HANGOUTS : Find the Right Place, Be There at the Right Time, and the Possibilities Seem Nearly Endless

Each Friday afternoon in the private world of adolescents the final bell tolls on one routine--school--ushering in another--The Weekend. The possibilities are nearly endless: dates, dances, movies, malls.

Then there’s kicking back.

Adults don’t kick back. Everything is a production. Movies are chosen in advance, restaurants selected after serious deliberation. Teen-agers make up the evening’s plan as they go along.

In the Valley, they meet at their favorite spot and wait. Something will happen. Something always does. That’s what a hangout is all about.

Police know all about hangouts. “We monitor them,” says Detective Bruce Stoughton of the West Valley Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. “If it gets too rowdy, we move the kids to other locations.” The UA Theater at Zelzah and Chatsworth in Granada Hills is packed with Friday night moviegoers, but the most spontaneous action unfolds off screen. A few hundred feet away, in the parking lot adjacent to the Thrifty Drug and Discount store, tonight’s players are assuming their positions.

It is 9 o’clock, still early. Many haven’t arrived yet. Tonight is the night of the “End of the World” parties to celebrate the famous Nostradamus prophecy of apocalypse.

The ground does shake, though, as one car after another speeds through the crowd, drawing the desired attention.

“They’re driving by to see if there’s anyone they know,” says Jon McFadden, 17, a sophomore at Alemany High School in Mission Hills. “If not, they just slam on the accelerator and leave.”

They are also showing off their wheels. Anything that can race--a Camaro, for instance--is good. A motorcycle is real cool.

As the unofficial auto show continues, the cast of young adults expands to about 35. Each new arrival is carefully checked out.

“The guy on the right used to be in my algebra class,” observes one girl. “I think his name is Mario. He’s cute.”

The crowd is neatly and deliberately separated into clusters. A two-lane road serves as the unofficial dividing line. On one side is the younger set (13 to 15), close to the public telephones. They don’t drive, so they must be ready for their parent chauffeurs. Their elders (16 to 19), occupy the parking lot. The dress is very casual for both. Jeans, sweaters, Reeboks.

Nobody, of course, owns this hangout, simply known as “the UA.” But students from Alemany, Granada Hills High School and Chatsworth High School claim rights. So far tonight, nobody’s arguing the point.

Mostly, they’re smoking cigarettes and drinking. Few seem drunk. Tonight’s talk centers on the usual teen-age topics: cars, fights, who’s dating whom. Just then, the conversation is interrupted.

“Hey, dudes, you just missed a classic,” says Eric, rushing up to the nearest pack he can find. “This guy was yelling at this other dude, they started to fight and the cops came. Everyone took off.”

The cops. Every teen-ager here loves to hate the cops. It’s the cops’ fault we don’t have any fun. It’s the cops’ fault we don’t have enough places where we can hang out. The primary object of the evening becomes staying one step ahead of the cops. They even have a contingency plan for when the cops arrive.

“Just jump into any car, you don’t care,” Jon McFadden says. “Everyone goes to the same place and you get realigned there.”

Not to worry this Friday night; 11 o’clock and not a cop in sight.

Teen-agers flock to the UA for information. If there are any big parties, someone there will know about them.

“No one finds out till about 7 what we’re going to do,” says Rich Adkisson, 17, a senior at Alemany. “It’s simple. Just meet at the UA.”

What many don’t meet at the UA for is the UA.

“My parents think I’m at the movies,” says Shannon Ward, 15, a freshman at Alemany. “They think I go to so many movies.”

Platt Village--on Platt between Victory and Vanowen in Canoga Park--is deserted this Saturday night. Some hangout.

Just another mini-mall with a Thrifty’s, a Baskin-Robbins and a Round Table Pizza. A half hour passes.

Suddenly, a car pulls up. And another. And another. Everyone gets out. Within five minutes, Platt is packed.

All packed with nowhere to go. Such lack of alternatives frustrates a West Hills 19-year-old called Danny Boy. With a beer in one hand and dishing out his truth with the other, Danny Boy is on a roll. Tonight’s villains are the police. “Kick us out of the parking lots, we’ll be in the park. Kick us out of the park, we’ll hit the curbs.”

Danny Boy says he’s part of a Valley gang, the Mickey Mouse Club. His not-so-dangerous-looking friends, dressed in white T-shirts and jeans, cheer him on. They stand by their cars, drinking and smoking.

“Hangouts change all the time. Anytime there’s a new one, people go and they don’t stay popular very long. The cops break it up.”

Danny Boy would love to lecture for hours, but a newly discovered party a few blocks away demands his presence.

In a flash, just like its entrance, the crowd is gone. All that remains are crushed beer cans, and Marlboro butts. And two teen-age girls waiting for a friend to take them to a party.

“Every weekend, it’s the same thing,” says Sherry Molvai, 17, a senior at El Camino Real High School. “We come here to figure out where to go next.”

In the meantime, Sherry and her friend must battle boredom. A carload of guys drives by. Everyone is staring at the girls, who turn their heads in disgust. “Guys who leer at you are gross,” says Sherry.

Just then, their savior arrives. It’s Lori behind the wheel, with three friends. No time for opening remarks.

“Is John having a party?” Lori Gessert, 16, an El Camino junior, blurts out even before the car comes to a stop. “Let’s get out of here.”

But they’re not sure John’s having a party, so they wait. Midi Stanford, 17, also an El Camino junior, can’t wait. Her eyes light up with an idea. “Let’s go ask those guys over there if there are any parties around.” Two minutes later, Midi returns disappointed. “I was supposed to go to dinner with my boyfriend, but we had a fight and I shined him. Now the night’s almost gone.”

Finally, Lori and Midi lose all patience. Taking the other girls, they head off to John’s house, party or not.

Platt is now completely empty. Again.

Not for long. Here come Danny Boy and his buddies again. The party they went to didn’t last long. Somebody got into a fight, the cops came, and everyone scattered. No choice, they had to go back to Platt and regroup.

Lori, Midi, and Sherry follow close behind. They had gone to the same party. Midi is “real bummed” now. “We could be at Platt ten different times in a single night.”

By 11 p.m., the West Valley has closed down. Everyone’s asleep or at Platt. Among them are students from El Camino, Taft High School, Canoga Park High School, and Calabasas High School.

Economics and class distinctions don’t seem to matter. A shiny Porsche is parked next to a dirty 1971 Volkswagen.

With no official parties left, Platt’s several dozen survivors make their own. There is plenty of beer and cigarettes to go around.

Temmi Folon, a security guard, stands in front of the Baskin-Robbins. His arms are folded, his patience about to end. “When it’s out of control, I call the cops. It’s not out of control now.”

Still, Folon, an immigrant from Nigeria, tries to tell the teens to calm down or leave. They laugh at him. So he goes away.

“We get to know some of the security guards on a first-name basis,” says Amy Zimand, 16, an El Camino junior.

As midnight approaches, the crowd begins to empty, apparently for the last time. Amy is among the satisfied.

“Church Hill was great,” says Amy of a West Valley hangout on a hill near a church, “until they put that gate up. Now Platt is definitely the best.”

Fans of Tommy’s will argue that point.

The Valley’s most popular Tommy’s is on Roscoe in Sepulveda, across from the Anheuser-Busch plant. A few teen-agers trickle in during the early evening hours, but the heaviest turnout doesn’t begin until after midnight. Parties, concerts, movies--everything’s over, and it’s time for Tommy’s.

For five girls from Simi Valley and Venice, this Saturday night is only their second visit to Tommy’s. “We have to come here,” says Laurenchia Petrovit, 16, a junior at Royal High in Simi Hills. “There’s nothing to do in Simi Hills.”

The girls are here to cruise. For guys, of course. The night before, the fivesome had met guys who told them to come to Tommy’s. They followed the guys but met “better looking” guys at Tommy’s.

“We gave them (the uglier ones) fake names,” laughs Laurenchia. “Then you don’t have to deal with them.”

That was last night. Tonight, they’re approached by a trio of guys. Their leader, Tom Salinas of Arleta, stops the girls to ask them what they’re doing. The girls stop. Now the task is to keep their attention.

They do a good job. As one of his friends entertains the other girls with jokes and stories, Tom makes his move on Laurenchia. He’s good. Soon, she is sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car, drinking beer.

Laurenchia: “Do you like to fight?”

Tom: “No.”

They move on to other topics.

Meanwhile, the quiet member of the male trio can’t stop smiling. “My friends are all 21. They just like younger girls,” whispers Raymond Perales of Arleta. “That’s why I’m staying away.”

Raymond is also watching the other action at Tommy’s. Every few minutes, it seems, a car wreck is narrowly avoided in the drive-through lane. One red Volkswagen goes back and forth at least a half dozen times.

“We call them cruisers,” says Mark Nethercutt, one of Tommy’s three security guards. “They look to see the crowd, then come back a few minutes later.”

Back to Tom and Laurenchia. Looks like Tom’s going to get Laurenchia’s phone number.

Laurenchia: “You got to call me. “

Tom: “Can I have your last name, too? I want the whole thing.”

Laurenchia: “You want my middle name, too?”

Tom: “And your address.”

She gives it to him. The truth.

Shortly before 2 a.m., the girls take off. The guys go into Tommy’s for their burgers.

For Tommy’s, the night is still young. Just then, two limos enter the drive-through lane. A girl pops through the roof.

“There’s no place else open,” says Amanda Lyon, 18, a Royal High senior, who just came from the Simi High prom. Amanda doesn’t get anything to eat because she’s afraid of ruining her dress.

Mark Nethercutt shows no emotion. After three years of patroling Tommy’s, nothing surprises him any more.

“Some of the teen-agers you just look at, some you just laugh at. This is their home away from home.”