The guy doesn’t look over at me. “What do you want?”
“I—”
“Bring your car up to the opening. I’ll give it a quick look over once I’m done here. Give you a quote for whatever needs to be done.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I have a bike, actually.”
He looks at me and snorts. “Sure you do, princess.”
“How about you not call me that?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“Oh, sorry, doll.” He smirks.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s it to ya?” he counters.
“I want to talk to your manager.”
“Ah, your name Karen, huh? Going to complain about me for calling you sweet names?”
"You don't know me from Eve," I tell him, "so the names are inappropriate, but you can call me whatever you want when I'm your coworker."
He snorts and draws up short. He puts down the tool he had selected, grabs a dirty rag, and wipes his hands. “I don’t think so.”
“I told you. I ride a bike. I know how to upkeep it.”
“Sure you do.”
“And I don’t because I’m a woman. How very backward of you. Clearly, this garage needs a woman’s touch.”
“Not at all, sweetheart. We get by just fine without you.”
“That’s why you have a help wanted sign.”
“Exactly,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We want help, not someone who is going to cry if she breaks a nail.”
“Seriously, can I talk to your manager? Because I really do want this job.”
“Well, you’re shit out of luck, little lady, because I’m the owner of this place.”
“Well, then…” I blow out a breath. “I—”
He bursts out laughing. “Come on, girl. Get on out of here. I don’t need you to be here wastin’ my time.”
“Then put me to work.”
He laughs some more and grabs the tool again.
I step up, grab the tool out of his hand, and proceed to work on the bike. He stands over me, hovering, telling me what to do, but I ignore him and settle into the work.
I taught myself everything I know about bikes. Now, I know the basics with cars—how to change a tire, how to fix a flat that’s a simple hole, how to change the battery or spark plugs, how to change the oil.
With bikes, though, I know almost everything.