American Outlaw Read online

  “Yep. Jesse and Chandler will love it,” I agreed.

  “That’s not exactly what I meant,” she said, smiling. “And you know it.”

  That very day, we signed the papers to purchase the house, and we began to map out the next twenty years together. Flushed by the pleasure of the deal, Janine was expansive, detailing her long-held desire to raise a whole slew of kids, and perhaps someday live on a farm, with livestock and maybe a vineyard. Carefully, I reminded her that I wasn’t a farmer . . . I worked on motorcycles for a living. She pooh-poohed me: too rational. Not enough imagination. She ruffled my hair. Stared deeply into my eyes.

  The next weekend, I was scheduled to make an appearance at a Walmart in Bentonville, Arkansas, where we were going to introduce a new project, Jesse James West Coast Choppers Industrial Wear, a line of men’s work-wear clothing. I was slated to sign autographs and meet some of the company’s top brass.

  “Feel like coming along?” I asked Janine.

  “Of course,” she said happily. “You know me. I love to meet the people!”

  But to her surprise and annoyance, the crowd assembled in the Walmart parking lot took little notice of Janine. In fact, they barely acknowledged her presence. The herd of Southern bikers appeared far more focused on getting an autograph from the man from Monster Garage than on approaching his porn-star wife.

  “I’m bored,” she grumbled, after enduring the public snub for almost an hour. “I think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

  “Okay, babe. Catch up with you later,” I said, distracted, as I scribbled my Sharpie over yet another bandanna. “And I’m making this out to . . . Jason?”

  “Yessiree,” said the oldster at the front of the line, gratefully. “My grandson, well, he just loves your show.”

  The line wound on endlessly. I pressed flesh with thousands of fans, accepting their helpful ideas about what might be interesting on the next season of the show. I stood next to pregnant women, my hands around their engorged waists, as I waited for their nervous husbands to figure out just where that flash was on the disposable camera. Slowly, the hours ticked by.

  Finally the line subsided, and my handler gave a signal to the event director. “That’s it. We’re good.” He turned to me. “Need a ride back to the hotel?”

  “No, I’ll drive myself.”

  “Don’t take too long,” he advised. “We’ve got lunch set with the executive vice president of marketing and six of his staff, and they’re extremely excited to meet you. Hotel lobby, twenty minutes from now. We’ll go from there.”

  Wearily, I trudged to my car and sat down heavily on the hood. I rested there for a moment, rubbing my hand, sore from hours of signing. Then I opened the driver’s side door, wedged myself behind the wheel of the rental, and set off for the hotel.

  The moment I entered the lobby, several Walmart executives stood up to greet me. Each wore a smile on his face.

  “Sir,” began the paunchy, excited-looking VP of marketing, his hand extended, “it is truly an honor to meet you . . .”

  “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN??”

  My insides flushed with ice water. Janine was storming out of the elevator, her hair mussed, looking crazed.

  “I HAVE CALLED YOU FIFTEEN TIMES, AND YOU HAVEN’T PICKED UP!” She sprinted up to me and jabbed her finger crazily in my face. “DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING ALL DAY?”

  “Janine,” I begged. “Calm down. Please don’t do this here. Not in front of everybody.”

  “In front of who?” She swept her arms wildly, then settled her gaze on the Walmart executives. “Oh, your new best friends?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to embarrass you, Jesse,” Janine continued, “but I think someone should know what a neglectful and self-centered son of a bitch you really are.”

  Janine fixed me the dirtiest, most furious glare I’d ever seen. Then she turned on her heel and stomped back toward the elevator.

  The silence in the lobby was terrible.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the executives, finally. “I think I need to go . . . handle this.”

  No one responded. With my face burning, I walked away.

  ——

  Purposefully, I threw myself into my work, tried to use it as an escape. But burying my thoughts proved more difficult than I had figured.

  You may need to walk away from this one, I told myself. The verdict might still be out, but a few of the jurors are starting to lean toward “crazy.”

  A broken driveshaft lay on my table, looking abandoned. “Focus, dammit,” I muttered. I had three bikes to build, and twenty more to design. I stared into my toolbox for a few minutes, but was simply unable to concentrate on the job at hand. “Ah, forget it.”

  I wiped my hands on a rag and threw on my jacket, hustling out to the parking lot, where I hopped on my machine and headed for the highway.

  Riding a motorcycle had always been my greatest comfort. It was the only place I could still go to be alone. I threw my bike into high gear. The wind tore into my face as I revved my engine, rocketing past car after car, watching as the industrial wasteland of Long Beach slowly blurred into a seamless track of colors: grays, blues, and browns. After several minutes of stinging pressure and the steady vibration of the powerful, rumbling engine, I began to feel soothed. Even capable of logical thought.

  I don’t want to get divorced, I told myself. Above all else, I don’t want that to happen.

  I had been through one separation already. The sense of failure had been overwhelming. To me, divorce was like giving up. And this fight didn’t seem over yet.

  I knew there was someone special inside of Janine, that our connection hadn’t all been in my mind. She was a bright, vibrant woman. And there was a deep kindness to her that I felt nourished by.

  She’s touchy, I thought. No doubt about that. And her temper is clearly kind of . . . unpredictable. But isn’t there some way around that?

  I sunk lower in my seat and throttled the engine, slowly beginning to increase my speed. Shifting my weight subtly, hooking the big machine from one side to the other for no purpose other than to do it, I rode the intricate mass of revolving steel like a surfer rides a wave. Every muscle in my body felt tuned into the cycle’s movement, molded to its form.

  Janine loved me. I was sure of it. She saw me for who I really was—a biker, a punk, a kid from a broken home—and despite all of that, she accepted me without hesitation. Didn’t I owe her the same courtesy?

  I can bring out the best in her, I thought. If I’m smart about it, I can save this marriage.

  The highway that I knew so well sped by me, with its dented iron railings and smooth pavement. I gazed over the drop, watching the rocky cliffs blur, all the way down into the vast black waters of Los Angeles.

  ——

  “So what do you think about these new Softail Deuces? Cool, huh?”

  “I like them. I like all Harleys, as long as they go fast.”

  Tyler, the young boy with leukemia whom I had befriended several months before, hunched over a pile of motorcycle magazines I’d brought him. I sat next to him, peering over his small shoulder.

  “Yeah, but how about these Yamahas?” I asked him, wrinkling my nose. “Pretty bad, huh?”

  Tyler grinned. “I hate ’em!”

  “What do we call them?” I prompted.

  “Crotch rockets,” Tyler said.

  “That’s right,” I said, laughing. “But hey, do me a favor, don’t say that around your mom. You’ll get me in trouble.”

  I had taken to dropping by Tyler’s house about once a week on my way home from work. His family lived so close to the shop, it was simple for me to do. Unfortunately, his condition kept getting worse and worse.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked his mom one evening after a visit, when we were outside on the lawn alone together.

  “Not good,” she said, looking upset. “He may only have a few more months. That’s what the d
octors say.”

  “He’s an amazing kid,” I said. “Maybe he’ll prove them wrong.”

  “Mom?” Tyler asked. He pushed open the screen door, joining us out on the lawn. “What are you guys talking about? I thought you were going to leave, Jesse.”

  “I’m on my way,” I told him. “I was just talking to your mom for a second.”

  “Do you really know Shaq?” Tyler asked, shyly. “My mom said you might know him.”

  “I built a bike for him once,” I said, smiling. “I think that was the biggest bike I ever had to make.”

  “Can you get me his autograph?” Tyler asked. “He’s my favorite basketball player on the Lakers.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “I better go now. Can I have a hug?”

  I knelt down to give a gentle hug to the seven-year-old. As we embraced, I felt the skinniness and fragility of his body through the fabric of his T-shirt. I could feel every rib. Unexpectedly, tears welled up in my eyes.

  “Gotta go,” I mumbled. “See you soon, Tyler.”

  Slowly, I drove home in my truck, nearly overwhelmed.

  That night over dinner, passing the salad bowl toward me, Janine asked, “How’s work going?”

  “All right . . . next week, we’re going to turn a Chevy Suburban into a wedding chapel,” I told her. “We’re going to head to Vegas and find a couple to have a real wedding inside of it.”

  “You guys have the wildest ideas,” said Janine. “Who’s gonna officiate?”

  I grinned proudly. “You’re looking at him.”

  Janine busted up laughing. “You? How is that possible, Jesse?”

  “The Universal Life Ministry. You can get a license over the Internet. They let anybody be an ordained minister, these days.”

  “Apparently,” Janine said, arching her eyebrows.

  Things weren’t always tense between us—they were more like . . . schizophrenic. Janine was a personality who thrived on fighting, but like any good fighter, unpredictability was her greatest asset. That week, as we transformed the Suburban into a wedding-chapel-on-wheels, she came to visit me on the set several times, the very picture of a loving wife.

  “Well, hey there,” I said, pleased to see her. Her face and hair were immaculately made up. “Sweetie,” I said, kissing her on the temple, “why is it the only time I see you around my garage is when we’re filming?”

  “Oh, I don’t find the camera,” Janine explained, coolly. “The camera finds me.”

  Of course, the guys on the camera crew were always psyched to see a real live porn star there—photographing busted catalytic converters day in and day out can take a toll on any man. So she generally got her wish, a behind-the-scenes interview, even though obviously none of the footage would ever be used for the show.

  “Your crew is so imaginative,” Janine said, wandering around the shop, gazing in at our mobile marriage shack. “Gosh, I wish we could have been married in a cool little contraption like this, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, it would have been a bonding experience. Maybe it would have made you nicer to your husband,” I said, tickling her side playfully.

  “Jesse!” Janine shouted. “Don’t tickle!” She punched me on the shoulder several times, laughing.

  “Hey,” I said, smiling tightly, “you hit damn hard. Stop, okay?”

  “Well, don’t tickle,” Janine said. She shot me a look. “You bring it on yourself, Jesse.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, on the brink of hostility.

  “So,” she said, sighing, changing the subject, “when are you going to Vegas, to become, like, a minister?”

  “Tomorrow.” I drew her closer to me, lay my forehead up against hers. “You feel like coming with me?”

  “Of course I do,” Janine said, looking wistful. “But I can’t. I have engagements this whole weekend.”

  “Well, all right,” I said, secretly a bit relieved. “Tell you what. I’ll try not to gamble away the farm while I’m there.”

  “You’re funny,” Janine said, kissing me lightly on the lips. “Look, I should go. I’m dancing tonight. I won’t be home until late.”

  The crew and I worked until late in the evening, putting the finishing touches on the Suburban. When we were done, we’d installed a set of gull-wing rear doors, a stained-glass roof, and an intricate pipe organ. We were ready to marry in style.

  I drove home, dead tired, looking forward to grabbing a couple of hours of much-needed sleep before I rose early in the morning to drive to Las Vegas. I rolled into our driveway, slammed the door of my truck behind me, and trudged wearily upstairs, falling into bed without even showering.

  I woke up several hours later to the feeling of my wife straddling my body in bed.

  “Fucking bastard,” Janine mumbled. Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol. Her eyes squinted heavily.

  “Huh?” I asked, still half-asleep.

  “You fucking bastard,” Janine repeated. Then, cocking back her fist, she punched me right in the eye, hard.

  “What the hell?” I roared, pushing her off me.

  “You took . . .” she mumbled, falling to the side of me.

  “Janine!” I cried, leaping to my feet. I clutched my injured eye, my adrenaline racing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “You took . . .” Janine said, laughing, once, drunkenly, “my parking spot.” Then she shrugged, fell facedown into her pillow, and began snoring lightly.

  “Janine!” I shouted, furious, my blood racing. “JANINE!”

  ——

  The following day, I drove as planned to Las Vegas to officiate the wedding. A couple from North Carolina had won a sweepstakes from Discovery, securing for them the honor of being married in a car by a dysfunctional welder. Fittingly, my eye had swelled up terrifically where I’d been punched. I had a big ol’ shiner.

  “Get into some trouble last night, Jesse?” the makeup artist asked me, cheerfully.

  “You could say that,” I muttered.

  “How about you let me cover that up for you?” she proposed. “It might not look so terrific on television.”

  Humiliated, my mind whirling, I sat in the makeup chair and let her apply pancake and rouge to my swollen eye and cheekbone.

  This can’t go on, I thought.

  With cameras in tow, we set out for downtown Vegas, where we orchestrated a street-side pickup of Chris and Sara, the excited young couple. I let down the automatic doors, and they strutted up regally into the mobile Suburban wedding chapel.

  It was showtime. My heart felt unexpectedly heavy as I spoke the words, “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  The groom looked at his wife with love and excitement in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  As I stood there and watched the happy young couple come together, I realized, with a sinking feeling, that this thing I had signed up for might not turn out as I’d hoped.

  That evening, I called Janine from my hotel room in Vegas.

  “I think we have to face facts. It’s not working,” I said, flatly. “I mean us. We’re not working.”

  “Jesse, love, I can explain . . .”

  “You punched me last night. Do you even remember that?”

  “I recall doing something like that,” she said, “but if you’d give me a chance to explain, I think you’d understand. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t feeling well . . .”

  “I’m frightened to be around you,” I said. “Don’t you get it?”

  “A big, tough guy like you? Scared?”

  “Janine,” I said, exasperated. “I came from a violent family. Okay?”

  “I know that, but . . .”

  “One of my earliest memories is my dad breaking his hand in a fight with my mom,” I said. “I heard him do it. They were yelling at each other for hours.”

  “Jesse, please . . .”

  “Then I heard him hit something. I heard it through the wall of my bedroom. Do you know what that’s lik
e for a kid, Janine? The next day, his hand was broken. They both tried to tell me that he fell off a ladder. I was only six, but I was already too old to fall for that one.”

  Janine waited for a moment. “Well? What does that have to do with me?”

  “I can’t have that kind of thing in my house,” I said. “I just . . . I can’t have it.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Janine sighed. “I love you, honey. Give me another chance.”

  After some more discussion, we agreed to try again. But my patience was running thin. And then, only a week later, an everyday argument exploded, and I left the house in a huff. Janine followed closely behind me.

  “Get back here,” she screamed. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m out of here,” I said, striding past her, toward my vehicle.

  Without another word, Janine leaped into her car and gunned the engine. Dumbfounded, I watched as she jerked the car into reverse recklessly, then drove it straight toward me.

  “What the FUCK is WRONG with you!” I screamed, leaping out of the way. “You almost hit me, you crazy bitch!”

  Janine backed the car up, revved the engine. Again, I leaped out of the way.

  “That’s it!” I cried. “You are so fucking out of here! You’re GONE! Now! Leave.”

  “Or what?” she screamed.

  “Or I’m going to call the cops and have you arrested for assault, Janine!”

  Quickly, she turned off the car, then said she didn’t mean it. But by now I’d been through it enough times to recognize things weren’t going to change. She had to go.

  I watched in silence as she packed a suitcase, and then she left.

  ——

  For the first time, I had the whole house to myself. I sat down in the kitchen, the weirdly silent kitchen, and poured myself a bowl of cereal. Slowly, I ate, looking out over the beach as I did so. I breathed in deeply, and exhaled a long, relieved breath. I had never felt so tranquil in my own home.

  Janine had vacated the premises. But before doing so, she’d left a note: I hope we can work this out.

  I folded it carefully, then threw it in the trash.

  “We were a mess,” I confessed to Tyson, the next time he was back in California.