He looked past Brandon, asked Cole if the mechanic was in. Brandon kept his head down in the BMW. He didn’t say a word.
Cole jerked his thumb at him. He is the mechanic. The man blinked, tried to recover. Brandon just nodded, polite, and went back to work.
He’d been doing this since he was 12, too. On his lunch break, he opened his backpack, pulled out a library book with a sticker on the spine. Modern Custom Builders, a visual history.
He’d already checked it out twice this year. He flipped to the dog-eared page. A photo of a cherry red 1959 Panhead with custom pinstripe tank work.
The caption underneath read, “Henry ‘Iron Hank’ Callaway, Callaway Custom Cycles, founder.” Brandon traced the lines with his finger.
He whispered the names the way other guys whispered the names of athletes. Callaway, Monroe, Roder, Foose. Cole walked past with a coffee.
You ever gonna build one of those? One day. Yeah, you will. It was the kindest thing Cole had said in months.
Brandon walked home that night with his arms aching and the wrench still in his back pocket. He passed a billboard for the West Coast Custom Bike Show. $350 to enter your build. 350 he didn’t have.
He stopped at the corner of Pine and 6th. Mrs. Davies was on her stoop struggling with two grocery bags and her cane.
He crossed the street without thinking. Let me get those, ma’am. Oh, Brandon. You don’t have to. It’s nothing.
He carried the bags up the steps. He didn’t wait for thanks. He waved and kept walking. Behind him on her stoop, Mrs. Davies watched him go and shook her head smiling.
That boy. Brandon didn’t hear her. He was already thinking about tomorrow’s shift. About the medical bill on the counter.
About a cherry-red Panhead he’d never seen in real life. And how he might never get to. Brandon almost didn’t take the shortcut. He almost stayed on Main Street. Almost.
It was 4:00. The summer heat had peaked. His shift had run long. His arms ached. The library book was heavier in his backpack than it had been this morning.
