Runaway “Their Moment in Time” (33 page)

“Apparently,” Brian said, as he looked at me with raised eyebrows.

All three of us ran to help Grant, as he was now out of his car and was pushing it into the parking lot. Bystanders had also jumped in to help him get his car quickly off the quarter-mile. As we pushed it into a parking space, I looked over at him.

“Dude, that sucks.”

“Yeah,” Brian added.

He slowly put his car in park and looked at it.

“Well,” he said as he ran his hand through his hair, “it happens.” He walked around to his trunk and popped it open, and pulled out some tools and a new belt.

“What the… ?” I was in awe.

Stephen laughed.

“Topher, one thing you gotta know about me… I am always prepared.” And then, under his breath, he added, “for any situation.”

“I guess so.” I saw movement from the corner of my eye and turned in time to see a new board go up on the diner.

The final race would be Runaway versus Bret. The Shakers had fourteen points, and The Rebels had seven.

“Well, we definitely have the edge for the trophy,” I said.

“Yes, but as we all know, it could all be lost in one race,” Stephen added.

“Who’s the one of little faith now?” I asked.

We were interrupted by Runaway returning. I was both proud of her and excited for her—she was going to get the race she deserved.

“What are you grinning at?” Grant looked at me.

“Nothing,” I shook my head, trying to act as if I had not been caught in a daydream. “Just glad that part’s over.”

“Yeah—the fun is just beginning,” he said flatly.

I turned to look for Runaway, as they were only giving her ten minutes before having to arrive at the starting line. I glanced over to where The Rebels were and saw Bret and all of his friends standing around him. He looked pensive, stiff, and unhappy, but I could also sense a hint of nervousness, for which I was glad.

“Who is taking the pink slips and holding them?” I asked.

“No one,” said Grant, as he worked under his hood. “They’re keeping their own and then handing them over at the end of the race, but they’re certainly not doing it so the city officials can see—it will be on their honor.”

I looked at him questioningly.

“Her dad told me,” he said, as he motioned with his head over to where he was standing. I saw Runaway’s dad standing nearby and watching her. He had already gone over her car, as she had raced so much today—just making sure everything was in line.

Now she stood, looking at her car for the longest time, covering every inch with her eyes. Nothing went unnoticed. She walked around the car counterclockwise, with her left hand dragging along the side. She let it slide against the smooth paint, going slowly from the driver’s side door, moving across the rear fender, letting her entire palm cover and drag along the chrome flare. Then she let her hand fall against the flat of the trunk while she walked the back of the car. When she came to the rear passenger side, her fingers delicately touched and curved to the Chevy’s pointed tail fins. Runaway never took her eyes off of her car—they were intense, yet soft, in the way she admired this piece of machinery. She never stopped walking the car—she simply headed to the front of it with her fingers again softly touching the singular chrome piece that followed the car. And then finally she reached the front where her hand touched the gold three notches, until it finally rested on the Chevy emblem on the front of the hood. She squatted down in front of it and placed her head against the hood. Her hands rested against the cool of the chrome bumper and I could see her eyes close. She remained there, squatting down in front of it, for a long time. When she finally did move, it was only to wipe her hand across the Chevy emblem itself.

They pulled up to the starting line, both cars side-by-side, their bumpers perfectly aligned, about twenty feet apart.

Runaway stared straight ahead. I could see her shaking her right hand up and down to loosen up her wrist. Her left hand firmly gripped the top of the steering wheel.

Bret looked over at her with a smile on his face while he revved his supercharged ’55. I had tried to tell her how fast his car came off the line, but she wouldn’t focus on my eyes, let alone my words. Now she just kept shaking her wrist out and curling her fingers in and out, while letting her car idle. Her ’57 had a low grumble, and it clearly shook every piece of metal as the power under the engine remained in neutral.

Bret continued to rev his engine, trying to intimidate her, I’m sure—but she wasn’t even paying attention to him. She just stared at the distant finish line and listened to her engine.

Finally she saw that the judge had stepped out to begin the race. Not until he took his place did she even bother to punch the gas and listen to her car whine with the supercharger. It revved high—it was like a constant cry, and the more octane, the louder she wailed. Runaway backed off the gas and let her ’57 settle back down to a low grumble. She was conservative—she didn’t need to continue to rev up her engine to prove it was powerful. Bret, on the other hand, constantly gassed his engine, almost as if he was driving the sound into everyone’s brain.

The official took his stance just ten feet in front of the two cars, standing in the space between the cars, so that when they took off, both would pass by him—one on the left and the other on the right.

Runaway was in the south lane, closest to the diner, and Bret was in the north lane. Her dad stood next to us, with his face stern and serene. He seemed to be at peace and didn’t show any signs of worry.

I, on the other hand, was a mess. I felt like I did when I first saw her race and her engine caught fire when we were thirteen—my stomach was knotted and tight, and my heart rate increased with every breath. If I was feeling this way, I couldn’t imagine how everyone else must be feeling. I knew from the looks on their faces that every racer was a ball of nerves, as the rumor of the pink slips had been confirmed. The Imperials stood with us, with Vincent in front—I could see all were staring at Runaway and not once glancing at Bret.

The towel was being fluttered out. Not until that moment did Runaway move—her eyes only flickered from one thing to another, but she never moved her head.

We saw her hand move to two distinct places toward the dashboard, and then it rested on the shifter. Once she placed her hand there, she put it in gear and power braked the car. Her tires inched cautiously forward as she crept closer to the line. When she gassed it more, that ’57 torqued from the left to the right side as her whole car rocked.

I didn’t see what happened next, so much as I heard what occurred. They say that the memory can play tricks on a person, and this is what happened to me. I remember only what I heard, as all other senses were mute. Simultaneously, I heard the screams of engines and a melody drift through the air—I didn’t know which high-pitched screams came from which engine, but they both had the same force.

And somewhere in the cacophony, I heard the sound of a familiar tune and lyrics:

As I walk alone…

In the next instant I felt a vice-like grip on my arm. Only subconsciously did I realize it was Grant who had grabbed me.

My vision was restored with the pain from Grant’s grip. I looked and I caught the towel drop and saw the two cars coming off the line. Although Runaway’s reactions were amazing, you could tell Bret had been practicing, for the cars almost came off the line at the same time. I say almost, because Bret’s clutching held him back a fraction of an instant.

Runaway forced the gas pedal down and her car immediately responded, but Bret had to gas and clutch—he had to wait for the tires to take hold. His tires squealed for a few rotations, but then the rear end grabbed and catapulted him forward.

Both cars were side by side, pulling the same amount of power and torque. Now, as we had hoped, it would come down to shifting.

Both cars were nearing the end of first gear. We could hear the RPMs rise in a fraction of an instant. I was sure Bret would power shift. I prayed like a madman in my head that her automatic shifting would be enough, for Bret was not going to mis-shift.

I think I had heard Bret shift before Runaway and felt Grant’s fingers almost pierce my skin—hearing Bret shifting even half a second before Runaway meant he had to clutch, but even if he power shifted and never took his foot off the gas, there would still be a moment when the clutch would engage and the flywheel would just be spinning, eliminating power to the rear end.

Runaway shifted half a second later and I heard and saw nothing—her car never lost its engagement and never backed off. They shifted again, and then they both were in third gear and still side-by-side, although they had another gear to go.

I watched in horror at what happened next. Bret’s ’55 lurched forward and gained at least one bumper length ahead of Runaway. I suddenly heard her car go from a normal cry of an accelerating supercharged engine to a screaming motor that sounded like it was going to blow. Somewhere in the back of me I heard someone say, “She downshifted back to second!”

If that was true, I knew her tachometer needle was buried in the red danger zone—but I was sure she didn’t care about losing an engine as much as she cared about losing her entire car.

Runaway regained her lost speed and quickly shifted from second, and then back into third. I knew her foot had to be through the floor board, as I’m sure she never let up. But I also knew that she knew that car so well, she could listen to the sound of the engine and know how much it could withstand. Her shifting was so fast and strong that the car kept screaming toward the finish.

Bret was still in third gear when Runaway had downshifted and then quickly upshifted —he shifted into third and regained his lost edge. From this moment forward it was sheer power, torque, acceleration and driving that would guarantee the winner.

I told myself that this was it—this was the last moment. I held my breath, for I knew that breathing took too much effort. I didn’t want to miss this minute, this second for anything, I wanted it to be etched in my memory and consciousness forever…  so I forced myself to not move, and just take it all in.

I watched with a hawk’s scrutinizing vision to see the outcome.

And then, in a moment, a quick breath, and a blink of an eye, it was all over…

Epilogue

And now here I was again, some twenty years later. I  parked my Camaro next to Grant’s Willys and got out. It was so good to be back, surrounded by what was familiar. I stood and looked at the cars I had parked next to—they were just as I had remembered: ’41 Willys, ’32 Roadster, and a ’70 Buick GS. And without too much more hesitation, I walked into the diner and saw Grant, Stephen, and Brian, waiting for me in our booth.

“Topher, is that you?” I heard Grant’s voice before I saw him. “We were just wondering if you’d show. I just got the message myself this morning.”

“I’ll be damned, Grant,” I said, as I walked toward him. “How ya doin,’ man?” I shook his hand.

How ya doin’?
I thought. It had been over twenty years since I had seen one of my very best friends, and I could only come up with this simple question.

Of course, his face looked just the same as I had remembered, only older. He was much larger than I could have ever predicted—taller, broader and heavier. And I noticed that his hand was twice the size of mine as he shook it. After a split second of cordial hellos, he grabbed me and put me into a bear hug.

“It’s really good to see you—I thought about looking you up so many times, but life just got in the way, you know?”

“Yeah,” I reflected. “I know.”

Standing by his side, I was next greeted by Brian, with the same boyish face and broad grin that I had always remembered.

“Hey, man, how are you? Dang, boy, you look good,” he said with a grin.

“Thanks,” I replied. “You look like you’re at the top of your game.” Brian really did look better than I had expected—no gray, and no fat.

“Yeah, life in the east keeps me out of the nasty rays of So Cal,” he said as he slapped my back.

“You’re on the east coast now?” I said, bewildered.

“Yeah, sort of. I’m a pediatric ear-nose-and-throat man. I went to college at the University of Michigan and just decided to stay. It’s not ‘technically’ the east coast, but it is as close as I’ll ever get.  Now I take kids’ tonsils out for a living.” He laughed. “What about you?”

“Nothing as exciting as that, I can tell you,” I said, laughing. “And what about you?” I turned my attention to Stephen, who now approached where we were standing. He walked with a limp, and at times, I could have sworn he should be using a cane.

He saw me staring at his knee, “Ah, hell, I’m fine.” He looked at me and grinned. “It’s just that the more I inevitably age, the more the arthritis sets in and my leg stiffens up a bit. If I walk around a bit, it loosens right up and I can do a tap dance.” He winked at me.

“Stephen,” I nodded my head to him and gave him a grin. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“Nothing much—just trying to defeat ignorance in a collegiate atmosphere using literature as a catalyst.”

“Come again?” I said, with eyebrows raised.

He smiled. “I’m a college professor at the University of Colorado, and you can call me Dr. Stephen.” He had a broad smile on his face as he stood next to Brian.

“Good Lord, don’t get us started—Dr. Stephen,” Grant said, with a twinge of sarcasm. “It looks like I’m the only loser in the bunch. I’m just a regular fella, teaching high school history and coaching football. No doctorate for me.” He looked at Brian and Stephen playfully.

“Oh, please, Grant,” Stephen said. “The absence of professional sports in our lives is enough to demean us forever in your eyes. Therefore, we ignore your verbiage.”

“What?” I looked at him. “It’s been a while since I spoke Stephen, so you’ll have to forgive me.”

“Forgiveness is not something I am overly familiar with.” Stephen looked at me with a hint of a smile. “However, you do have a point. Grant played professional football,” he finished succinctly.

“You played for the pros?” I now gawked at Grant, ignoring Stephen completely because I was so shocked by what I heard.

“Aw, it’s not as exciting as it sounds.” He tried to act nonchalant, which was so typical of the Grant I remembered. “I went to the draft right out of college—the Rams actually picked me up. But then, after only two weeks, I was in a scrimmage and somebody hit my knee sideways. That ended my career in the pros and began my career as a coach. Half the time I feel like Stephen over there, hobbling around.” Grant looked down at his knee and mimicked walking like a ninety-eight-year-old.

Suddenly he changed his tone to pure adoration. “I love coaching, though, and I love the kids. I really get a kick out of them. They remind me so much of us…” His voice trailed off.

I didn’t know where it came from—maybe it was because I had relived my entire senior year in the short drive from my parent’s house to the diner, but I blurted out, “Do you ever tell them about us?” I asked. “And what we did?” The memories were still fresh in my head.

“No.” He looked at me with both a surprised and a quizzical look. “Actually, that is a part of my life I like to keep just to myself.”

Exactly,
I thought to myself.

It seemed everyone was taken aback by the sudden change of topic, but we all consented and nodded in agreement.

Brian broke our flow of memories. “Well, why we are all standing here? Let’s have a seat,” he suggested. But before he sat back down, he walked over and plugged in a rather dusty jukebox, put some quarters in and pressed some numbers for songs.

As we walked over to our booth to sit down, we caught sight of our picture on the Wall of Fame—an enormous eleven-by-fourteen picture we had taken just days before the Tri City Championship. Here were the memories that had plagued me.

“You think she called us here?” Brian asked, as we sat down. I was glad he asked first, because I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up again. But how could we talk about anything else sitting in this diner?

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I never heard from her again after we graduated. How about any of you?”

“Nope, not a word,” said Grant.

“Nor I,” Stephen echoed.

“Jeez, everything is still the same,” I said, as we looked around at all the club pictures up on the wall. I looked over at our picture again and thought about those final days.

“God, what a life that was,” I said. It wasn’t a question, an opinion, or a fact…it was a statement of reflection that I had allowed to finally surface. I didn’t expect anyone to answer me or comment, and true to my friends—silence was my only answer. I now allowed all the emotion that I had kept at bay for over twenty years to wash over me.  I had never tried to think of those days because I knew what I was missing, and I could never recreate those days or those friendships…it was gone.

We continued to talk about the years gone by and the pain we had all felt when we went our separate ways, not really ever understanding why we let our friendship fade away.

“It’s amazing, really,” Stephen said. “How time simply monopolizes everything, and then, before you realize it, all you have left are memories. I never meant to drift apart—I thought we all would stay close. Of course, then college begins, and you suddenly have a whole new set of dreams.” It sounded like an apology.

“I agree—I left and never looked back,” Brian mused. “Then, finally, when I did remember, it was too late to do anything about it.”

“Yep,” Grant agreed, nodding his head.

I was collecting my thoughts and trying to decide what to say when we heard the song start to play.

There and then I realized that, no matter how many times I have heard it in the past twenty-two years, it still made my stomach drop. My heart beat a little faster and I was transported back in time to a small quarter-mile and a girl I would have killed for.

There was no mistaking the sounds that came blaring out of the jukebox. Everyone at the table felt it, too—we couldn’t look at each other because of whatever guilt we felt—time, space, effort, personal necessity, or whatever we based our separation on. But each of us at that moment realized that we were all guilty and had contributed to the unintentional parting of ways. Suddenly I realized what Runaway had known and tried to tell me all those years ago.

It seemed as if the jukebox knew our souls better than we did, for Del Shannon’s “Runaway” never sounded better. We sat silently and allowed the song to fill our souls.

“What was amiss with her those last few days? You know, I have repeated the sequence over and over in my mind, and have come up barren. I am fully aware that nothing changed between us—we had it all, yet she was so strange, so quiet, so reserved,” Stephen reflected.

“She didn’t want this to happen,” I said.

And I knew that not only I—but all of us—had let her down. I stared at the table and seemed to be only speaking to myself as my thoughts came tumbling out of my mouth.

“That was what she was trying to tell me the night before the Tri-City. I didn’t get it then—she kept asking me if I knew what a ‘moment in time’ was. I told her ‘no’ but now I get it,” I told them.

She didn’t want this to happen,”  I said again in a guilty whisper.

“Didn’t want what to happen?” Grant asked.

“This.” I said looking up and pointing to all of us sitting in the booth. “All of us sitting around, all melancholy—she knew it would all end. We didn’t, but she did, and she couldn’t handle the inevitable.”

I looked at every single one of them.

“Runaway, not handle something? That girl had nerves of steel. Come on, surely you remember how she handled Bret?” Stephen said.

“No, she didn’t have nerves of steel,” I immediately corrected. “Not when it came to us. Don’t you see?” I looked them in the eye. It all made sense to me now and I got it.

“Runaway knew that after the city finals, it would all end. Everything… the club, high school, even our friendship. She once told me that she believed that everyone has a time in their life that is irreplaceable—she called it ‘moment in time.’ When moments happen, there is nothing you can do to prolong them—she also felt that friends can never be as close as they are at that moment. But what’s worse is that, no matter how hard you try, you can never get that moment back, and Lord knows that’s the truth. I have never had anyone as close to me as you guys were. And it was the ending of that closeness that she couldn’t face.”

Everyone at the table was quiet and lost in what seemed to be their own shame.

“Makes sense now,” Grant reflected. “She was the only one I tried to stay in contact with throughout the years, but she never answered my letters.”

I felt like all the years of silence suddenly made sense and I had all the answers—I understood her more now, than I did twenty years ago.

“She didn’t want to be tormented with the memories of a life she lost and could never have again. Don’t you remember, growing up, she always said ‘the closest friends you have are the ones you grow up with,’ and without her, we all just moved apart,” I said.