California Dreaming
Dolphins by Joel Gittelson. Honorable mention
by Pete Whalon
“That’s all Mr. Whalon, you’re done,” the woman curtly remarked.
“What?” I asked, somewhat confused.
“You’re outta the Army; you’re a civilian now, Mr. Whalon. Take your money and run.” Her cynical smile revealed teeth in severe need of a dental hygienist.
The portly lady seated behind the glass had quickly counted out $837 (the amount owed me from the Army for unused leave days), and informed me that I was officially discharged from military service. It was March 31, 1971.
“That’s it, I’m out?”
She nodded her head without speaking and motioned me aside so she could liberate the next young man anxiously waiting behind me. I stood there dazed, unable to fully grasp the fact that after 31 months in the army, 22 inVietnam, I was once again a civilian, free to do what I wanted when I wanted. Although I had dreamed of this moment a thousand times, I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. I needed to get to theOaklandAirportand book a flight to LAX and then grab a cab toRedondo Beach. I let out a short scream and pumped both my fists in the air and shouted a phrase from Martin Luther King’s legendary 1963 “I Have a Dream” speech, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.”
On the short flight fromOaklandtoLos Angeles, I attempted to list on my beer-stained napkin the top 10 things to do on my initial days of independence. Of course I’d first go home to see my parents, whom I hadn’t seen in well over two years. They were aware I’d be returning, although due to the chaotic, lengthy process of being discharged from the military, no one was quite sure of the day. I knew my mother would have a huge plate of spaghetti and meatballs prepared for me within 30 minutes of walking in the door. It had been the only wish in my final letter home. I began salivating at the prospect.
Next I’d call my closest friends and let them know Pistol Pete was back in town and in dire need of an ice cold brew and female companionship. My next thought frightened me a little—what the hell was I going to do with my life now? I had spent very little time over the past two years inNamseriously considering my future. Enrolling inEl Camino Jr.Collegefor the fall semester was a given. I possessed very few marketable skills, andVietnamveterans were not generally looked upon in a favorable light. I dismissed the thought almost instantaneously, unwilling to diminish the natural high I presently experienced.
After retrieving my bags at LAX, I hustled to the nearest restroom and hastily changed from my military uniform into a pair of Hang 10 shorts and an Army issue T-shirt. Being acutely aware of what most citizens thought about returningVietnamsoldiers, I didn’t want a confrontation with some grubby, brain-dead peacenik spitting on me and calling me a baby killer.
I instructed the cab driver to drop me off a block from my house. An odd feeling I had never experienced before caught me by surprise. A combination of fear, euphoria, uncertainty and a burning desire to have more time to prepare for this homecoming triggered an anxiety attack. I dropped my duffel bag on the sidewalk and sat on it. I lapsed into a trance, time standing still. A familiar sound snapped me back to reality. I could hear Pal, our dog barking in the distance, just around the corner. I leaped to my feet and began running. In less than 30 seconds I was standing, pulse pounding, sweating at my front door. Pal was on the other side, scratching and barking, alerting my parents of an intruder outside. My mom yelled at Pal in her familiar style.
“Be quiet, sit or I’ll take you back to the pound,” and the door swung open. I stood, silent, flashing a childish grin. It took my mom a few seconds to recognize this stranger. She burst into tears.
“Mom, come on, don’t cry, come on, I’m home, be happy.”
I felt a little guilty and wanted to stop her tears. My parents were from a harsher, tougher time, and like most of the WWII generation, usually masked their emotions. As I walked in Pal jumped up and down as if he remembered exactly who I was. My dad appeared from the kitchen, smiled broadly, removed his glasses, shook my hand and then did something he hadn’t done since I was six; he kissed my cheek. Now I began crying, silently praying none of my friends would show up at this moment. For the first time I realized how worried my parents must have been, although their letters were always upbeat and positive.
“Sit down Pete, thank God you’re finally home safe, I can’t believe it, do you want some spaghetti or something to drink?” My mother pointed to the kitchen as she smiled.
“Is the Pope Catholic?” I chirped. Growing up Catholic this became the typical response at our house when asked a question with an obvious answer. If it were one of my friends I would have responded differently–“Does a bear s- -t in the woods.” However, I never swore in front of my mother. She laughed and began crying again.
The remainder of that first day and into the evening we ate spaghetti and talked non-stop. We also shared pictures and called three of my aunts living in other states to inform them that I had been one of the lucky ones who returned safely home from the unpopular war. Later that night I called six of my best friends. We made plans to meet the next morning, 8 a.m., at the Zig Zag coffee shop on190th Street. It had been the place we always gathered after a wild Friday or Saturday night to discuss our sophomoric exploits and female conquests. Their mouth-watering hash browns could actually cure a vicious, head-pounding hangover.
I intentionally showed up at 8 a.m., wanting to be the last to arrive, savoring the moment of seeing my favorite friends sitting together in “our” booth for the first time in what seemed like forever. In the life of a 22-year-old, two years is an eternity. They spotted me through the tinted window, walking across the parking lot. True to form, they began flipping me off, sticking out their tongues and repeatedly saluting me. I returned their salutes while thinking, same idiots I left behind. It felt fantastic!
Strolling into the restaurant I was surprisingly greeted with a standing ovation from the café full of diners. Larry, my most “imaginative” friend, had somberly informed the patrons that I was a returning, decoratedVietnamveteran who had been wounded in battle three times (all lies) and seriously depressed from my combat ordeal. I knew the minute the cheers began that Larry had concocted a bullshit story to electrify the customers. Many times at parties when returning from the bathroom, the girl I had been trying to pick up had vanished. In my absence Larry would compassionately inform the young lady that I had crabs, was a queer, had once threw a girlfriend off the Manhattan Beach Pier, or my penis had been severed in a boating accident off Palos Verdes. So the crowd reaction was nothing new. I humbly waved to the crowd while shaking my head at Larry and laughing uncontrollably. God, I thought, it was so frickin’ great to be home!
I was thrilled to see our favorite booth in the back corner still there. It held five comfortably, but we had crammed in seven or eight numerous times. Danny, Lenny, John, Bob, Steve and Larry were laughing and extending hands, apparently as happy to see me as I was to see them. Danny, Lenny and John had all been inVietnam, returning home at different times, before me. They couldn’t wait to swap “war” stories. Bob, Steve and Larry, who were a year younger than us, had all lucked out with the first draft-lottery, receiving numbers in the 300s, ensuring they wouldn’t get their dreaded letter from Uncle Sam to report for military service. After an hour of catching up, I informed my band of brothers it was high time to hit the road.
“Okay, enough memory lane crap, let’s go to the Redondo Pier then cruise Hermosa andManhattan. I desperately need to check out some round-eyed chicks (the name affectionately used by all GI’s when referring to American women inVietnam) and scarf down some fried shrimp and chug obscene amounts of cold Coors. It’s party time lob-dicks, lock and load, drop your socks and grab your rocks!” (I loved quoting the absurd jargon I’d learned in the Army). Lenny needed to attend a class at El Camino and Danny had to pick up his druggie girlfriend working at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Our remaining crew enthusiastically poured into Larry’s VW bus (I was given the coveted shotgun position) and headed for the Redondo Fisherman’s Wharf. At one time or another eight of our inner circle had worked on the pier, at the Sea Star Snack Bar selling battered shrimp, halibut-fish burgers, cheeseburgers, soggy fries, thick malts and soft drinks to obnoxious tourists with white socks hiked up to their knees and cameras dangling from their necks. I was curious to see if Harry “The Hat” and his wife Mary were still the owners. Although they were a little old fashioned, their stale jokes and drunken tirades created the perfect atmosphere for our rowdy, sarcastic, humor. The availability of free food seven nights a week (after Hat and Mary had gone home) made working at the Star the perfect job for our teenage mob.
Much to my disappointment, Red, the crusty old owner of the pier’s most cherished establishment, Red’s Bait & Tackle, had recently purchased the Sea Star. Red promptly fired the colorful duo, Hat and Mary, and hired a new manager — an obese, greasy slob with jailhouse tats running up his left arm. When I politely asked the lard ass if Harry and Mary still owned the establishment he cordially responded, “Who da f- -k are day!?” I then respectfully explained that my friends and I had worked at the Star back in ‘67 and ‘68, to which he warmly remarked, “Who in da flyin’ f – -k gives a s – -t!” to which I courteously screamed while flipping the double bird in his bloated face, “Eat another triple cheeseburger fat ass!” Tubbo made a failed attempt to grab me with his slimy puffy fingers over the counter. Our group unleashed a barrage of expletives worthy of a horde of drunken sailors and then bolted for the VW.
We were still howling as we motored downHermosa Ave.toward2nd St.(the Holy Grail ofCaliforniabeach cruising in the ‘60s and ‘70s). The area west of Hermosa Avenue leading to the beach presented the quintessential playground for surfers, sun-tanned chicks, bar-hoppers, partiers, drunks, druggies, hitchhikers and puerile males looking to pick up youthful roving females. On Friday and Saturday nights both sides ofHermosa Ave.were gridlocked with muscle cars filled with combinations of pimple-faced horny dudes and vivacious nubile teenage girls. Mustangs, GTO’s, GTX’s, Roadrunners, Chargers, Corvettes and my personal favorite, Pontiac Firebirds, roared engines and laid rubber as rowdy teens hung out windows in search of local parties.
As the “Magic Bus” chugged toward13th St.I instructed Larry to head left onPier Ave.I craved a beer at the iconic bar on The Strand, the Poop Deck. InNamI often promised my buddies, “If you come to Redondo I’ll take you to the Poop Deck for a brewski and some serious bird watching.” Nothing proved quite as exhilarating on a hot summer day as gawking out the Poop Deck window watching the constant activity on The Strand. It presented a never-ending parade of humanity — featuring runners, walkers, skaters, bikers, wheelchairs, strollers, whining kids, blue-haired grandmas, barking dogs and pot-bellied tourists proudly sporting their signature apparel — plaid shorts and goofy hats. Of course, the main attractions of this procession were the sexy bronzed, bikini-clad sizzling ladies.
Steve ordered two pitchers of Coors (the only legit beer to drink circa 1971SouthBay). While talking with Bob I noticed Larry leaving the table, heading for the bar. I yelled at him, “Don’t do this again, please man, sit your ass down now”–too late.
“Poop-deckers, may I humbly have your undivided attention for a minute please?” Larry, raising his beer glass, looked at me and winked. “My good buddy Pete, the ugly dude with the moustache sitting by the window, just got back fromVietnam…”
Watching Larry prepare to embarrass me for the second time that day, I honestly couldn’t recall an occasion over the past three years that I’d been more satisfied and contented. Sitting there with my lifelong friends, drinking beer and scoping out vivacious, energetic youthful woman on The Strand — nirvana! B