erik estrada kissed me

It was 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning in spring. He was sitting on the steps of the Sterling Hotel, smoking dirty little cigarillos. I was fresh out of college and nearly out of money when I took the job of assistant editor for Zenith 12000, the official publication of the California Highway Patrol. I called it my “pig” job. Landing Erik Estrada was my big coup. It was the 20th anniversary of “CHiPs” and he had agreed to an exclusive interview.

Of course, we had some leverage. In order to appear anywhere in his “CHiPs” uniform, he had to get our written permission. I think that may have something to do with how we got the interview. Perhaps I’m just being cynical.

It was weird seeing him in person. Twenty years hadn’t changed him much. It was like Officer Frank Poncherello stepped off the screen. He grinned when I called his name and displayed the 1000-kilowatt smile that caused People Magazine to name him the sexiest man alive in 1979. His only concession to age was the salt and pepper in his hair.

I didn’t arrive unencumbered. Her name was Juanita. She was a secretary in the office and unofficial president of the CHP chapter of the Erik Estrada fan club. She had to come with me. Had to. I couldn’t shake her, and being a lowly intern, I couldn’t tell her not to come. In the end she tagged along as the “photographer.” She barely managed to eke out her name when I introduced her.

I had a “Chipper the CHP chipmunk” doll with me as a token gift from the department. He seemed to like it. So I sat on the steps with Estrada. He took my tape recorder and spoke his answers directly into the mike. He had done interviews before. He dropped his spent cigarettes and put them out with a twist of a suede-covered boot. His outfit dripped fringe and turquoise. I know it sounds ugly, but he pulled it off. It was like someone gave Steven Segal taste in clothing.

I’d heard stories about what a complete ass he could be. He was conceited. He was rude. Maybe those stories were true, but on that Sunday morning, he seemed like an OK guy. He was funny. He answered a host of questions about a twenty-year old television show with patience and thoughtfulness — even though he must have answered those same questions hundreds of times before. If he’s an asshole, he masked it well.

When the interview was over, we decided to take a few shots with the camera. This is when Juanita’s one small flaw as a photographer crept in: she didn’t know how to use the camera. So I stepped in. After I got 7-8 shots for the magazine. Juanita did her star-struck fan routine and asked for a picture with “Ponch.” Estrada readily agreed. Juanita was a looker.

She sat on his lap and I took a photo that looked like they had just attended junior prom together. Estrada asked for a second take and then kissed Juanita on the cheek right as the flash went off. We almost lost her that day. She gasped with surprise and turned eight shades of red. Luckily it was black-and-white film.

Juanita’s only other contribution was to suggest that I get my photo with Estrada, too, so she wouldn’t look like such a fanatic, I guess. I declined. Then Estrada got into the act, perhaps taking my polite refusal as shyness. I dunno. At any rate both of them were bugging me to get my picture taken, so I relented. I stood next to the ’70s icon and Juanita manned the camera after a few minutes of careful instruction.

The first take was relatively normal. He threw his arm around my neck and pretended we were buddies. I looked like a complete doofus as always, but he looked like his cool B-movie star self. He asked for a second take. I suppose I should have seen it coming, but it didn’t even occur to me. It happened right before the flash went off, just like with Juanita.

He kissed me.

His breath stank like cigarettes and lips were like sandpaper. All in all, I don’t think I got the same thing out of it that Juanita did — though I seem to recollect squealing like a little girl. The details are fuzzy in my mind — which is why I’m glad I have the photo. It’s a one of kind memento of my brief encounter with a fading star.

Juanita was certainly changed by her experience. She stopped coming to work, and because it was the state, it took six or seven months for them to get around to suggesting that perhaps she should seek other employment. She promptly filed a workers’ comp case claiming she was “stressed” because they might fire her for not showing up for work for six months. I bet that case is still going on today.

Estrada went on to do a “CHiPs” reunion movie for TBS. You can rent it at Blockbuster now. He also plays an insane scientist in a new cartoon for Cartoon Network. So the brother’s getting work. Five years later, I was watching VH1 and they did a segment with Estrada at his home, and I’ll be damned if the stupid “Chipper” doll wasn’t sitting on his mantle. He even took it down to show it off to the camera.

Me? I left the Highway Patrol and went on to bigger and better things. I used to have Estrada’s home phone number, which he gave me for follow-up questions, but I threw it away. I really couldn’t figure out a single scenario where calling him would be a good idea. Maybe I’ll run into him on the street someday. I doubt he’ll even remember our one brief kiss.

I feel like such a whore.

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Tags: california highway patrol, chips, erik estrada