We spent the better part of 15 minutes going back and forth between asking locals for help and the driver speaking in some foreign tongue to a mystery dispatcher on the other end of his two-way radio. Within 30 seconds my dad and I had an odd feeling that we were going the wrong way, and sure enough the driver said that he was lost. After a bit of confusion, the Bel-Air was finally loaded and the foreign driver asked, "Where is going?" We gave the driver the address, town, and basic directions but he seemed to not much care for our help. 65 minutes later, two tow trucks arrived followed by a spirited conversation about exactly who would be getting the job. Plus, the bugs were biting and more storm clouds were moving in, so we just paid Jeff and called for a flat-bed tow truck to haul our prize to a friend's house located about an hour down the road.Īfter nearly two hours of waiting for a tow truck, we called another tow company that informed us that it would be an hour before it could arrive. Gracing many parts of the sheetmetal were weathered remains of shoe polish that spelled out "Rock N Roll", "Class of 57", and "Cool! Daddy-O." Surely the shoe polish would easily wipe off - right? The ground was still wet and puddles abounded, so doing an undercar inspection would require getting wetter than anybody there wanted to be. The '57 was covered in a thick layer of dust, bird poop, varmint droppings, and spider webs. Sunlight fell on the Shoebox for the first time in many years, and we quickly discovered that light was not all that had graced the body panels. Unfortunately, the task of moving the car would have been easier had there actually been air in the dry-rotted tires. After a few minutes Jeff had removed just enough stuff to be able to move the '57 out on to the driveway. Hidden beneath a stash of old mattresses, tattered screen doors, and a plethora of boxes was the Bel-Air. Jeff lifted the garage door to reveal a host of treasures.