Coffeehouse Chronicles ...and then There's Papi

Papi & me

Have you ever actually sat down and counted your really close friends? I don’t mean acquaintances. I don’t mean people you wave at. I mean the ones you can call without a reason. The ones you talk to almost every day. If you’re honest, that number is usually pretty small. One. Maybe two. 

Right now, I’ve got two. 

Many of you remember my pal, Eddie. Eddie was my best bud and my battle buddy in the academy. We went through it together—same days, same stress, same confusion about why anyone thought this was a good idea. I’ve referred to Eddie in previous chapters as a real‑life Gomer Pyle, and I stand by that. Not because he was clueless—far from it—but because he had that same earnest, wide‑eyed sincerity. Eddie was the kind of guy who took everything seriously, did everything right, and somehow still managed to be unintentionally funny just by being himself. 

He was solid. Dependable. The kind of guy you wanted next to you when things got loud or weird. And when things were quiet, he was the one who made you laugh without even trying. Eddie’s no longer with us, but he was a very good man—and an even better friend. 

Then there was Dean. 

Papi Churro with his parents and sibs

Dean was my pal back in the early ’80s, and Dean had an absolute affinity for Rick Dees–style humor. That kind of humor that made no apologies and didn’t ask permission. Dean committed to it. He also sported what, at the time, he considered a very stylish shag haircut—one he never believed went out of style. Ever. 

To be honest—and history now allows us to be honest—it could best be described as a Black man’s mullet. Business in the front, party in the back, confidence everywhere. Dean wore it proudly long after fashion had moved on and sent postcards saying, “Please don’t follow.” But Dean didn’t care. He was comfortable in his own skin, in his own jokes, and in that haircut. 

Dean’s gone too now. And like Eddie, he was a good man. A loyal friend. The kind you remember not just for the laughs, but for the way they showed up, consistently, when it mattered. 

Neither of them is with us anymore, but they’re still present in all the ways that count. Good men. Better friends. The kind you don’t replace—you just carry with you. 

Those were the guys I called daily. No agenda. Just checking in. 

Of course, you’re all familiar with Commander McCroc. He’s been my BFF since we were pups on the department, back when we were both young, fast, and thought we knew everything. He’s already famous in the Chronicles, so I won’t belabor his description...he’ll probably be in future Chronicles ---- as a matter of fact, I’m sure of it. (Hey, Kev? Ya welcome.) 

And then there’s Papi Churro.  For you Chroniclers out there fluent in Spanish, I said what i said! That's right, Papi Churro not Chulo.

Now let me be clear: Papi Churro is only 61 years old. Sixty‑one. That’s not old. That’s the “still arguing with the TV” age. But emotionally? Spiritually? Behaviorally? 

He is the 80‑year‑old man who used to live on your corner, yelling at clouds and threatening sprinklers. 

He is always cranky about something. Always mad. There is no neutral setting. When I talk to him on the phone—he lives in Arizona now—I don’t even have to see him to picture it. I know exactly what’s happening. He’s standing somewhere with one fist in the air, shaking it violently, yelling about something. It could be his brand‑new truck. A truck he likes. A truck he chose. A truck that has personally offended him. 

Or it’s the police. Because the police, according to Papi Churro, are stopping people for things like running stop signs or speeding. Which is outrageous. Until, of course, he gets stopped for speeding. 

And when that happens? Holy. Moly. 

Dinner with Papi's fam

Now Papi Churro has to make these periodic pilgrimages back to California to visit his parents, who still live in southeast L.A. County. And if—God forbid—he gets stopped by the California Highway Patrol? That poor officer has just ruined his own week. 

Because Papi Churro is this close to writing a letter to the watch commander. Possibly the governor. Possibly the President. It’s almost like he forgets that this is literally the same job he used to do. The irony does not slow him down at all. 

Papi Churro also prides himself on being Fred Flintstone. 

And by that, I mean he is a full‑blown, card‑carrying Luddite. Computers? No. Internet? Suspicious. Cell phones? Absolutely not. He loves telling people he doesn’t have one. 

So he’ll go to the doctor’s office, and they’ll ask, “Can we get your cell phone number?” 

“Cell phone?” he says. “You can call me at home.” 

Then they’ll say, “Okay, sir, we’ll text you when everything’s ready.” 

And he says, completely straight‑faced, “Oh, I didn’t know you could text landlines.” 

Now the twenty‑two‑year‑old behind the counter looks at him sideways, confused, trying to decide if this is a prank or a cry for help. Meanwhile, Papi Churro is giggling internally, convinced he’s just won the exchange. He thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips because he doesn’t “depend on technology.” 

Oh—and for the love of Pete—do not get his credit card locked. 

He pays cash for everything. Everything. The only time he uses a credit card is when he has no other option—usually online. And when that happens, some poor customer service representative somewhere in New Delhi becomes the target of his fury. 

One minute he’s calling Amex, telling a very polite woman that she doesn’t have to worry about his business anymore. Ever. He’s done. Finished. He then cuts the card up. Dramatically. 

Later it’s a MasterCard. Same story. Cut up. 

Then it’s a Visa. Also locked. Also cut up. 

Most recently, he’s furious with his credit union. Why? Because he uses his card so infrequently that every time he does use it, they suspect fraud. And when they lock it—somehow—it’s always on a Friday. Which means he can’t talk to a human being. Just machines. Until Monday. 

So he goes down to the credit union and gives the poor teller a piece of his mind. Loudly. Explaining why they shouldn’t lock his card when he’s the one using it. The teller, who had nothing to do with any of this, nods politely and absorbs the blast radius. 

And even though he’s been retired for over ten years, Papi Churro cannot stop speaking in radio codes. If he’s going to eat, he’s “going Code 7.” If he’s going shooting with friends, he’s “998ing.” When he meets new people and they ask where he retired from, he says, “I can’t tell you—I’d have to kill you.” 

Which is hilarious, because he then immediately gives them all the radio codes anyway. 

And if anything goes wrong—anything at all—it is, without question, the fault of his former Explorer D.I. 

He trips over a crack in the sidewalk? His former Explorer D.I. 

Untied shoes? Former Explorer D.I. 

Was someone rude to him? His Explorer D.I. Bad day? You guessed it: Yup, Explorer D.I. 

That poor man takes the blame for everything. I’m convinced Papi Churro has unresolved PTSD from Explorer Academy. Honestly, he should be thanking that D.I. for getting him through the academy and setting him on a path that didn’t end with him living under an overpass, holding a cardboard sign that says “Will do anything for food” written in Sharpie. 

I love him. I talk to him almost every day. 

But if you ever hear distant yelling, fist‑shaking, or the sound of a credit card being cut in half? 

That’s just Papi Churro. 

You know what to do --- Dink 'em if you got 'em!

#coffeehousechronicles