Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic (Wrong Number, Right Grump)

Callie

The e-bike is dead.

Not mostly dead. Not limping-along dead. Full, absolute, not-a-flicker-of-life dead. I’ve already tried the power button six times, which feels like a reasonable number before accepting defeat.

“Customer brought it back yesterday saying it cut out halfway up the pass trail,” Kendall tells me, crouching next to it in the back room of the outfitter.

The bike is propped against the wall between a rack of demo snowshoes and a bin of clearance water bottles.

Not a dignified resting place. “I tried powering it on this morning. Nothing.”

She stands and looks at it the way she looks at most problems in the shop. Calmly, efficiently, already three steps ahead. She manages the Copper Peak location of the chain like she owns it, and half the time I forget she doesn’t.

“It’s a rental unit,” she says. “We can’t have it sitting here. Try this number.”

“Got it.” I peel the note off her finger and head for the front of the shop, where I can make the call without the AC unit drowning me out.

The morning rush at the Trading Post is just starting. It’s this little cluster of shops tucked off Prospect Street in converted mining buildings from the 1880s, all old stone and exposed timber arranged around a cobblestone courtyard.

It’s the best part of Copper Peak, if you ask me.

Lea’s coffee is already drifting through the courtyard, that dark roast that hits you before you even get through the entrance.

A couple of hikers are studying the trail map outside the bookstore.

Normal Tuesday in a ski town pretending to be a summer town.

I lean against the doorframe and dial.

It rings twice.

“Meyer’s.” The voice is flat. Low. Not unfriendly, exactly, but not making any effort in that direction either.

“Hi there. I’m calling from the outfitter at the Trading Post. We’ve got an e-bike that died on us, and I was hoping you could take a look.”

Silence. Then, “What kind of e-bike.”

Not a question. A demand.

“The green kind,” I say.

More silence. Longer this time.

“The green kind,” he repeats.

“Yes. It’s green. And electric. And it has pedals. I’m giving you all the relevant information here.”

“You’re really not.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He sounds so deeply annoyed, and I’ve been on the phone for maybe twelve seconds. That has to be some sort of record.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s a pedal-assist e-bike. A rental customer brought it back yesterday. Said it cut out on them halfway up the pass trail. This morning it won’t turn on at all. No power. The little screen on the handlebars is blank.”

“Is the battery seated?”

“Is the battery seated,” I repeat slowly, like I’m writing it down. “I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t know what that means.”

“It means, ‘Is the battery clicked into the frame all the way?’”

“I can go check.”

“Did you check before you called?”

I pause. “No. I called you first. I’m an optimist.”

Something happens on his end. It might be a breath. It might be a laugh that dies before it gets anywhere. Hard to tell.

“Go check if the battery’s seated. If it is, check the connection port for corrosion. Little metal contacts where the battery meets the frame. They’ll look green or crusty if there’s buildup.”

“Green or crusty. Got it.”

“Then check the display unit. There’s a small button on the side, not the main power button. A reset. You’d need something thin to press it. A paperclip.”

“I feel like you’re sending me on a quest.”

“I’m trying to figure out if you actually need a repair or if the battery’s just loose.”

“That’s fair,” I say. “That’s completely fair. Okay. I’ll go do all of that and call you back.”

“Or you could just bring it in.”

“To you?”

“To the shop. If the battery check doesn’t fix it, it’s probably the controller board, and that’s not something you’re going to diagnose in a back room with a paperclip.”

“Where’s your shop?”

“On Prospect Street. Meyer’s Auto and Equipment.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the sticky note. The number I’ve dialed is one digit off from what Kendall wrote. Her seven looks like a one. Or her one looks like a seven. Either way, I’ve called the wrong place entirely.

I put the phone back. “So you’re not the e-bike repair guy.”

“I’m a mechanic.”

“But not our mechanic. Not the one we usually call.”

“Apparently not.”

“I just called a random mechanic and described a green bicycle to him.”

“You did.”

The laugh comes out before I can stop it. I press my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. The sound is already out there, bouncing off the old stone walls of the courtyard.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Your seven looks like a one. Or someone’s seven looks like a one. The point is, I dialed wrong, and I’ve been wasting your time.”

“You have.”

“And you just walked me through an entire diagnostic anyway.”

He doesn’t respond to that, which feels like its own answer.

“Well,” I say. “Thank you. For the free consultation. I’ll try the battery thing and if that doesn’t work, I’ll call the actual repair guy.”

“Or you could bring it to me.”

I stop. “What?”

“I said you could bring it in. I work on equipment. E-bikes are equipment.”

“You just told me I wasted your time.”

“You did waste my time. But the bike still has a problem.”

I don’t know what to say to that, which almost never happens to me. I’m the girl who always has something to say, who can fill any silence, who keeps conversation going the way some people keep plants alive. Just naturally. Without thinking about it.

But something about his voice—the gruffness that isn’t quite as gruff as he wants it to be—makes me not want to fill the silence. I want to enjoy it for a second.

“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll check the battery first. And if that doesn’t fix it, I’ll bring it in.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meyer.”

“Beck.”

“Thank you, Beck.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. No “you’re welcome,” no “see you later,” no sign-off of any kind. Just the click of a dead line.

I stand there in the doorway of the outfitter, phone against my chest, grinning like an idiot at the cobblestone courtyard.

The man is rude. Genuinely, impressively rude. And I called the wrong number and described a green bicycle to him like he was a customer service line, and he diagnosed the problem anyway, and then told me to bring it in even though I’m not his customer and never have been.

I go check the battery. It’s seated fine. The contacts are clean. The reset button does nothing.

The bike is still dead.

I look at the sticky note one more time, then fold it in half and put it in my pocket. I don’t need the right number anymore.

I already have the wrong one.