“I’m not sure yet. Maybe a few months, maybe longer.”
“That’s fine with me. As long as you’re neat and quiet.”
“The neighbors are elderly; they don’t like a lot of noise.”
“I’m quiet. I don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t have parties.”
“Then it’s perfect. Eight hundred a month plus utilities. First and last month’s rent up front. Does that work for you?”
Alex did a quick calculation. Sixteen hundred now, then eight hundred a month. That was fine. He had over thirty thousand in his backpack; he could afford it.
“That works. When can I move in?”
“Whenever you like. Are you bringing furniture?”
“Just a few things. I can move in tonight.”
“Then let’s get the lease signed. I have a standard form; we just need to fill in your information.”
They went to the kitchen and sat at the table. The landlady took out a lease agreement and a pen. Alex gave her his information and signed the lease. He took out the money from his backpack and counted out sixteen hundred dollars. He handed it to the landlady. She counted it, gave him a receipt and the keys.
“There you go. Welcome. If anything breaks, give me a call, and I’ll tell you who to contact for repairs.”
“I’m a mechanic. If something breaks, I can probably fix it myself.”
“Oh, wonderful. Then we’re all set. I’ll come by once a month to check the meters. If you have any questions, call me anytime.”
Alex thanked her, said goodbye, and left the building with the keys to his new apartment in his pocket. So, housing was taken care of. Now he could move his things from the old apartment.
He hailed a cab and went to his old rental. On the way, he wondered: what if Tina was there? What if she’d come back, wanted to talk? But the apartment was empty. Quiet, empty, cold. Tina had taken all her things. All that was left was his: his clothes, a couple of books, his toothbrush in the bathroom.
Alex quickly packed everything into two duffel bags. He didn’t have much. A mechanic’s life doesn’t involve accumulating a lot of stuff. He walked through the apartment one last time, checking to see if he’d forgotten anything. On the nightstand in the bedroom was a photo—their wedding picture. He picked it up and looked at it. Young, happy. Or pretending to be happy? Alex was about to throw the photo in the trash, but he changed his mind. He put it in one of the bags. Let it be. A part of his life, a part of his past.
He locked the apartment and went downstairs. He knocked on the neighbor’s door and left the keys, as Tina had asked. The neighbor, an elderly woman, took the keys and gave Alex a sympathetic look.
“Are you leaving for good?”
“Yes, I’m moving.”
“That’s a shame. You were a good neighbor, so quiet. But your wife…” She shook her head. “Well, it’s none of my business. Good luck to you.”
“Thanks.”
Alex went outside and hailed another cab. He went to his new apartment. On the way, he thought about how his entire previous life fit into two duffel bags. It was both funny and sad.
At the new apartment, he unpacked his things, took a shower, and changed his clothes. He took the backpack with the money and hid it in the closet, under a pile of linens. Then he thought: not the safest place. Tomorrow, he needed to open a bank account and deposit the money. That would be safer.
He lay down on the sofa and turned on the TV. Some news program, commercials, a sitcom. Alex watched without really paying attention. It was just background noise. His thoughts were on the car. The Bel Air. His grandpa’s inheritance. The appraiser was coming tomorrow. What would he say? Would he confirm that the car was authentic, that it was in excellent condition? And what if he didn’t? What if it turned out to be a replica, that his grandpa had been fooled, that the car wasn’t worth what he’d written about?
No, that was silly. Grandpa couldn’t have been wrong. He’d cared for the car himself for 70 years. He knew every nut and bolt.
Alex closed his eyes. Exhaustion hit him suddenly. A heavy weight. He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep right there on the sofa, fully clothed, with the TV murmuring in the background.
He woke up in the morning to his phone ringing. He grabbed it without looking at the screen.
“Hello? Miller? It’s Greg. Where are you?”
Alex sat up, rubbing his face. Crap. Work. He’d only taken one day off.
“Greg, sorry, I completely forgot. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t bother. It’s Saturday. I’m calling to see if you’re coming in on Monday or not.”
“Saturday?” Alex looked at his phone screen. It was indeed Saturday. So yesterday was Friday. And he thought… “I’ll be there. I’ll definitely be there.”
“Well, you better be. We’re swamped. If we can’t keep up, we’ll lose customers.”
“I get it. I’ll be there on Monday.”
Greg grumbled something and hung up. Alex fell back onto the pillow. Saturday. That meant the appraiser was coming at ten. What time was it? Eight in the morning. He needed to get going to the garage.
He got up, washed his face, and got dressed. He ate the rest of yesterday’s sandwich for breakfast, washed it down with tea, and left the apartment. It was a long drive to the garage, clear across town. Alex took the bus, then transferred to another. He stared out the window, thinking about the upcoming meeting. Mike. The classic car appraiser. 20 years of experience. He was probably picky. He’d notice every flaw, every imperfection. Though what imperfections could there be? The car was in perfect condition. Grandpa wouldn’t have let it fall into disrepair.
Alex arrived at the garage at ten to ten. He opened the door and went inside. He pulled the tarp off the car. The Bel Air gleamed in the morning light that streamed through the open door. Beautiful. Just unbelievably beautiful.
At exactly ten, a white van with “Classic Auto Appraisals” written on the side pulled up. Two men got out. One was in his fifties, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. The other was younger, in his thirties, with a camera in his hand. The older man walked up to Alex and extended his hand.
“Mike. This is my assistant, Tony. He’s our photographer and an all-around good guy.”
“Alex.” He shook the appraiser’s hand. “Come on in.”
Mike stepped into the garage and stopped dead in his tracks. Tony froze right behind him.
“Holy cow,” the appraiser breathed. “This… this is impossible.”
He slowly walked around the car. He ran his hand over the hood, the fender, then crouched down to look underneath.
“Alex,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the car. “Do you have any idea what you have here? A ‘53 Bel Air? This isn’t just a Bel Air. This… this is a museum piece. I’ve seen maybe two or three like this in my entire career. And none of them in this condition.”
“So the car is authentic?”
Mike chuckled.
“Authentic? It couldn’t be more authentic. Look: factory stamps, serial numbers, everything is here. The body hasn’t been repainted. The chrome is original. The engine… Tony, hand me that flashlight.”
Tony handed him the flashlight. The appraiser opened the hood and looked inside.
“Oh, my God! The engine is like new. Clean, no leaks, no corrosion. Who took care of this?”
“My grandfather. His whole life.”
“Your grandfather was a saint. This kind of care is a once-in-a-lifetime find.”
He continued to inspect the car, commenting on every detail. Tony took pictures from every angle. Alex stood to the side, listening, a sense of pride swelling inside him. Grandpa. Grandpa did this. He saved the car for him. Through decades, through all the hardships, he saved it.
“Can I start it?” Mike asked.
“Of course.”
Alex got behind the wheel, turned the key, and pushed the starter button. The engine started on the first try, settling into a smooth idle. The appraiser walked over to the exhaust pipe, took a sniff, and listened closely.
“Runs like a clock. No strange noises, no knocking. Compression seems to be good. Alex, I’ll be honest with you, this car is worth a lot of money.”
“How much?”
“On the collector’s market…” Mike paused to think. “At least eighty thousand. Maybe a hundred, if you find the right buyer. At auction, it could go for as much as one-twenty.”
Alex’s breath caught in his throat. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Plus the thirty-five thousand in cash. A total of over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars at his disposal. He was rich. He, Alex Miller, a mechanic making thirty grand a year, was suddenly worth over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
“Are you looking to sell the car?” Mike asked.
Alex was silent for a moment. Sell it. Get the money. Start a new life. But Grandpa had asked him not to sell it right away. He’d asked him to live with the car, to drive it.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to sell it yet. I want to transfer the title to my name, drive it. Maybe take it to a car show.”
The appraiser smiled.
“A wise decision. Cars like this shouldn’t be sold; they should be preserved. They’re a part of history, a part of our culture.”
“Can you do the appraisal for the title transfer?”
“Of course. We’ll take care of everything. The report, the valuation, the technical inspection, the whole package. Does a week work for you?”
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