Not Exactly the Gardens of Eden

If Hawaiian Gardens were a book, it would be Job, the account of the most misfortunate man in the Old Testament.

Hawaiian Gardens is the smallest city in the county, one of the most crowded, one of the poorest, one of the most crime- and gang-ravaged. It was the epicenter of the Oriental fruit fly and the ’95 floods. Two-thirds of its residences are rentals, and not always very orthodox rentals at that. Inspectors once found a family living in the drained swimming pool of an abandoned apartment complex, and paying rent for the privilege.

If Hawaiian Gardens were a stand-up comedian, it would be the disrespected Mr. Dangerfield.

It is a drive-through sort of town, not a drive-to. Its name is like christening a child Chastity, or Einstein--a rash act that begs for contradiction.

And if political inbreeding had the same consequences as genetic inbreeding, its city fathers and mothers, who seem to pass power among themselves like dinner rolls, would have sloping chins: his-and-her council member couples, a former mayor who is now city clerk. If Kenneth Starr finds Arkansas politics incestuous, let him come to Hawaiian Gardens.

The turf fights inside City Hall seem as raucously disputatious as the ones outside: recall notices served as often as coffee; a punch-fest between two councilwomen; the scrutinies of the ACLU, the grand jury, the Fair Political Practices Commission and the FBI; thousands spent on official cell phones in a town you could practically shout across.

Where are the Nielsen people? City politics in Hawaiian Gardens is the best show in town, even if viewers do find themselves wishing for a V-chip.

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In 1990 the city was so desperate it actually invited the Guardian Angels--who’d never been asked anywhere before--to patrol its streets. Last year, after calculating that day in and day out, its money on average bought it three big hours of sheriff’s patrol time a day, Hawaiian Gardens tore up its county contract and gave Walter McKinney a police chief’s badge.

McKinney opened his cop shop 16 months ago, the first new police department in L.A. County in 25 years. A stuccoed building converted from a hairstylist’s and tropical fish store is the HQ of the first HGPD.

The 200% to 300% spike in arrests is often for those annoying quality-of-life crimes. The way McKinney figures it, murder is serendipity, a lightning bolt, but guys hanging at the corner every day drinking--that eats at people. “We didn’t kill anybody,” he hears from the stainless-steel holding tank. “No you didn’t,” he will answer, “but you’re killing the neighborhood.”

A little smile appears when you ask him about blight-flight complaints from nearby towns, especially Cypress, next door in Orange County. McKinney’s toothpaste tube is squeezing The Gardens and sending its gang miscreants elsewhere. He puts it this way: “If you were a youthful guy in this city, and these officers get to know you too quickly, you’d say, ‘I’m going somewhere else, it’s not worth it. Every time I turn a corner, they’re there looking at me.’ ”

More than an area code separates Cypress and Hawaiian Gardens. They are mirror images, Cypress richer, safer, cleaner, and as white as The Gardens is Latino.

The Orange County Register newspaper carried a brooding photo of a footbridge over Coyote Creek channel, linking The Gardens to Cypress. “Crime Corridor,” the caption read, like a pedestrian version of the sealed train that injected Lenin into the heart of Russia in 1917.

To the stucco building behind the Kentucky Fried Chicken, even the skeptics bring cookies and compliments. Police have been promised a 19% raise. If the city doesn’t go broke first.

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A few famous people have called Hawaiian Gardens home--the founder of the Green Burrito chain, and Walkin’ Willie, who traversed the country on foot for cancer awareness.

And Dr. Irving I. Moskowitz, a physician who now divides his foundation’s munificences between Israel, the Promised Land, and Hawaiian Gardens, the rather unpromising land.

The city celebrated Irving Moskowitz Day when he opened his hospital in 1972. In 1988, the city begged him to take over its big moneymaker, a nonprofit bingo hall. Thereafter, he donated $30,000 a month to the city’s food bank. And when Hawaiian Gardens voted 965 to 722 last year for a poker club, Dr. Moskowitz got the contract.

“It’s going to keep this city alive,” the mayor said.

But there is no flow of casino gold. There is no casino. A lawsuit by a councilwoman has blocked it so far.

The casino was to be the lottery-ticket bonanza for a city that just pawned its recreation building and whose deficit amounts to $10,000 for every breathing being in town.

On casino expectations, the city created the police department; one of the city’s most heartening changes may be the last thing it can afford.

There are object lessons here for cranky neighborhoods that long for cityhood, for cities that long for gambling’s largess:

Put not your trust in princes. Nor in aces, kings and jacks.