American Outlaw Read online

  “I’m going to be honest,” I told the group, laughing. “I’m not really ‘familiar’ with your work, Janine.”

  Everyone grinned. “Wow,” Janine said. “Well, I don’t know whether to be happy or offended!”

  “Jesse,” Kristal scolded. “How could you?”

  “Sorry,” I said, still laughing, “but I’m kind of behind on my girl-girl porn.”

  “She’s only the best of the best,” said Kristal. “Cream of the crop, the standard by which all others are measured.”

  “Thank you, honey,” Janine said modestly. “But those days are gone. I haven’t done a scene in years. And frankly, I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t miss it?” Evan asked, smiling naughtily. “Just the teensiest bit?”

  “No,” Janine said. She shrugged. “It was wild, and I would never trade it for anything. But it’s behind me now. It’s the craziest thing, but after all these years, I think I’m finally turning into a grown-up.”

  “Man,” I said, nodding, thinking about my own messed-up past—my years spent busting heads and drinking until I didn’t remember who I was. “You said a mouthful.”

  She smiled across the table at me. “Well, thank you.”

  She blinked her almond-shaped eyes, and I was captivated. For a moment, the others at our table, charismatic as they were, melted into nothingness. All I could feel was Janine’s warm gaze.

  ——

  We were a pair. It was instant.

  “I just can’t believe how similar we are,” she marveled.

  “Tell me about it,” I agreed. “I’m kind of tripping out.”

  For the first time, I felt very matched, in terms of life experience. My world had changed since the first airing of the documentary, titled Motorcycle Mania, and as my local fame gradually transformed into something much bigger, it seemed to change more every day. However, in spite of what I had done thus far, Janine had done far more. She had a name for herself, not to mention her own money and her own source of esteem.

  Janine was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She was tan and fit, with a sensual hourglass body and long blond hair. Everything about her seemed equally stunning. And on a purely animal level, she was tireless.

  Janine seemed fascinated by me, too. She wanted to know every detail about my life. I had never had anyone ask me about my childhood before, but Janine seemed ready to hear it all.

  “What were you like when you were a real little kid?” she asked. Her hand toyed across my chest as we lay in bed.

  “Kinda nuts,” I said, after a second. “A little violent. When I was about five years old, there was this kid down the street who I hated.”

  “What was his name?” Janine asked, smiling.

  “Steven,” I said, warming to my story. “We always fought each other. One time, he took off his belt and he smacked me in the head with it.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah, right? The buckle tore right into my head and made me bleed,” I remembered. “So, I got pissed and went in the house and grabbed this antique bullwhip that my dad had hanging from a hook, and I ran back to Steven. Somehow, I whipped it around his neck. I had him down on the ground, choking him.”

  “Jesse!” Janine laughed. “You were a madman. Nowadays, they’d probably hold some kind of intervention.”

  “I wish they had,” I admitted. “I was kind of unhappy.”

  “You were lonely.”

  I looked at her, surprised. “Yeah, I think I really was.”

  She fixed me with the most serious, concerned look. Right then, I could read the love in her eyes. I could almost hear her saying, You’re not going to be alone anymore. It was just the craziest thing.

  But Janine was more than just curious. She was fun, and she was impulsive. I had never met anyone in my entire life who was as ready to have an adventure at the drop of a hat.

  “Man, I am beat. These hundred-hour weeks are driving me crazy.”

  “Jesse,” Janine declared, “you need a vacation.”

  “I wish. Unfortunately, we’re filming on Monday morning, bright and early.”

  “And? It’s Saturday.”

  “And, I haven’t been by the shop enough this week. I gotta go in and make sure those idiots haven’t burned it down to the ground.”

  “No way,” Janine said, her hands on her hips. “Listen to me for a second. What do you really want to be doing right this instant?”

  “Well, riding a chopper into Mexico, or something,” I said, shrugging. “But . . .”

  “And who would you like to take there, and have, like, the best time ever with?” Janine smiled hugely.

  “Well, you, of course,” I said, “but the truth is, I really can’t . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear another word about it!” she cried. “You know that you want to go! You know we HAVE to go! So get your butt up off that couch and let’s go! Come on! Let’s go! Let’s roll!”

  Her enthusiasm was contagious. Why not? After all, what good was being a success if you didn’t live like one? With Janine laughing delightedly behind me, I throttled my bike through La Jolla, through San Diego, all the way down to northern Mexico, flying through Rosario, into Ensenada, the wind blasting at our faces, her hands gripped tight around my waist and her thighs snug around my hips.

  I had to admit, it felt pretty damn good to be with her. I felt free.

  ——

  “Okay, I got it: an ambulance that can pop a wheelie!”

  “No . . . how about a Geo Tracker that turns into a helicopter? Wait, I know, a hot-air balloon!”

  “Listen, what do you think about a hot-dog cart that can go a hundred fifty miles an hour—and still serve relish!”

  Thom and I were spilling over with ideas. I had to concede that while Monster Garage was an enormous effort, it was still a hell of a lot of fun. And it didn’t hurt that, because of the show, I was slowly becoming more prosperous.

  The Discovery Channel paid me a nice talent fee for each episode, but the real gain came in terms of my “brand worth.” Suddenly, West Coast Choppers was being beamed directly into every living room in America, and because of that, it became an extremely well-known quantity nearly overnight. Truthfully, I could not have engineered a better advertising platform in a million years. Monster Garage was a one-hour, uninterrupted commercial for West Coast—and for me.

  First, Jimmy Kimmel invited me on his show. Then Conan O’Brien made the call. I did the appearances, and with pleasure, but the whole time, I was kind of befuddled: Is this really happening to me?

  I had to face it: I was getting famous. It was quite a bizarre realization to come to each morning, as I pulled on my T-shirt and beat-up Dickies and considered my face in the mirror. Often, it almost embarrassed me. I was just a welder. Why didn’t anybody get that?

  “You know what?” I said to Bill, as I came into work. “You used to be able to scare people away by being a motorcycle dude. I mean, wasn’t that kind of the point?”

  “I know, I know,” he said, shaking his head. “No one looks very frightened out there, do they?”

  Seemingly overnight, West Coast Choppers had turned into Disneyland. Crowds of suburban bikehounds stationed themselves out front, ogling the shop, vying for a glimpse at the crew, their little kids crying and tugging at their hands. To capitalize on the crush of people, we set up a new retail area of the shop, where the fans could blow thirty bucks on a pink West Coast Choppers baby-tee, or a black Maltese cross ball cap. We got them coming and going.

  “I can’t help but hate it,” I admitted. “It’s lucky I quit drinking, boy, or I’d tell ’em to get lost, real quick.”

  “Can’t do that,” Bill said. “These people love you, man.”

  “That’s exactly what I can’t stand,” I said. “I mean, it would be one thing if they loved me for doing something worthwhile, right? But I’m making mutated cars. It’s stupid.”

  “Well then, why don’t you do something worthwhile?”
he said, reasonably.

  I thought about that for a while. When I took a big step back, I realized how lucky I was. I had two kids who I loved more than anything in the world. If I could use some of this new fame I’d accumulated to help a couple of children who’d gotten a raw deal, then at least I wouldn’t feel like such a fraud every morning when I saw the crowds.

  About a week or so later, I mumbled into my phone, “Uh, is this the Make-A-Wish foundation?”

  “Yes, it is. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Jesse James,” I began, haltingly. “And, well . . . I run a custom motorcycle business in Long Beach, and I’d like to extend the invitation to some kids to come on by and meet us.”

  Right away, I knew that I had made the right call. I was not much of a do-gooder, but I’d always genuinely dug kids, and kids who were hurting even more so. From the very first child who came by with Make-A-Wish, I was hooked and into doing anything I could for them.

  “You think a lowrider that serves ice cream cones would be a good idea?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “we haven’t got that one built yet, but if your mom says it’s okay, I can take you for a ride in my low-rider—how about that, would that be cool?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Better put on your seat belt,” I said, grinning. “I drive pretty fast.”

  After some time of doing volunteer work, a friend of a friend contacted me and told me that her seven-year-old son, Tyler, had leukemia, diagnosed as terminal. The family lived almost across the street from our shop, so right away I made plans to meet him.

  “Tyler, I heard that you dug monster cars and trucks.”

  “I like bikes the most,” he said, quietly.

  “Well, how about you come take a ride with me sometime?” I asked. “My bikes are right across the street. You can come any time you want.”

  “Yeah, but my mom says I’m sick, so sometimes I’m too tired to get out of bed.”

  My heart felt heavy. “Well, I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Maybe I can bring you some cool remote-control bikes for your room. You can screw with ’em from your bed, and not even have to move an inch.”

  His eyes brightened a little. “Yeah. That’d be neat.”

  “I’ll stop over tomorrow before work,” I told his mom. She nodded at me gratefully.

  Doing something positive for the community worked like a salve for my conscience. I knew that I had kind of been a screw-up when I was younger, stealing shit and just being a general menace. Now I was trying to do something helpful. Even if my efforts were probably kind of minuscule in comparison to what some people did, at least I was getting out there.

  “I’m proud of you, Jesse,” Karla said one day, as I was dropping Jesse Jr. off at her place.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, kissing Jesse good-bye. “Be good for your mom!”

  “No,” Karla said. “You’re changing. I can see it. And you really did quit drinking, huh? I gotta hand it to you, I’m impressed.”

  I shrugged.

  “Almost makes me wish I’d kept you around,” she said, laughing. “Not quite, but almost.”

  “Karla . . . I’m sorry I was kind of a loser to you the last couple of years.”

  “It’s okay.” She shook her head. “It’s odd, but I have the weirdest feeling that we’re going to be friends someday, Jesse. In fact, I’m almost sure of it.”

  “Me, too.” I nodded. “Hey, I still got your back.”

  She sighed. “Same here.”

  ——

  Janine and I continued along the frenetic, pleasurable path of our early romance. One evening, she brought two overflowing suitcases over to my house.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “Duh, my stuff!” She laughed. “I don’t want to be apart from you, okay?”

  “Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I think alone time can be a healthy part of a relationship, don’t you?”

  “For what?” She stuck out her tongue at me and unzipped a suitcase. “This house needs a woman’s touch something awful. I think I should decorate, don’t you?”

  Janine had a unique relationship with money: she tried to get her hands on as much of it as possible, but as soon as she did, she would rapidly void it from her system, like a dozen bad oysters.

  “Let’s go down to the strip,” she exclaimed. “I need to pick out some outfits.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m feature dancing this weekend! I told you that.” She hit me on the shoulder affectionately. “You’re an intelligent guy, Jesse, but I swear, you need to learn how to listen every now and then.”

  Janine had long since ceased performing in adult movies, but she continued to cash in on the reputation she’d built over the last decade by dancing at strip clubs. The gigs paid extremely well and involved a lower level of personal investment than performing on film.

  “Sweetie,” Janine purred, after running up an enormous lingerie and high-heels tab, “could I borrow your credit card? I left my wallet in the car.”

  I frowned, but opened my wallet and handed it over to her.

  “So, how much do you make at one of these clubs, anyway?” I asked, as we walked out to the parking lot.

  “I don’t know,” Janine said, heaving her packages into the backseat of my car. “Honestly, I never take the time to count. It’s pretty good for just shaking my ass, though, I’ll tell you that.”

  “But, like, how much?” I persisted.

  “Fuck, sweetie,” she said, turning to face me, “I said, I don’t know. Five grand? Ten? More?”

  “That is a lot,” I agreed. “So, I mean, excuse me for asking, but where does all that money go?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, all I mean is . . . why can’t you pay for your own underwear?”

  She shook her head at me sadly. “I can’t believe you’re being stingy with your own girlfriend. With your own lover.”

  “I’m not being stingy, I’m merely trying to figure out . . .”

  “I’d give you the shirt off my back, Jesse,” she said, looking at me sincerely. “I just want you to know that.”

  “Thanks,” I said, beginning to laugh. “Although I don’t think your little pink tank top would look very good on me. Look, honey, all I want to know is . . .”

  “I have debts, okay?” Janine said, looking into the driver’s side mirror and adjusting a strand of her hair. “I made some bad business decisions. And I bought a couple of bad cars—really bad deals, you know?”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I didn’t like them! They were lemons,” Janine said. “So, I just dropped them off at the dealers.”

  “You can’t do that,” I pointed out. “Not if payments remain on the car.”

  “Yes, you can do that,” Janine shot back. “I mean, I did.”

  “How many times?” I asked, frightened.

  She shrugged. “Not more than a couple.”

  “Look,” I said. “What else have you done?”

  Janine cleared her throat. “Well, gosh, if you must know, there are a few levies and liens placed against me by the IRS. But that is for old stuff, way back in the early nineties. My sense is that if I just wait long enough, all will be forgiven.”

  “The IRS doesn’t just forgive a lien, Janine.”

  “Why are you being like this?” she cried. “I feel like I don’t even know you!”

  “I’m not being like anything,” I said. “Look, I love you, and I just want to know . . .”

  “You what?” she said, brightening. “I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, no,” Janine said, sliding closer to me, poking me with her finger. “I heard you. You said you loved me.”

  “You must have misheard me,” I said, grinning.

  “No, I didn’t,” she said, kissing me happily on my neck. “Oh, Jesse, you said you loved me!”

  “May
be,” I admitted. “It’s possible.”

  “Sweetie!” she cried. “I love you, too! Oh my God, I love you so much. Let’s never fight over dumb stuff like this again, okay? Do you promise?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I promise.”

  “Thank goodness,” Janine sighed, settling back in her seat. She fingered her package of expensive underwear. “Now,” she purred, “I think we should go home and, uh, sort through these.”

  I sped that car home as fast as I could.

  ——

  Day by day, she drew me in. I understood that Janine was a volatile woman, given to making impulsive decisions. But she was extraordinarily bright. She spoke straight from the heart, and it wasn’t nonsense that came out of her mouth. She was extremely articulate, and often very funny. Most of all, I loved how she watched me from across the room, totally absorbed in every movement. I felt seen by her.

  “I love her,” I admitted to Tyson Beckford one day when he and I were hanging around the shop after hours, shooting a game of pool. “A lot.”

  Tyson and I had kept in touch ever since I’d built him a bike several years before. Whenever he came back into town to film a movie or do a shoot, he called me up. For a black supermodel from New York and a white-trash biker punk from Long Beach, we sure got along good.

  “Is that right?” he asked politely.

  “Yeah. I almost can’t put my finger on it, but she’s definitely got me hooked.”

  “Young lovers,” Tyson said, laughing. He slid his cue stick back and forth suggestively.

  “Real funny. But hey, dude, you want to hear something kind of crazy?” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m thinking of asking her to marry me.”

  “Whoa there, buddy,” he cautioned. “That was quick.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “Seriously, I have never felt this intense about anyone in my life.”

  “Fine,” Tyson said, “I respect that. But all I’m saying is, do you really know this woman?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing. All I’m saying is, she comes from kind of a funny business . . .”

  “I don’t care about the porn stuff,” I explained. “I really don’t. That’s behind her. She’s done with that.”