It’s a thousand degrees outside, and I’m at the intersection of Colfax Avenue and Quebec Street, waiting at a traffic light, when I notice the guy with a sign.
He’s on the opposite corner of the street, in front of a Payday loan building, not far from a bus stop where a handful of people wait. They’ve noticed him, too.
First, the sign he’s carrying is much bigger than he is. It’s plywood with a square opening in the center that opens and closes, like a small door. He opens the door, sticks his head through, waves at the drivers lining up at the light. He shouts something I can’t hear. He leaps and points behind him, that way, that way. He bobs and feints and darts. I’m exhausted just watching him.
When I drive by an hour later, the guy is still there. I get a better look at him. He’s practically dancing. He opens the door. Kicks his leg high, as if he is going to clamber through. I start laughing, so does the guy standing in the shade of the loan business.
I’ve seen people twirling “now leasing” signs with bravado and finesse that would put a Texas majorette to shame. I’ve seen people dressed up like the Statue of Liberty during tax season. I’ve seen Uncle Sam working a corner. None of them ever prompted me to pull over, walk up and tap someone on the shoulder to say, “Wow. I’ve never seen a sign flier of your caliber.”
Cortland Coffey smiles. Big, beautiful smile. Sweat pours down his face. He looks like he’s about 14 years old. We’re advertising a restaurant, he says. The sign is a giant menu, for Detours.
He and his friends opened the business about four months ago. How many friends, I ask. Thirteen, he says. Nearly all in their 20s. They take turns on the corner, and every week, they change the theme. There was the “Ghostbusters” week. “Go bust your hunger.” And the week they dressed up as suitcases. “Pack away your hunger.”
Cortland reports this with obvious delight. I tell him anyone who works this hard to drum up business deserves some attention. Cool, he says.
What I don’t learn until later is that after Cortland, who is 19, tells his friends of our meeting, they hold their own meeting:
Do we want our story told? If customers know about us, will they stop coming, because right now, they’re coming in, 300, 350 a day.
They had a rough start. For the first couple months, they sold only coffee, and no one came in. Of course, they were selling Folgers, and they were so broke, the owner of the car lot across the street bet Cortland $20 they’d go out of business.
So, they decided to add food. Breakfast burritos, barbecue, burgers. Business took off, so good they could afford better coffee, which they started giving away. Lattes, espressos, you name it. All free. Every day. Spend the money you would have spent on coffee to help someone who needs it, they told their customers. Be a superhero.
“You want the truth?” Michael Cheshire answers when I show up at the restaurant and ask him how the 13 friends know each other. “Because no one knows, and that’s the way we wanted it.”
They’re not just friends. They work together at The Journey Community Church in Conifer, which Cheshire and his wife, Amy, founded about a year ago. The couple did not want to ask the congregation for donations only to turn around and spend them on church administration, rent and upkeep, instead of community service. So, they came up with the restaurant, Detours. It’s a tax-paying business, Cheshire says, but the profits pay church bills so the congregation’s donations can be used to help those who need it.
The other pastors, the music director, the youth director, they all work at Detours.
“None of our customers, not even our regulars, know we’re associated with a church,” Cheshire says. “The idea is to create goodwill without promoting an agenda, to show love, God’s love, without telling people. Our goal isn’t to get people into church, but to get them to realize there is good in the world.”
So, they stay mum. They greet customers with a cheerful “Welcome to Detours; thanks for stopping in,” and their customers believe they have just visited a restaurant with a good burger and a good-humored staff.
“You tell me, and you’re telling a lot of people,” I say to Cheshire. “People would have found out sooner or later,” he says, “and it’s not going to change the way we do business.”
I stopped by on Wednesday and the place was hopping with regulars and newcomers. You could tell who the first-timers were because they came in talking about the show on the corner a few blocks away. That day, the team had fashioned what appeared to be foil-wrapped burgers so huge and heavy that a fellow actually stopped to help Cortland carry his across the street.
Cheshire has a new idea percolating: Sasquatch costumes. “Sasquash your hunger.”
Get it? The pastor grins.
Earlier this week, the car lot owner came by and slapped 20 bucks on the counter in front of Cortland. I guess you guys are going to make it, he said, and ordered a sandwich.
Tina Griego writes Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Reach her at 303-954-2699 or tgriego@denverpost.com.
