American Outlaw Read online

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Well, hey, if you want to brave it, I’m behind you. All I’m saying is, it might be a hard pill for Discovery to swallow.”

  Hildie was right: we put out feelers at the network, and most of the people making decisions felt the mission was unnecessarily dangerous, with no real upside. Disappointed, I agreed to shelve the idea temporarily.

  Instead, we continued to film Monster Garage right there in Southern California, where we had our silly fun. We took a 1964 Peel Trident, said to be the world’s smallest car, and gave it a face-lift using an all-midget crew. A cool ’69 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow got transformed into a Porta-Potty pumper. We even turned a fire truck into a professional-grade brewery. I had a stellar time using my brain to dream up the outlandish vehicles, and it was always an immense, fulfilling challenge to get the crew to transform them into realities. But despite all this, I couldn’t help but notice the show was beginning to outlive its usefulness in my life.

  Quietly, without even realizing it, I was becoming more serious, and more inward. The fucked-up events of recent years had quenched my thirst for chaos and thrills. More and more, I found myself wanting to focus on what was really important in life: my children, meaningful work, and people who had some kind of substance to them.

  So, it was while in this general state of mind that I met Sandra Bullock for the first time. And my life would be forever changed.

  ——

  Her godson wanted to see West Coast Choppers. That’s how it started.

  It was Christmastime, 2004, when I received a call at the shop.

  “Jesse, my name’s Terri. I’m calling on behalf of Sandra Bullock. I’m her assistant.”

  “Hi, Terri,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, we have a favor to ask you. Sandra’s godson is a huge fan of Monster Garage—just huge.”

  “Okay.”

  “And well, Sandy would like to do something special for him for Christmas. So we wanted to ask you if perhaps you’d take some time out of your day sometime this month to give Bryan a little tour.”

  I sighed. “It’s a real busy time, Terri.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I understand. But it would mean the world to Bryan. He’s such a big fan!”

  “Well, all right,” I relented. “Just an hour, though, okay?”

  “An hour would be amazing,” Terri said. “Oh, Sandra’s going to be so thrilled. Thank you, Jesse.”

  They arranged to stop over at the shop later that week, and I cleared a spot in my schedule to give the movie star and her godson the grand tour. I certainly wasn’t expecting anything romantic—while I knew who Sandra Bullock was, I wasn’t a fan. The only time I could remember seeing any of her movies, I’d been half-asleep on a plane.

  “Excited to meet America’s sweetheart?” Bill Dodge kidded me.

  “Huh?” I asked. “No, man. I don’t really dig movie stars. She’s probably kind of stuck-up, don’t you think?”

  But when she showed up at the shop, I was immediately impressed by the big star’s warmth and friendliness.

  “Hi!” she beamed at me brightly. “I’m Sandy. And this is my godson, Bryan! He’s really excited to be here. We both want to thank you so much for taking the time to show us around.”

  “It’s no problem,” I said. “So, what do you think, Bryan? You want to take a look around?”

  Bryan nodded quietly. He looked really nervous, and as I led him from room to room, detailing what went on in each section of the shop, he barely said a word.

  “This is our paint booth,” I said, my hand on his shoulder. “That’s where all the finishing touches happen. Some of this paint costs like five hundred bucks a gallon—kinda pricey, huh?”

  He just nodded.

  “Over here’s our newest chopper. It’s still got a ton of work to go, or else I’d let you hop up there and see what it’s like to ride it. Do you like motorcycles?”

  Bryan just blushed and toed at the ground.

  “He’s pretty nervous, huh?” I whispered to Sandy.

  “He’ll be fine,” she said, putting her arm around her godson. “Your shop’s really great, Jesse. It’s so intricate. And you’re in such a beautiful building, too. When was it built, do you know?”

  “Actually,” I said, happy to supply her with the trivia, “this building was constructed in 1921. It’s an old laundry facility for the port of Long Beach.”

  “Oh my gosh,” Sandy said. “That’s fascinating. You’re a part of history, over here.”

  “We’re trying to be,” I said, smiling.

  I had sort of figured that I’d feel like an indigent welder or something, talking to a big movie star, but Sandy made me feel very at home with myself. We continued to walk around the shop with Bryan, making easy conversation about Long Beach and the responsibilities that came with having a custom motorcycle business.

  “And of course you have your television show to take care of, too.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting kind of sick of that, though,” I admitted.

  “Really? I can’t imagine why. It’s such an inventive, fun show. When Bryan told me he wanted to come visit you, I watched a few episodes—it’s really addictive.”

  The more we spoke, the more under her spell I fell. Sandy was gorgeous, but in a natural, real way. And she was so authentic and easy to talk to that I found myself completely unintimidated. In fact, I was having the time of my life gabbing with her. By the time I looked up, the hour had passed without my realizing it.

  “Well, okay, Bryan,” I said, somewhat regretfully. “This concludes our tour. I sure hope you had fun.”

  The little boy just looked up at me and nodded.

  “He had a great time,” Sandy said, smiling, poking her godson playfully in the side. “We both did.”

  The minute Sandy and Bryan left, I went into my office and sat behind my desk, grinning like an idiot. I just couldn’t wipe that smile off my face.

  “Terri?”

  “Yes, may I ask who’s speaking?”

  “This is Jesse James.”

  “Oh, Jesse, hi! How did everything go with Sandra?”

  “Really great,” I said. “Listen, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Is Sandra . . . well, is she dating anyone right now?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’d like to ask her out.”

  “Fine,” Terri said. “I’ll let her know, okay? And I’ll give you a call when she makes up her mind, Jesse.”

  “No,” I said, laughing a little bit. So this was how you did it in A-List Hollywood, huh? “With all due respect, I’d rather not ask her assistant to ask her out for me. I’d like to call her up myself. Do it properly.”

  Terri sighed. “Jesse, you seem like such a nice guy, but I can’t give out Sandra’s number. It’s part of my job.”

  “Well, how about a good old e-mail—that’s not too invasive, is it?”

  “Okay,” she said, considering. “I can give you that. Got a pen handy?”

  “Right here,” I said, my ballpoint poised over a fresh, clean sheet of paper. “Give it to me.”

  I sent Sandy a short message that evening, telling her what a pleasure it was to meet her, and how much fun I’d had spending the afternoon with her. I mentioned, casually, that I’d love to show her around Long Beach again—and would she care to have dinner with me, sometime?

  Sandy got back to me right away: she was really flattered by my invitation, she said, and absolutely, she would love to have dinner with me at some point. Right now, though, she was extremely busy and simply didn’t have much time on her hands. She asked me to please stay in touch, and we would make a date to get together at some point down the line.

  I got the point. She’d said yes, in so many words, but what she was really saying was, eh . . . not that interested.

  I kind of shrugged it off, knowing that at least I’d tried. It was probably go
od, actually, that she wasn’t that into me—after all, wasn’t my goal nowadays to be the fifty-five-year-old bachelor? I’d been through hell and back with Janine. The last thing I needed was a new heartthrob.

  But something wouldn’t let me forget Sandra Bullock. Simply put, she was captivating. Everything about her was attractive: her spirit, her energy, her laugh. I loved the sensation of having walked around the shop with her and feeling like we were instant friends. There was something about this woman that made me want to know more.

  So I set out to woo Sandy, over e-mail. It was funny, because most of the people who saw me on Monster Garage probably imagined I didn’t even know how to turn on a computer. But e-mail was the only tool I had in my belt, so that’s what I went for.

  I started out sending her short, funny messages, recounting random weird events from my life, once in a while politely asking her opinion on inconsequential matters. She always responded the same day, polite and measured, seemingly always a bit surprised to hear from me again. I kept the charm coming, though, and gradually, I upped the ante to two messages a day, then to three. Soon, we were e-mailing each other all the time. It was actually lots of fun, like a secret buddy. Finally, the day came when Sandy relented and let me graduate to the phone.

  “Boy,” I said, when we first spoke. “I’m moving up here!”

  “I work slow,” she said, laughing. “Friends first.”

  “That’s cool,” I agreed. “I like friends.”

  What began as just a spark of interest evolved into a real courtship. The great thing about talking and e-mailing with Sandy is that I actually was interested in what she had to say. We actually were friends first. She was such a sweetheart, and such a real person, that I rarely felt the need to try to impress her, to be someone I wasn’t. We were just there for each other, a sympathetic ear willing to listen to whatever problems the other person was having.

  Sandy wasn’t actively filming during this time. Instead, she was spending most of her time in Austin, Texas, where several years before she’d begun to have a home constructed. Her builder had done a terrible job on the construction, though, and now she was embroiled in a convoluted legal dispute with him.

  “It’s a nightmare,” she confided to me. “And I hate that I am so caught up in this case! But I can’t help it. I’m losing sleep over it.”

  “I think you should move back to L.A.,” I said. “Who wants to live all the way over there in Austin, anyway?”

  She laughed. “Ulterior motive?”

  “Oh, maybe just a little,” I said. “So, hey, seriously, when are you visiting next?”

  “In about two weeks,” Sandy said. “I have business I need to take care of—rewritten scripts to read, meetings with overbearing producers . . . you know. All that glitz and glamour.”

  “Will you go out to dinner with me, then?”

  “Oh, I suppose.” She laughed. “You’ve been the perfect gentleman to this point. I think you should be rewarded.”

  “Hey, all right!” I whooped, overjoyed.

  “Okay, calm down, calm down.” Sandy laughed. “Actually, the truth is, I’d love to see you.”

  As promised, she flew into Los Angeles precisely two weeks later. We made our plans to go out. The night of our date, I drove my brand-new black Porsche 996 Twin Turbo to her house to pick her up. Kind of cheeseball, I know. But I was trying hard to be classy.

  “I thought we might go to Balboa’s,” I stammered nervously. “Do you like steak?”

  “Yes,” Sandy said. “That’d be great.” She patted my hand. “Calm down. It’s good to see you.”

  I mostly relaxed after that, and enjoyed being in the same space as she was. At the restaurant, I noticed how nice Sandy was to the hostess, to the waitress, to the guy who took our car—to everyone.

  “You kind of have to do that, huh?”

  “Kind of,” she admitted. “But it’s not hard. I tend to like most people.”

  “Don’t you ever wish you could just stop being famous?” I asked.

  She thought about it and laughed. “Oh, I don’t know . . . only every single day, that’s all.”

  I grinned. “What’s the worst thing about it?”

  “Hmm,” Sandy said. “There’s so much to choose from. There was a stalker for a while. That’s a pretty big downer.”

  “I just don’t comprehend stalkers,” I said. “It’s dumb.”

  “You mean, you wouldn’t wait outside for twenty-four hours to steal my trash? My goodness, what’s wrong with you?”

  “I might have tried to steal your trash,” I said, smiling. “That is, if you hadn’t agreed to go out with me.”

  “Well, good thing I agreed,” Sandy said, sweetly. “Anyway, I had to see.”

  “See what?” I asked.

  “Well, I just wanted to know if . . .” She turned her head to look up at me. “I wanted to know if the feeling that I’d been having on the phone with you would be the same in person.”

  I grinned. “And?”

  “And . . . yes,” she said, laughing softly. “It’s exciting. I really like how I feel around you.”

  I drove her home at the end of the night. We stopped in her driveway.

  “Well, I had a lovely time,” Sandy said. “Do you think we should do this again sometime?”

  “Yes,” I said instantly.

  She laughed. “And when would you like that to be?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  We both burst out laughing.

  ——

  Our romance grew from there, although in a much more deliberate way than I was accustomed to. I came down with the flu the next day, and I couldn’t go out. I half expected Sandy to zoom over and nurse me back to health; but no, she left town as she had planned. It became clear that Sandy wasn’t going to give her heart up easily. That wasn’t because she didn’t like me, she just wasn’t simple to win over like that. All that was cool with me, I decided. Recent experience had shown me that the chaotic, head-over-heels sensation of wild infatuation might not be the best way to begin a relationship.

  Anyway, I’d always enjoyed a challenge. So I continued to court her from afar, trying to win her trust and her approval. My steadfast efforts were rewarded when, several weeks later, Sandy invited me down to Georgia, where she was working on a project.

  “How about you come down and keep me company? It can get awfully lonely, way down south,” she said, laughing. “Even though I’m a Southern girl at heart.” Sandy had spent part of her childhood in Virginia and had gone to college at East Carolina University.

  “Hey, my bags are packed,” I said. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  I flew down to see her, and drove a rental car out to where she was staying.

  “Pretty rural,” I remarked. “What do you guys do for fun out here?”

  “I’ve been running to stay in shape,” Sandy said. “These roads are really beautiful. Perhaps you’d care to join?”

  We went jogging the next morning, and I couldn’t help but agree that the winding roads really were kind of pretty.

  “I never do this,” I admitted. “But I have to say, it feels pretty good.”

  “Gets the blood going,” Sandy gasped. “In half an hour, we’ll be ready to collapse and face the day.”

  My T-shirt was soaked, and I was feeling pretty disheveled by the time we’d made our turn and headed back to Sandy’s place.

  “Oh, shoot,” she remarked. “Just keep on running, okay?”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s nothing,” Sandy said. “Just some photographers. They’ve been lurking around for the whole week, but I’m afraid I’ve been such a boring subject, I don’t think I’ve given them anything good. Now that I’ve got a gentleman jogging partner, they’re sure to be interested . . .”

  “Are we talking about paparazzi here?” I asked, mildly amused.

  “Yes, indeed,” Sandy said apologetically. “It’ll be fine. They’re minor annoyances. Just jog on by.�
�

  When we made the last leg of our journey into Sandy’s house, I saw the small clutch of paparazzi pull out their cameras to record our entrance enthusiastically.

  “I feel like I’m at the Kentucky Derby.” I laughed, as we stumbled into the house. “Photo finish.”

  “It’s so stupid, isn’t it?” Sandy said. She tossed me a towel. “I’m this normal person who does acting for a living, and for some reason, these guys can make thousands of dollars selling a picture of me, I don’t know, picking my nose or something.”

  “Do you really pick your nose?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, hugging me. “Ooh. I’m so sweaty. We should shower.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “We should.”

  It was just the best time. New romance always feels good, but there was something so wholesome and so incredibly positive about Sandy. She didn’t waste much of her time complaining, and I noticed that she seemed averse to voicing criticism, unless it was really called for. And contrary to the typical actor stereotype, I didn’t find her self-centered in the slightest. Our conversations didn’t tend to be about her, or me; instead, they were about art and film and ideas she found engrossing. Gradually, I got the sense that I was hanging out with an evolved human being. Or, perhaps a little more simply put, a grown-up.

  It was kind of a laugh, because it showed me in such vivid detail how much of my life I’d been lurking around in the shadows, waiting for someone to invite me into this kind of conversation. Maybe it sounds like a load of crap, but the truth is, from the start, being around Sandy made me want to be a better guy. Whereas with Janine I was always riding that wave of her attention, watching myself reflected in her eyes, with Sandy, I saw her watching the world, and wondering how she could contribute. The better I got to know her, the more I wanted to be by her side, doing the same thing.

  “Daddy, you’re in the magazine!” Chandler said one evening as we wheeled through an Albertson’s supermarket in Long Beach. Happily, she held open a glossy gossip magazine. “See?”

  Sure enough, there I was, jogging through Georgia, alongside none other than Ms. Sandra Bullock. I scanned the caption, my eyes falling on the words “heavily tattooed biker boy toy.”