Runaway “Their Moment in Time” Read Free Page A

diners in this area.”
     
    We all looked at each other. “There are?” we asked. “Where?”
     
    I suppose, being young, we thought our small town was the entire world, and all that was in it was all that there was.
     
    Mr. Thompson laughed, “You guys, do you think that this is the only place around? The Oasis here is the smallest.”
     
    My curiosity was piqued. “How come we don’t know about them? Can we go see them?” I asked.
     
    He chuckled again. “Sure, you can see them anytime—I still swing by, from time to time, just to get a glimpse. There is one just down the road, here on Foothill. It’s in Pomona, though, and it’s called Henry’s. It’s a big, round building and the parking lot just makes a circle all the way around it.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “The walls are all glass and the roof is covered in white rock. Cars would just drive around and around… that’s what we called cruising.” He smiled.
     
    “Does it have a quarter-mile, too?” Runaway asked.
     
    “No,” he smiled, quite proud. “Actually, we are the only one with a quarter-mile, because, well… it’s not really a quarter-mile—it’s just an old road that we used for racing,” Mr. Thompson explained.
     
    “What about the other one? I mean, besides Henry’s,” Grant asked, reminding us of the other diners in this area.
     
    “Aw, the other one is by far the most popular. It’s called Scrivener’s . It’s farther out—down in south Pomona—and much bigger than either The Oasis or Henry’s.”
     
    Brandon, Mr. Thompson’s son, spoke up. “Yeah, but Dad, didn’t you tell me they all came here?” he asked, looking at his dad like maybe he had been lied to.
     
    “Yes, son, I did. The people who came here were the locals who wanted to race for pink slips. But honestly,” he paused for clarification, “if you wanted to race the big guns—the guys with the money and the know-how—you went to Scrivener’s. They’re right near Holt Boulevard, and the racers would use that for their quarter-mile. Some people even went down to Hollywood and raced at Sunset and Vine. But the cops didn’t like it much.”
     
    “So did people have to belong to a car club in order to race? Or could they just do it on their own?” Runaway asked.
     
    “Well, it seems to me that I knew this one guy who used to go down to Scrivener’s on his own and look for someone to race. That’s his picture, right up there.”
     
    Mr. Thompson pointed to an old picture of a guy standing next to what looked like a bucket of rust. It wasn’t painted, it didn’t have any bumpers or chrome, and it had no hubcaps—it looked like a piece of junk. Mr. Thompson told us it was a 1947 Ford two-door sedan. That information was lost on us, but the guy did have his picture on The Wall, so we figured his car must have been fast.
     
    “That’s Tommy. He took that car down to Hollywood one night and cruised around, looking for a race.” His eyes flashed with excitement. “He came upon this beautiful, brand-new 1957 Corvette—it belonged to a gorgeous blonde who was leaning against the fender. Tommy drove that old, ugly car right up to her, told her she had a beautiful car, and asked if she wanted to race it.”
     
    He smiled at this. “Well, as you can imagine, she just laughed at him. But he persisted, and finally she gave in. He asked her what she wanted to race for, and she smiled and said, ‘A Coke.’ Well, Tommy said ‘Fine,’ so they raced, and wouldn’t you know, he beat the pants off of that ’Vette.” A grin remained on his face.
     
    “What happened?” we all asked, leaning in to Mr. Thompson, thoroughly enjoying the story.
     
    “After the race, the two of them went to a little diner down there in Hollywood, and she bought him a Coke. It was at that time that Tommy figured out who his lovely opponent was.”
     
    “Who?” we asked.
     
    “None other than Connie Stevens!” Mr. Thompson said