Coffeehouse Chronicles: Papi Churro and the Case of the Non-Lawn

He should thank his old Explorer DI

A tale of gravel yards, devil-tech, and a 25-year-old car held together by spite. 

I was posted up at my usual coffeehouse table—the one with the chair that wobbles like it’s doing calf raises—when I made the mistake of telling someone, “Yeah, I know a guy.” Because when you say that out loud, the universe hears it and immediately drops a guy into your life like a piano in an old cartoon. 

My guy is my buddy Papi Churro—an Arizona original and a living demonstration that happiness is not an emotion, it’s a rumor started by people with functional air conditioners. Papi isn’t happy unless he’s not happy. And the most impressive part is his consistency: he’s not happy ever. Not “sometimes.” Not “on Mondays.” Ever. 

He sits at his front door like a gargoyle with a phone plan he refuses to use, waiting to scream at passersby to get off his lawn. Which would be terrifying if he had a lawn. Papi lives in Arizona. His “lawn” is a tasteful arrangement of red rock and regret. There are no blades of grass. There’s barely a concept of moisture. If you tried to water his yard, a cactus would call the police. 

Also, there are no kids in his neighborhood. So, who’s he yelling at? The only people around are his age and older—retirees doing slow laps with dogs that look like they’ve seen things. Nobody is cutting across his “non-lawn.” Nobody is skateboarding. The wildest thing that happens on his street is a neighbor mispronouncing “charcuterie” at a potluck. Yet Papi stays ready, like the day some eight-year-old is going to materialize out of the desert and ride a scooter across his decorative gravel. 

Papi’s complaints come in categories, like a streaming service for rage. Category One: Tech. Cell phones are of the devil. Computers are of the devil. If the microwave had a touchscreen, he’d attempt an exorcism with a rolled-up newspaper. 

He especially hates when he goes somewhere and sees people looking down at their phones. And look, I get it. It’s a pet peeve. But most people treat pet peeves like a mosquito bite: you notice it, you slap it, you move on. Papi treats it like a constitutional crisis. He’ll bring it up every single day, like he’s filing a report with the Department of Human Disappointment. 

Category Two: His old Explorer DI. I don’t know the man personally, but based on Papi’s stories, that DI is either a saint or a wizard. Whoever he was, he somehow molded Papi into a person who doesn’t live under an overpass with a piece of cardboard and a magic marker. That’s not me being rude; that’s me reading the résumé of Papi’s natural instincts. If gratitude were gasoline, Papi would walk everywhere out of principle—yet even he should send that DI a thank-you card shaped like a medal. 

Category Three: The ex-wives. Seventeen. Seventeen ex-wives. After the first two or three, most people would have a quiet moment with themselves and think, “Maybe the common denominator here is… me.” Papi apparently had a loud moment and thought, “Maybe marriage just keeps happening to me.” Seventeen is not a number; it’s a franchise. 

Category Four: His former employer. “They got their rules and I got mine,” he says, as if he’s negotiating peace treaties.  

Category Five: Ford, maker of his brand-new F-150, which he loves the way you love a dog that keeps biting you: loudly, frequently, and with paperwork. Ford charged him too much. Or too little. Or changed something. Or didn’t change something. The details shift, but the emotion stays the same. It’s like jazz, but with more blood pressure. 

But this latest installment of the Coffeehouse Chronicles began with his backup car: a 25-year-old Toyota Avalon. A car so old it qualifies as a historical document. A car that has seen dial-up internet come and go. A car that, at this point, isn’t being driven as much as it’s being encouraged. 

Papi was on his way to visit a friend when the Avalon finally gave up the ghost. Not slowly. Not politely. Just—done. One minute it’s a car, the next it’s a driveway ornament with ambitions. He got it towed to an auto repair shop and announced he was going to “wait.” 

His plan—seriously—was to stay at a no-tell motel until the shop figured it out. I said, “Why don’t you rent a car, go home, and come back when they call?” It’s only 90 minutes away. Ninety minutes is a long podcast and half a bag of beef jerky. But Papi wanted to revolve his entire life around a 25-year-old vehicle like it was a sick relative in hospice. 

And here’s where the universe delivers a plot twist: the same old Explorer DI—the saint-wizard—told him, “Dude, take your self home. Rent a car and go home.” Papi immediately goes, “Oh. That’s a good idea.” 

Yes. It was a good idea. Because the Avalon has already been there a week. A week! The shop found metal shavings and said the oil pan was shot. That’s auto-repair language for “This car is now a suggestion.” At 25 years old, with its insides turning into glitter, the Avalon wasn’t heading toward a fix; it was heading toward a Viking funeral. 

Meanwhile, he was supposed to come out to California to visit his parents. But nope—he couldn’t abandon the car. Papi had suddenly developed tenderness. For a Toyota Avalon. Which, honestly, is the most romantic thing he’s done since ex-wife number… I don’t even know… Four? 

By this point, his anger expanded to include new supporting characters: the auto repair place (for not calling), Toyota (for not having a Camry on the lot), and Hyundai (for not approaching him while he paced the dealership like a disgruntled mall security guard). At Toyota, he said, “I’d like to look at a Camry,” and they didn’t have one. Then they asked if he wanted to buy it. Papi said, “I haven’t even seen it yet.” Which is the only reasonable sentence he’s ever said while mad. 

"This IS my happy face."

So he goes down the street to Hyundai and walks around for 15–20 minutes with the kind of facial expression that suggests he’s reviewing everyone’s life choices in real time. Nobody approached him. Maybe they were busy. Maybe they sensed an incoming weather system of complaints. Maybe the Avalon’s spirit followed him onto the lot and warned them. 

Back at the coffeehouse, my friend asked, “So what do you do with a guy like that?” And I said, “You listen. You nod. You make sure he’s got water. And if you’ve got a Papi Churro in your life…  

Well, you know what to do: drink ‘em if you got 'em.” 

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