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 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. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson was legendary in our eyes, for he was akin to a walking history book on the area and all of its happenings. He was a master storyteller, in our opinion, and the majority of our time spent in the diner was listening to him take us down memory lane.
Mr. Thompson had a way of making all his stories come alive—as if they happened a second ago, or even as if they were happening right now. We would sit in our favorite booth and listen to Mr. Thompson tell us stories about what it was like to grow up in the ’50s and ’60s. Almost every day we would ride our bikes to the diner, order our favorite food—chocolate malts and fries—and when we were just about done eating, Brandon’s dad would pull up a chair, and the stories would begin.
Out would come the stories of his high school years. We would sit on the edges of our seats with eyes wide and jaws hanging open.
“Ah,” he lamented, “those were the days—great music, great cars, and simple living. We didn’t have much, but what we did have, we kept, cleaned, and honored.” He looked away. “No, we weren’t disposable then.”
His memories and his descriptive detail were fascinating. As he talked, we could see all the girls in big, full skirts and tight sweaters that never quite showed figures… only insinuated what was beneath. We could even see their black-and-white saddle shoes, as if they were standing right in front of us.
Then Mr. Thompson would tell us about the guys with their hair slicked back, using so much grease that you could almost feel it drip onto your arm. We envisioned their Levis rolled up above the ankle, with white socks and penny loafers, sometimes with a bright, shiny new penny in them. Mr. Thompson said that the more rebellious car guys wore white T-shirts with a cigarette box rolled up in the sleeve.
It was one thing to imagine the people, but for us, the most amazing stories were about the cars that raced on the quarter-mile.
Through Mr. Thompson’s stories and memories, we could see the bright-colored cars with engines that revved so high it made bystanders’ ears hurt. Then, when he remembered the actual races, we could smell the burning rubber from the tires, hear the screams from the engines in our ears, and taste the smoke from the exhaust. We experienced everything, if only in our minds.
Directly next to our booth was what Mr. Thompson called the Wall of Fame. Every time a race was won, the driver had his picture taken next to his car. This was then framed and placed on the wall with his race time recorded on it. There were hundreds of these pictures, and we loved to stand and look at them. One of our favorites was Tommy with his dilapidated-looking car.
Mr. Thompson would tell us all about the cars on the wall, as well as the ones that didn’t make it. He told us that cars back then were built by what he called “shade mechanics.” These were enthusiasts who worked in the back yards and garages of people’s homes with what resources they could get. Rarely did anyone take a car to a mechanic—experts were unheard of. Everyone worked on his own car, and just about everyone could fix anyone else’s car with a screwdriver and a wrench.
Eventually, Mr. Thompson would go into the finer points of engine building. He’d tell us how fast certain engines could go, and how to fix them so they would go even faster. It all sounded so wonderful to us. Even though we didn’t have a clue as to what he meant when he talked about a Willys coupe or a blown 350, we all just nodded and pretended to know.
“You see, with an engine, it’s a simple matter of numbers. The higher the number, the faster and stronger the engine is,” Mr. Thompson would tell us.
“Uh-huh,” we nodded. It was only a matter of time before we figured it out for ourselves.
All five of us were pretty interested in the cars, but Runaway was always the one who wanted to know about everything—what kind of engine each car had, what color the car was, whether it was fast or not, and what car club they were in.
It seemed that all the high schools in our city area had car clubs. These clubs consisted of a bunch of guys who had fast cars and loved to race. The pictures on the Wall of Fame listed the car club each driver hailed from.
We heard about such clubs as The Shakers, The Jokers, The Aces, and The Kings. From what Mr. Thompson said, the car club that he was in, The Cruisers, was pretty good, but the best club, the one that had the fastest and newest cars, was the club from Upland High known as The Roadmasters.
It wasn’t uncommon to have multiple clubs in one school, according to Mr. Thompson, but Upland was always the best.
We looked up on the Wall of Fame and found dozens of drivers from there. The rest of the pictures were drivers and clubs from all over this area—Bonita, Alta Loma, Claremont, and Glendora. Most schools had at least two clubs apiece, and on any given weekend night, a race would happen.
He reminded us again of racing for pink slips and the risk of walking home instead of driving home.
We had started the day talking about pink slips again, and we were still in disbelief.
“You’re kidding, right?” Grant said. He was the biggest and the burliest one of us all. “You mean they’d actually just give their car away?”
“Well,” Mr. Thompson said, “It wasn’t as bad as all that.”
He reminded us that things cost a lot less in those days, and losing a car then would not be as bad as now. He even told us that he once built a car and then sold it for $50. According to him—and he reminded us again of Tommy’s car—the important thing wasn’t what the car looked like, it was what
was under the hood. Many times, people get so overly concerned with the paint or wheels or flash that they don’t pay attention to how the car was actually built. To further his point, he showed us a picture of a 1932 Roadster that was as ugly as the day is long, but it had the fastest quarter-mile time compared to everyone else on the wall.
Many times, if someone lost a car and wanted it back, they would rebuild whatever they could find, sometimes from friends or junkyards. They didn’t care what it looked like, or even whether it was painted—they just wanted to race and win their original car back.
Everything we ever knew about cars came from Mr. Thompson. He taught us about carburetors, cams, superchargers, rear ends, bore and balancing, port heads, gear ratios, and everything else that could be done to an engine. He taught us first about engine manufacturers—Chevy, Buick, or Ford. Then he taught us types—big block, small block, Hemi, Wayne Horning, and Mopar. He gave us engine numbers—383, 321 426, and the like. Every car manufacturer had its own particular numbering system, and you just had to learn it. He also explained to us that the size of the car also mattered. If you had a big car, like the 1950s Chevy Bel Air, you would have to put in a pretty big engine, like a 426, not only because of circumference and cubic inches, but also because those cars weighed a lot.
However, if you had a smaller car, like the 1960s Mustang, then there just wasn’t enough room to put the same engine that a Bel Air used, so you’d have to go with a smaller engine, like a 289, and then build it differently. There was such a science in it that it truly amazed us and we cemented the knowledge into our brains.
After listening to stories for hours with Mr. Thompson virtually every day, our adrenalin would be so pumped up about racing cars that we’d get on our bikes and race our fastest down the old quarter-mile. We would pretend we were in a race and that one of us would walk away with his picture on a wall, and the other would be minus one bike. Grant was bigger and stronger than all of us, so he usually won.