Runaway “Their Moment in Time” Read Free Page B

with glee as he clapped his hands.
     
    “Who?” we all said together, wrinkling our noses and looking at each other.
     
    “What?” He looked at us with such astonishment. “Connie Stevens, the actress? You mean to tell me you don’t know who she is? Oh for heaven’s sake,” he rolled his eyes. “She later became a very popular movie star.”
     
    We looked at him and shook our heads—we had no clue as to who this girl was, although we did like the story.
     
    Mr. Thompson, despite our not knowing this famous person, continued telling his stories—always making sure to include engines and races for us.
     
    There were many things that, as young kids, we liked about the diner besides Mr. Thompson. Because our parents had grown up during the 50s and 60s, we were very influenced by their tastes and lifestyle. It was difficult not to catch them watching re-runs from those eras, or watching old movies on TV. The diner itself was still reminiscent of those times and for us it worked. We knew who all the old actors and actresses were, we knew how rock and roll got started, and we knew all the familiar faces associated with that time. Our parents were still in some ways attached to that era, and for us the Oasis was a time capsule from those two eras that only solidified what we saw at home. The Oasis was rustic and authentic, like something straight out of American Graffiti —it had a black-and-white checkered floor, black booths with white piping, and white Formica tables. On each table was a small jukebox, a napkin holder, a tall straw holder and an ash tray. Even today there are restaurants that are decorated to mimic this décor—however, the Oasis was the real deal.
     
    The booths were mostly small—only about four people could sit in them, two on each side. But there were a few circular booths that could hold six, and that was where we sat.
     
    There was a soda fountain bar that served both cherry and vanilla Coke.
     
    On the walls of the diner hung old pictures of famous actors, actresses, and musicians. The glassed front entrance, which faced north, offered a spectacular view of the mountain range.
     
    Our favorite attribute, though, sat in the corner. The diner was in the shape of a square, and in the southeast corner sat an enormous Wurlitzer jukebox. It wasn’t one of those short, squatty jukeboxes that are now so common in pizza places, where only CDs play—this model had a tall, round, multicolored top. When it played records, bubbles ran through colorfully lighted tubes in a pattern across the front of the box.
     
    The old jukebox played all the great songs of the 1950s and ’60s. When I was young, I would play the jukebox just to watch the records change. It was thrilling to watch the mechanical arm reach out grab a record and place it on the turntable.
     
    Mr. Thompson hadn’t modernized any of the music—in fact, all of the original records were still in place. He left them just the way they had been in the old days. It was better that way, even if we thought some of the music was weird. We listened to the likes of Fats Domino, Duane Eddy, The Platters, Chubby Checker, and Elvis. I committed to memory every song and to this day, upon hearing those songs on the random FM or satellite radio station, it wrenches my heart.
     
    Compared to most modern places, the diner was remote, small, and inadequate to support a clientele. But the parking lot was larger than the building itself. The exterior more than made up for lack of interior space, with the drive-up facilities located around the building.
     
    Customers parked their cars next to speaker poles and gave their order into a speaker. A carhop would deliver their meal on a small tray that attached to their car window. There were more than a few restaurants that sported drive-up facilities, which were the precursors to drive-through windows.
     
    More than the ambiance of the diner, what my friends and I relished most was Brandon’s dad—Mr.