Jack gestured at the bike. Client wants LED, underglow, carbon fiber everything, and I swear to you, a sound system that can be heard from a quarter mile away. That's awful. That's a $40,000 commission. So, we're going to make it the best awful bike in Arizona.
Jack grinned. Welcome to custom work, kid. The customer is always right, even when they're completely wrong.
The work was different from Vernon's shop. These weren't broken-down pickups limping in for oil changes. These were art pieces, engineering marvels, machines that cost more than most people's cars. Caleb felt out of his depth for approximately 15 minutes, then muscle memory took over and his hands remembered what his brain was still learning. By lunch, he had rewired the entire electrical system on the sci-fi bike.
Jack inspected his work with a critical eye, looking for flaws, then nodded slowly. Clean, efficient. You color-coded the wires. Makes troubleshooting easier later. Most mechanics don't think that far ahead.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder. You're going to do just fine here, kid.
The other mechanics, two brothers named Carlos and Miguel, and a quiet woman named Sam, who could fabricate anything from sheet metal, welcomed him cautiously. New guy had to prove himself, but by the end of the week, after Caleb diagnosed a phantom electrical fault that had stumped everyone else for 3 days, they started treating him like part of the crew. How'd you figure it out? Sam asked, watching him replace a corroded ground wire. My dad taught me when something doesn't make sense, go back to basics.
Electricity needs a path. This one was broken. Caleb tested the circuit. Should be good now. Carlos revved the engine and whooped when everything lit up properly.
Kid's a genius. Kid's got a name, Caleb said, but he was smiling.
That weekend, Tiny showed up at the shop riding a gorgeous Road King with saddlebags stuffed full of beer. Brought provisions, he announced, and an invitation. We're having a run next Saturday, Phoenix to Sedona and back. You should come. I don't have a bike.
So, ride with me or Tiny's grin widened. Jack's got that old Softail in the back gathering dust. Maybe he'd let you borrow it, for a price. Jack, who'd been eavesdropping, called out, Price is you fix the transmission. Been slipping for months and I haven't had time.
Deal, Caleb said before he could overthink it. The transmission took him three evenings working late, but he got it done. The Softail was a 2003 model, older but solid with good bones under the neglect. When he finally got it running smooth, the rumble of the engine made something in his chest settle into place. That's your bike now.
Jack said watching him test ride it around the parking lot. Caleb nearly crashed from shock. What? You fixed it? You earned it.
Consider it a signing bonus. Jack's expression was unreadable. Besides, you can't be part of this world without a ride. Doesn't work that way. Jack, I can't.
This is too much. It's mine to give, and I'm giving it. Jack turned to head back inside then stopped. Your dad would be proud of you, kid. The mechanic stuff, yeah, but also the rest of it.