When I was honorably discharged (yes, honorably) from the Army in 1971, I couldn’t wait to get my own “pad” and kick start my life again. I had 31 months of partying and chick-chasing with my friends to catch up on.
In the early ‘70s, there were myriad “singles” apartment complexes peppered throughout the South Bay. One of the legendary places for extreme revelry was located on Kornblum Avenue, just South of El Segundo Blvd. The Hukilau, with its Hawaiian motif and tacky Tiki’s out front had a six to 10-month waiting period to rent an apartment. If a apartment opened, you then had to pass an intense interview to be chosen from dozens of applicants. They didn’t grant residency to “squares,” complainers or killjoys. Management was fearful of someone sneaking in and ruining the place by whining about blaring music, wild late night pool parties or scantily clad, nubile chicks running up and down the halls.
I had the good fortune of having an across-the-street neighbor for whom I had babysat before going into the Army, whose sister, whom I knew quite well, was the manager of the Hukilau. Long story short, I moved into a poolside apartment three months after my military discharge. For a randy young man coming off 22 consecutive months in Vietnam, the Hukilau proved to be heaven on earth!
The inhabitants of the “hook” (as we referred to it) resembled the alien bar scene in the original Star Wars movie—a three-ring-circus without the elephants or cotton candy. To give you a small taste of the activities that unfolded nightly, here a couple of the more sedate, true tales of my Hook escapades.
It didn’t take very long for me to discover that many of the male residents were gamblers and loved to play cards for hours and even days at a time. Their weapon of choice proved Hearts, a game I had honed my skills on in Nam. I considered myself one of the 10 best Hearts players in the country, based on absolutely nothing.
On a warm Friday night in the summer of 1971, I returned home from my part-time job at Montgomery Wards and noticed a card game in progress on the second floor in Gene’s apartment. I joined the game an hour later, playing for about three hours. Returning to the Hook after midnight I noticed the game was still in progress so I re-joined for a few hours. The game would continue, non-stop, for another four days.
There were over 20 dudes who, at some point, entered the marathon event. Between work, sleep and other trips away from the action I must have returned to the session seven or eight different times. It wouldn’t be the last Hearts epic competition, however it proved the longest continual affair. And, if memory serves me, I do believe there were adult beverages involved.
Another chaotic episode during my stay at this iconic apartment complex involved gunfire! George, a 300-pound (think Jackie Gleason) hulk from New York lived across the pool on the other side of the building from me. He was the quintessential New York hustler with his rapid-fire profanity-laced chatter and booming voice. He would have fit in quite well with the characters from the movie, One Flew Over the Coocoo’s nest.
One evening while I was preparing for a bar-hopping excursion, George, as he often did, began blasting opera music from his apartment. He would drag his massive speakers out of his place and place them pool side. It was his way of saying, “George is home!”
Since I had a set of huge Sansui speakers myself, I decided to fight back and let the flamboyant George see he wasn’t the only person who could crank up the tunes. I happened to have one of my mother’s record albums of Mario Lanza, so I fired up Mario’s class Santa Lucia. Speaker wars began with each of us increasing the volume until both reached their highest setting.
The music engulfed the entire complex as it reverberated off the walls. George and I stood in our doorways smiling at each other in what proved to be a musical stalemate. George then flipped me the finger, disappeared and quickly returned with a pistol in his hand. He screamed, “f— you, Whalon” and began firing. I dove back in my place in utter fear. George had snapped and I was going to die! Suddenly, his music went dead and Big George began yelling something to me that I couldn’t understand. I crawled to my stereo and shut it off. “Hey Whalon, you chicken-s**t bas***d, it’s blanks. It’s a blank gun.” Suddenly George, flashing a huge grin, appeared in my doorway as I looked up from behind the chair I was cowering behind. He pointed the gun fired two more blank shots in my direction, then calmly replied, “Whalon, when you clean the s**t outta your pants come on over for a martini.” That was George—and that proved to be typical, Hukilau chaotic anarchy, for the glorious two years I lived there. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore my friends!