Runaway “Their Moment in Time” (10 page)

This was why I liked Stephen so much. He was a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy. There was not a lot of belaboring a point with him.

“I guess I’m just worried,” I said, as I felt around for the drain plug for my oil pan.

“Topher, you’re consumed with worry—that’s not startling news. What exactly are you worried about this time?”

Found it.

I thought about his question for a minute. I put down the wrench in my hand that I was using to screw the bolt back onto the oil pan, and stared at the underside of my car. It was dirty with years of road grime and old oil. I stared at the oil pan that hung just above my head. What was it that bothered me? Without giving it too much more thought, I said,

“Embarrassment, I guess.” I sighed.
There… I said it.

“Embarrassment?” Without even seeing him, I knew he was now looking up. I heard him stop fiddling with the wrench he was holding. Then he began fumbling with it again, saying, “Well, there is a perfectly nice, narcissistic thought for you.”

“Yeah, great—whatever that means,” I grumbled under my breath, picking up my wrench again.

“It means that you only care about yourself,” he replied. “What do we care what other people think? We are the odd entities anyway, and always have been. Who else is crazy—to use your word—enough to even buy these old cars and drive them? Most every other adolescent at our school possesses a new car—however, we do not. We seem to be perpetually stuck in the past. That, in and of itself, lends itself to being different.” He paused for a fraction of an instant, and then said, “You do worry too much about everything.”

I grabbed my oil filter wrench and began unscrewing it furiously. I knew he was right, but I still had my reservations. To change the conversation, I suddenly took a different line of questioning.

“What do you think of Brandon?”

“What do you mean?” he responded. “I have the same thoughts regarding him I have always had—he is a whiny, simpering fool. Next question.”

“I mean, do you think he buys into all this?” I queried.

“I believe Brandon buys into whatever is in front of his face at the moment. If there were a bigger and more ostentatious opportunity elsewhere, Brandon would follow it. I don’t know that I would say loyalty is one of his strongest attributes, which is why I obviously outwardly and inwardly loathe him.”

Stephen had never spoken so much about his dislike of Brandon before. I thought it best to keep my mouth shut, rather than comment. We had always known that Stephen did not care for Brandon, but evidently we didn’t realize to what extent. Now I knew, and I didn’t disagree with him.

“Are you almost done?” he asked impatiently.

“Nearly,” I said tightening the new oil filter, knowing the conversation was over.

Chapter Six

At the end of August, when school started, we were ready with our cars, attitudes, and attire.

We had spent the few fleeting moments of summer locked in either conversation or simply cruising the city. One of our favorite places to cruise was up and down Foothill Boulevard with our windows down and radios blaring. Sometimes we listened to ’50s music, but more often than not it was the tunes of the ’80s. We’d pass Henry’s, the other drive-in, and watch as people stared at us in our procession—but most often, we’d spent cool summer evenings at Finkbinder Park, where the summer concerts and movies were always playing. Loading blankets and coolers into our cars, we would have a regular ‘beach party’ at our local park.

I didn’t want the summer to end—I didn’t want my last year of high school to march up and hit me in the face. I wanted to start over—to go back in time, not forward.

I knew that most people dream of their final year with great excitement and anticipation. I faced mine with great apprehension. I hadn’t planned for anything after high school—it just seemed that things would always remain the same, and that school would continue on and we would follow it.

The day before school started, we were at the diner, as usual, having dinner and listening to “Walking after Midnight” by Patsy Cline on the jukebox. As usual, Grant was simultaneously famished and exhausted. He ordered two double cheeseburgers with fries, and a malt. None of us had really seen a great deal of him in the past month, as he was always at practice. Now he looked the worse for wear. Football was life to him, and he was actually quite good, but Grant didn’t think he had real talent, so he practiced twice as hard as his team. They, in turn, relied on him twice as much.

The rest of us, Brandon, Stephen and myself, were keeping it on the light side, just having a hamburger and fries. So far this evening, we were only a group of four, as Runaway had yet to make an appearance.

I heard her car before I saw it. I looked up and saw her park—she got out and walked around her car toward the passenger side door. After a few moments, she came strutting into the diner, and I couldn’t tell which stood out more—the expression on her face or the black leather jacket she was wearing. I had a suspicion as to what was on the back of it.

“What have you got on?” Stephen mused, repressing a smile, for he knew exactly what she was wearing. She proudly turned around and there, stitched in white, silver, and red script, it read, “The Shakers.”

“Seen enough?” she taunted.

“If you believe for an instant that I intend to don such a garment…” Stephen began. His face remained stoic, “Well, you assume correctly… where’s mine?” He suddenly grinned.

“Oh, man, that’s cool,” Grant said, looking up and taking a moment away from his half-eaten diner.

“Well, I’ll be,” I smiled. “That’s bitchin’… where’s mine?”

Runaway beamed and said they were in her car.

Trying to get out of the booth fast enough was difficult, as we jumped up, ran out and each grabbed ours. Even Grant, who clearly was not done with his dinner, left it still sitting on his plate. Grabbing the jackets out of her car and trying them on, I felt as if all the crazy dreams we had as kids were finally taking shape, and for the first time I wasn’t worried or embarrassed anymore.

For so long, we had wanted to live in an era that time had erased, of which only memories remained. For us, however, this was only the beginning.

The first day of school dawned unexpectedly cool and breezy. I was glad for it, as I didn’t want to sweat to death walking around in a black leather jacket. I felt like I was in that scene in the movie
Grease,
when the T-Birds show up on the first day of school, and everyone stands and stares.

We drove in our usual procession from our neighborhood to the school parking lot. Ever since we had started driving our cars, we always parked in the same spots. Everyone knew they were our parking spots, and everyone knew our cars. It was an unspoken fact that we were always together.

We proudly now strutted down the halls, our jackets announcing the fact that we had become a car club. It’s one thing to say you’re a club, but a quite different thing to live up to the expectation. We drew a great deal of attention. Everyone kept asking us what was up with our jackets and what “The Shakers” meant, exactly. We usually responded with, “It’s our car club.”

It they persisted in their questioning, we had our answers ready.

“You know—a club for racing out on the quarter-mile behind The Oasis.”

Before we knew it, we started to have a following. Every Friday, after a football game, we would head over to The Oasis, as was our common practice, except now we had people following us and hanging out at the diner. Eventually they would come in and grab a bite to eat. It had been popular for most to go to the local drive-through burger place, but now suddenly everyone was showing up here.

After our first home football game, a guy we had never seen before walked up to our table and started asking questions. We were all eating dinner and congratulating Grant on an amazing game, when he interrupted us.

“So what do you do with your club? Sit and eat?” he asked, like he was trying to be funny.

He had an attitude that I could tell immediately got Runaway’s attention.

“What’s it to you what we do with our club? You in it?” She barely turned her head and glanced at him sideways, while dipping a French fry into her ketchup.

“Duh, no.” He rolled his eyes. “I just don’t see you doing anything else.” He turned and looked out the glass front doors at her car that was parked right in front. “Do you actually race that thing?”

She looked at him squarely this time. Chewing slowly, she said, “Yes, I actually race that thing.” Disdain was dripping from every word when she emphasized the word “thing.”

It’s a common rule that you don’t insult a car. Call it obsessive, weird, or just downright crazy, but when you actually have a love for a car, you never, ever, ever let someone insult it.

“Oh. Well, how fast does it go?”

“Faster than you’ll ever know,” Grant said under his breath.

“Do you have a car?” I asked with contempt. This kid was clearly starting to annoy me.

“Who, me?” The boy looked around. “No, I was just asking, you know. There have been people from other schools wondering what was up with your club and what you guys do.”

I looked over at Runaway and I could see that she understood what was going on. He was here trying to get the lowdown on our club. Right then and there, we knew word had not only spread around our school, but it had also gotten around to other schools that we had started a car club.

Runaway, I could tell, was beside herself with satisfaction. This is what she wanted—for everyone to start talking about the club and asking questions.

“What school are you from?” she asked. “’Cause I know you don’t go to Glendora.”

“No, I don’t. I go to Bonita,” he said, a little more proudly than he should have.

“Oh,” we all said, with just as much disdain as Runaway had used when referring to her car as that “thing.”

“Who sent you?” Runaway asked.

Instinct told us that if this kid was from Bonita, then he more than likely knew Bret. That would be just something that Bret would do—send someone to spy on Runaway. Although we had gone to elementary school and junior high with Bret, we had gone our separate ways during high school. Bret and most of his deadbeat friends went to Bonita High School, which was about five miles from Glendora. But he’d always been trying to find ways to get at us, even during elementary school. He would still yell obscenities at Runaway as she walked by, to which she always retorted. We hadn’t had too many dealings with Bret since Stephen had broken his nose in junior high, although we did see him from time-to-time at later football games.

We always knew he hated us, and we thought that maybe he would forget about it and move on once he went to Bonita. However, we found that, for him, our previous years of torment were only the beginning. Our freshman year Bret thought he would get at Grant by joining the football team and facing him across the line. Perhaps he thought that by trying to out-tackle Grant he would somehow “one-up-him,” but there was only one problem with that. Grant was good—and Bret wasn’t. Although it was our freshman year, Grant didn’t play on the freshman team, he was already on the varsity team while Bret was stuck on Bonita’s freshman team, so they never faced off.

After that, Bret took to crashing any party we attended in Glendora. He and his gang would show up and start showing off.  Most of the time we got sick of their antics, so we stopped going to the parties and simply hung out at the Oasis where we knew he’d never go.

Of course, Bret went to the “better” school, just as he had moved to the “better” neighborhood. I didn’t care where they lived or went to school, so long as we didn’t have to deal with them.

After we got our licenses, we saw him cruising with his crony friends. Most of Bonita’s student body hung out at Henry’s, and Bret was right in the thick of it. In fact, if we ever drove by, Bret never missed a chance to hurl some lame, insulting remark our way, so we always knew that he was just as much as our nemesis as ever. I knew Runaway was very aware of this fact.

The kid now looked around as if he had been caught in some sort of lie. He tried to cover his tracks by stammering out, “No… no… no one—why?”

“Curious, is all,” she shrugged her shoulders. “I know someone who goes to Bonita, and I would think he would be interested in what we’re doing. You see, we’re not real great friends, and he’s pretty sneaky, so I figured he must have sent you out here.”

I completely agreed with Runaway. This kid was exactly like someone who would hang with Bret—he was rude, conniving, and we could clearly tell he thought he was somehow superior.

But Runaway went back to eating her dinner, as if he meant no more to her than an annoying bystander.

The jukebox switched to the Bell Notes singing, “I’ve Had It.”

The guy was not taking the brush-off hint, because he was still standing there in front of our table with his feet rooted to the floor.

“Well?” Stephen looked up at him. “You done? It’s a bit annoying, eating dinner with you standing there with your cavernous mouth open.”

Man, I was glad Stephen was on my side.

Stephen rolled his eyes lazily. “Not to mention it is difficult to monitor our cars with your carcass in the way. Therefore, I will step into the world of clichés and tell you that you make a better door than window.” He looked at the guy piercingly and blinked slowly.

“Not to mention,” he continued, “that etiquette suggests that while one is eating, it is only polite to invite the bystander who stands gaping at another’s food.” Stephen let out a heavy sigh.

“And since I have no interest in inviting you to join us for our repast, then I would suggest you leave while I remain patient and in good humor.” Stephen then ignored him and went back to his dinner.

He said this with so much politeness and hospitality that I almost burst out laughing. I enjoyed his insults. Even if they were rude, trite, or conniving, he could still maintain politeness. It never seemed an insult when he spoke, and only by knowing him did I really know when he was insulting someone. Even when he was angry, he still spoke with a reverence for manners and etiquette.