Thanksgiving with the Skipper

FADE IN:
EXT. 372 EAST OLIVE #4 – BURBANK, CALIFORNIA

Thanksgiving, 1977
A one-bedroom walk-up on the corner of Glenoaks and Olive. To the left of the dingy building, a fire station. To the right, a busy intersection.
Inside: unfurnished, with a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned since World War II.
No furniture to speak of—just a 13-inch black-and-white television and a portable turntable. Albums lean against the wall: ELO – Out of the Blue, Boz Scaggs – Silk Degrees, Weather Report. There may have been others, but these were the ones that got the most airtime.
The kitchen cupboards are mostly bare. The refrigerator even more so—save for a six-pack of discount beer and a pitcher of chilled L.A. water (yum).
Somewhere near the turntable sits a colorful red-and-green fruitcake tin containing over an ounce of pot, along with a pack of rolling papers. It should be noted, for the record, that the television, the record player, the albums, and the pot were all gifts from my girlfriend at the time.
I slept on an old, filthy mattress in the bedroom (don’t worry—I put a sheet on it). My roommate, Henry, slept in a sleeping bag.
To call it living would be… generous.
But today was a holiday.
Today was special.
Tonight was--
Thanksgiving With the Skipper!
If it hadn’t been for Tamara, there would have been no Thanksgiving at all. Tamara was the choreographer—and girlfriend—of my friend Rick, who had joined me on my Los Angeles adventure. She took pity on 372 East Olive #4 and invited both Henry and me out to dinner.
That she chose Skipper Alan Hale’s Lobster Barrel for our holiday festivities was an unexpected bonus.
We cleaned up nicely—Henry and Rick in sport coats, and me in my rust-colored, crushed-velvet pimp suit. After imbibing in the tin’s contents, Tamara picked us up in her Toyota, and we were off.
While the events of the night have grown a bit foggy over time, there are a few things I remember:

1. Alan Hale--not in his Skipper outfit, but in a very loud sport jacket—met us at the door.
2. We were seated in a corner booth and ordered traditional Thanksgiving turkey dinners.
3. We had a great time—three guys grateful to be out on the holiday.

Hale circulated throughout the restaurant, shaking hands and making sure everyone was having a good time.
And finally—and most importantly—the great man himself visited our table shortly before dessert. He was pleasant, charming… and completely unprepared for the question I was about to ask.
“Could you act mad, say ‘Gilligan,’ and then slap me over the head with your captain’s cap?”
A hush fell over the table as Alan Hale Jr. studied us carefully. After a short pause, he said:
“No, I can’t do that. Enjoy your dessert.”
Still… I wasn’t entirely crestfallen. Dinner—and dessert—were pretty good.