your parents aren't extra people."
"You're family."
"Which means they're family."
"Which means everybody's family."
At this point the family tree had become a family spiderweb.
Madres.
Padres.
Comadres.
Compadres.
Primos.
Tíos.
Tías.
Everybody was taking turns explaining to Floyd that he had committed a cultural party foul of historic proportions.
The poor guy looked like he'd accidentally unplugged Grandma's oxygen tank.
Then came the nodding.
Every Mexican family has that moment.
One person explains it.
Everyone else nods.
The nodding means judgment has been rendered.
Case closed.
Floyd finally looked around the circle and realized there wasn't a single person agreeing with him.
Lesson learned.
Meanwhile, Pablo's mom grabbed the HB by the arm, and Cesar's cousin escorted me to the patio.
You know.
Where the food was.
The real reason we were there.
The second celebration was underway.
Now let's discuss commitment.
By 11:00 that morning, Jorge, somebody’s primo, had already lived an entire day.
The man left at 3:30 a.m., came back at 6:30 a.m., and immediately started working on the tripas.
I don't know when Jorge sleeps.
I suspect he plugs into a wall outlet.
The tripas had been cooking for hours.
The pig was being prepared.
The primos were handling logistics like a military operation.
Cousin Jeff had hauled a gigantic roaster all the way in from Tucson.
Folks, these people take partying seriously.
Meanwhile, half the neighborhood was probably following the smell like cartoon characters floating through the air.
Honestly, it reminded me of the old pray-for-rain days when Arce was cooking.
Those roasted chiles would clear a house faster than a fire alarm.
One whiff and everybody starts coughing.
Your eyes water.
Your nose runs.
You reconsider every life decision that brought you into that kitchen.
Forget pepper spray.
Roasting chiles ought to qualify.
Speaking of things multiplying unexpectedly...
Apparently the Coffeehouse wasn't crowded enough.
We've got another mouth to feed.
Bruno.
Our newest junior associate.
Four legs.
Hypoallergenic fur.
Roughly the size of a tennis ball with opinions.
The HB couldn't resist.
Naturally, I've been put in charge of training him.
Currently, Bruno's primary tactic is to lick intruders into a false sense of security before launching a vicious attack that feels mildly inconvenient.
But we're working on it.
I have plans.
Big plans.
Three-level multi-poo tactical operations.
Psychological warfare.
Advanced hostage negotiation involving squeaky toys.
Give me time.
Soon he'll be terrorizing the neighborhood one ankle at a time.
The problem is that every time I visit David and Missy Elsasser, their 130-pound German Shepherds look at me like they're evaluating marbling on a prime pork loin.
I get nervous reaching for a glass of water.
I want that kind of security presence.
Instead, I've got Bruno.
A dog whose greatest tactical advantage is being mistaken for a decorative throw pillow.
I told the HB we're probably going to need more homeowner's insurance.
Either for the dog...
Or for me after I step on him in the dark.
Oh, and before I forget...
Somebody remind me to tell you about the time Sam 1 conducted less-lethal ammunition testing on a seven-year-old.
Yeah.
That's exactly as bad as it sounds.
And no, DCS hasn't heard that story yet.
Until next time, Chroniclers...
Drink 'em if ya got 'em!
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