American Outlaw Page 27

  “Awesome,” I mumbled.

  “Should we buy it?” Chandler giggled. “Look, you’re sweaty.”

  “Uh, nope, that’s okay, sweetie,” I sighed. “There’ll be more where that came from.”

  Sandy and I continued to see each other when our busy schedules would allow for it. She worked very long hours, both as an actress and as a producer, and Monster Garage continued to keep me busy and sleep deprived. For years now, I had been shooting three weeks on, one week off. It was really starting to grind on me.

  “This is just stupid,” I remarked, after six straight days of trying to convert an armored car into a festival dunk tank.

  “Huh?” said one of the cameramen.

  “It’s pointless,” I said, motioning to our almost-complete car. “I mean, it’s funny, it’s a challenge and all that . . . but would the world be a single bit worse off if we never even thought of this garbage?”

  The kid just looked at me, a bit at a loss for words. “It’s . . . entertainment.”

  “So’s a fucking cartoon.” I reached for my keys, walked off the set, and headed home.

  For the first time in my life, I felt like I’d found myself in a relationship that was enlightening. It couldn’t help but illuminate the parts of my life where I’d been content to stagnate. I wasn’t a soap opera addict or anything like that, didn’t sit on the couch eating bonbons—far from it—but really, when was the last time that I’d tried to expand my horizons? Make myself into a well-rounded and, well, cultural dude?

  “I want to confess something to you,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve never been to a Broadway show.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Sandy said. “Lots of people haven’t been.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” I said. “I’m hanging out with one of the greatest actresses in the world. I’d like to go to the theater with you.”

  “This could be arranged,” Sandy said, grandly. “Now, what play would you like to see, Mr. James?”

  “Something with Slayer,” I said.

  Sandy grinned. “Uh . . .”

  “Come on,” I said. “I’m kidding. Anything. Just bring me to something that I might actually like.”

  One week later, we flew to New York, where Sandy scored us front-row tickets to Spamalot, the Monty Python musical. It was totally hysterical. I loved it.

  “Well?” Sandy asked, grinning happily. “What do you think?”

  “Dude, I’ve done Broadway!” I exulted. “Hey, did you realize there’s a whole band down in that pit? For the whole first act, I thought all that music was piped in.”

  I broadened her horizons, too. Before she met me, Sandy had never been in a car going a hundred miles an hour.

  “Are you serious?” I yelled, as we gained velocity, the wind from the open windows whipping at our faces.

  “Why would I kid?” Sandy screamed, her hair flying behind her.

  “If I don’t go a hundred every single day,” I yelled, “there’s something wrong with my car!”

  Sandy’s eyes widened as the scenery outside began to blur, and she gripped the sides of her seat with clenched hands. “Are you absolutely sure this is a good idea?”

  “Come on,” I laughed. “You were in Speed, weren’t you?”

  “THAT WAS A MOVIE!” she screamed.

  We were coming together. Not out of weakness or need, but as two people who genuinely liked and respected the other.

  “I like the way this feels,” I confessed, during another one of our weekend getaways together.

  “Me, too. When I’m alone, I laugh sometimes, thinking about us,” Sandy said. “We’re kind of like Felix and Oscar.”

  “I’m Felix, right?” I said.

  “Oscar.”

  I caught myself looking at her hopefully. An excessive sense of wonder and deep appreciation filled me as I observed her doing small tasks, like washing dishes or typing an e-mail. Clearly, I was falling in love.

  “I don’t want to promise too much,” I cautioned. “I want to warn you, I don’t like shopping. And I don’t much care for chick flicks.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll probably never pop a wheelie. Is that going to be an issue?”

  “For you?” I said. “I’ll make an exception.”

  Obviously, my guard was still up; it had to be. I had been hurt so badly and so recently. But Sandy was everything she appeared to be on the outside. She was a sensitive listener and a good conversationalist who was also willing to engage at a deeper level. As we slowly got to know each other more authentically, I was gradually able to admit that there were some very old hurts that I was carrying around.

  “It’s been a rocky couple of years,” I admitted, laughing, late one night when we were lounging around in my living room.

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Janine, that whole thing . . . it was just a tornado.” I squinted, embarrassed. “The truth is, I felt like I deserved it. Do you understand what I mean?”

  Sandy nodded. “I do.”

  “I . . . I grew up in a really hard situation,” I said. “I don’t tell people about it very often.”

  Sandy looked at me deeply, with real sympathy in her eyes. “I promise you, if you want to confide in me, I will never judge you for it, Jesse.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, I used to get smacked around.”

  Sandy said nothing. She just watched me.

  “I grew up scared shitless of my dad,” I continued. “He punched me and blacked my eye. When I was fifteen years old, he accused me of burning down our house and I got into such a big fight with him that we would literally have killed each other if we hadn’t been pulled apart.”

  “Oh, Jesse.” Tears were starting to well up in Sandy’s eyes. “I had no idea.”

  I was starting to cry, too. “When I was six, I was so afraid of him,” I said, my voice cracking. “He was yelling at me and I ran away from him into the pitch-black night. I’ve never been so scared. I don’t know why anyone would do that to a kid. You know?”

  “Jesse, you don’t have to . . . What happened?” Sandy asked softly.

  “I tripped over a low fence. And I broke my arm.”

  Sandy rose and slowly walked over to me. She embraced me in her arms, and rocked me, saying nothing.

  “He laughed at me,” I choked, bitterly. “He heard me crying, wailing with pain, and he just laughed. ‘Why’d you trip, dummy?’ I thought he was going to kill me. But he just stood over me and he laughed.”

  It was a secret I’d been carrying with me for thirty years. I wept, ashamed. I sobbed like a kid, crying into her shoulder.

  ——

  By the summer of 2005, Sandy and I had been dating for almost six months. She was still caught up in the lawsuit surrounding her disappointing house in Austin. She was emotionally wrapped up in the case, and it was stressing her out pretty badly.

  “Hey,” I said to her, “I’d like to talk to you. Do you have a second?”

  We’d been getting along great. But I honestly wasn’t sure how she’d react to what I had in store for her.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Well, I . . . I just wanted to . . . I wanted to know if you’d marry me.”

  She looked at me, amazed. “Are you . . . serious?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m serious. I want you to marry me.”

  I had promised myself I would never get married again. But that was before I’d met Sandy. She had turned my plan upside down. She was such an impressive person from every angle—calm, stable, intelligent, beautiful, fun, articulate, compassionate. I almost couldn’t believe that one person had so many great attributes, and even more, that this person found me compelling enough to keep around. I guess part of me looked at her and clearly envisioned just how much better she could make my life.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I . . . wow. This is a surprise.” Sandy looked like she was trying to catch her breath. “Yes.”

  “Yes,
as in, you’ll marry me?” I asked, nervously.

  “Yes, as in yes!” She laughed. “Yes, I will marry you. I love you.”

  I exhaled, relieved. “Oh, man. Thank God.” I laughed. “I mean . . . I love you, too.”

  We didn’t even tell Sandy’s closest friends that we were getting hitched. Instead, we pretended we were throwing her a big birthday bash. We treated it like a full-on military operation, with vows of total secrecy. It just felt more special that way. Because Sandy was so well known, news of her engagement would have gone public in mere seconds. We didn’t want to share our happiness with anyone. Least of all the supermarket tabloids.

  We hatched a plan to hold the ceremony at the Santa Ynez Ranch, near Santa Barbara. Together, late at night, we dreamed up intricate strategies and complicated deceptions, winking at each other, excited and proud that we were going to throw a secret, million-dollar wedding. For me, it was like getting paired up to do a project with the prettiest, most popular girl in school. I had never felt so lucky in my whole life.

  Finally the day came. I found myself face-to-face with the most gorgeous woman in the world, surrounded by loving friends of hers and mine. This time, the video cameras were conspicuously absent. So was my father. I felt more at ease with myself, less motivated to impress anyone. With calmness and pride, I prepared to let Sandy into my life.

  15

  One of the biggest injustices of life? Kids don’t get to choose their stepparents. I still felt guilty about exposing Chandler and Jesse Jr. to Janine. Nevertheless, I felt confident delivering Sandy onto their doorstep.

  After the wedding, Sandy moved into the house on Sunset Beach, the one I’d purchased to live in with Janine. My kids had been living with me full-time throughout the divorce, but suddenly there was a new addition to the family.

  Sandy was calm and responsible—probably more responsible than I was. And she had always gotten along well with my kids when she’d spent time with them before. Granted, that wasn’t the same as living in the same house, but as it turned out, I was right. Sandy took to being a mom like a fish to water.

  “So, what are you studying in school this week?”

  “Division,” Jesse Jr. said.

  “What do you think of it so far?” Sandy asked with a smile.

  “Oh, I hate it.”

  “I used to be pretty good at math when I was your age. Would you like some help?”

  “Nah, that’s okay,” Jesse Jr. said, unzipping his book bag. “It’s really dumb.”

  “Math can be pretty boring,” Sandy agreed. “But tell you what, let’s see if we can make it a little more fun, okay?”

  I liked watching her with my kids. She spoke to them with respect and interest: not like they were tiny adults, but as if they were simply people younger than her, whose opinions were as valid and interesting as anyone else’s. And Sandy just breathed organization and structure. By this point, I was one hundred percent dedicated to being a dad, but my dedication manifested itself in a formless kind of devotion and love. I didn’t really know exactly how to do things like find them the best schools or after-school programs. Sandy was the polar opposite: she studied the school districts, and took it upon herself to see what opportunities were available for Chandler and Jesse Jr. Before long, my kids were very fond of her. They trusted her.

  During this period, my only real contact with Janine was financial. I was sending her $15,000 each month for child support.

  “That’s quite a sum,” Sandy remarked.

  “I’m okay with it,” I told her. “This way, at least I know my daughter’s needs are paid for.”

  But before too many months had elapsed, I realized this wasn’t necessarily so. One morning, I received a phone call from one of Janine’s old boyfriends, a guy I’d become friends with after the breakup. We sympathized with each other and traded war stories. He’d maintained communication and a kind of friendship with Janine, and now, he informed me, all was not well in my ex-wife’s world.

  “She’s living in Oregon nowadays, man.”

  “I know,” I said. “Kinda weird. I didn’t even know she knew anyone up there.”

  “I’m not sure she’s being real social, exactly,” he said. “From what I can tell, she’s always holed up in this house she just bought, man. She never leaves, like, ever. I’m pretty sure she’s doing drugs.”

  I felt sick inside.

  “She’s been in a bad space,” he continued. “That’s why I called. She’s not doing the mom thing right, I can tell you that much.”

  After hanging up the phone, I let the news sink in for a moment. It had been pretty ridiculous of me to think she was capable of being a responsible parent to my daughter. I’d hoped that I could somehow ensure my child’s safety by simply sending a big check every month, but that had just been a pipe dream. I made up my mind: I wanted custody of Sunny.

  Like everything legal, our custody battle was long, tedious, difficult, expensive, and frustrating. Sandy was totally supportive of me in the process. She realized that it was my child and in the end, my decision, but there was no question about it, she wanted Sunny in our household as much as I did.

  “This blows,” I told her, discouraged, during one of the more difficult moments, when it felt like the case would never unfold or change. “Sometimes I just want to fucking give up, you know?”

  “I understand,” Sandy said. “But it sounds like your daughter’s not growing up in a safe home. I can’t think of anything more important to focus your energy on.”

  It was almost like Sandy understood me more than she let on. I know that when she looked at me, she could see the neglect and abuse that I’d gone through. I don’t know whether she realized that, in a certain way, me having been through all that pain made me believe it was inevitable that my own offspring would go through the same hurt.

  But I do know she realized that, deep down, I wanted more than anything to save Sunny from the pain of a truly unstable environment. In the months that followed, she kept me focused on the goal, and tried to help me stay upbeat in the process of the slow, plodding case.

  Eventually, we settled into a normal kind of life in Orange County, or at least as normal as was possible for a famous movie star and her “heavily tattooed biker boy toy” husband.

  “What should we have for dinner?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Hell, let’s just go to the supermarket and see what hits us.”

  If we’d lived in Hollywood, it would have been more difficult to go to a Safeway and push around a shopping cart, but in Huntington Beach, things were often kind of laid-back. People seemed to understand that Sandy and I were in our home zone, and they mostly left us alone. I appreciated that, especially since Sandy was so nice that she’d inevitably humor whoever it was that managed to lure her into a conversation. I felt like it was important we were allowed to roam free in at least one little corner of the world. I didn’t really feel like ceding the privilege of buying a carton of eggs for the rest of my married life.

  “How about the gym?” Sandy asked me, after our successful foray to the supermarket.

  “I go to Gold’s.”

  “Lead on.”

  And we did. Sandy and I worked out at odd hours, when the gym was less likely to be full of people, but the point is, we went. We packed an old gym bag, wore sweatpants, and hung out with each other by the machines. We really tried our best to be a normal couple. And to an extent, there in the beginning, it worked. I know that I myself had never taken my own celebrity seriously. I was a metalworker, for Christ’s sake, and I was still putting in fifteen-hour days. There was nothing glamorous about that.

  And Sandy, for her part, was about as down-to-earth as you could get. That was her whole appeal. She was an uncommonly pretty woman, but nonetheless, hers was the type of beauty that seemed almost attainable by most of the attractive women in America. She wasn’t an intense, bitchy, ruthless megastar; nor was she ultra-chic, irresponsible, and moody. Sandy was gro
unded. Normal, even. She was the superhot version of regular. That’s why America loved her.

  As our marriage developed, I felt surprisingly pleased with the way my life seemed to be playing out. I’d struggled for such a long time, willingly placing myself into the oddest of configurations possible: head breaker, football nut, porn-star hubby. Finally, it seemed that I was on a sane path. More and more, I found myself wanting to take advantage of my stable foothold to do something half worthwhile, something that might help other people.

  “I can’t stop thinking about going to Iraq,” I told Hildie Katibah, the producer with whom I’d discussed the project several months before.

  “Jesse, you know I think it’s a great idea to do a show over there. But we already talked to Discovery. It’s not popular with the network.”

  “Fuck them,” I said. “I’ll put up my own money.”

  She cleared her throat. “You may have to form your own production company.”

  Though it seemed a daunting task, I was stubborn. I just really wanted to do something positive. I realized I wouldn’t be stopping the war, but that wasn’t my intention. I knew that kids who’d enlisted in the army were my kind of people. They were blue collar; they understood how machines could be your allies when nothing else made much sense.

  “Then I’ll form a production company,” I said. “Just tell me what needs to get done. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  I don’t know why I was on such a mission. Maybe it was because people were telling me that I couldn’t—opposition always added fuel to my fire. With Hildie guiding me, I formed Pay Up Sucker Productions, a company that would bear the cost of getting us over to Iraq, filming there, and procuring the necessary permits from the U.S. government.

  “Boy, I sure hope we can sell this,” Hildie said, smiling. “Or else you’re going to be out a good deal of money.”

  “We’ll sell it,” I said, already excited at the prospect of going overseas. “People are going to love it.”