American Outlaw Read online

  Nina looked at me, as if just discovering I was there. “My kids don’t steal,” she grunted, moving hair out of her face. She stirred the soup she was making for dinner, sucked on the oversized spoon. “Weren’t raised that way.”

  “Yeah, well, look, I hate to tell you,” I said, my voice rising, “some money is gone, and I sure as hell didn’t spend it. My dad didn’t take it, and I guess that leaves you and your kids.” I folded my arms and stared her down. “So what are we gonna do about it?”

  Nina stirred, her concentration intense. She peered into the oven, attending to her casserole. The contents of the Pyrex captivated her attention entirely.

  “Hey!” I said. “Hello?”

  Nina looked back up at me and squinted, as if meeting me for the first time. “I told you, my family don’t steal shit.” Her jaw worked up and down.

  Defeated, I stomped out of the kitchen. The next day, I visited a hardware store and bought a dead bolt for my room. Without it, I was convinced my stepbrother and stepsister would take everything that wasn’t nailed down. I thought this, because that’s what I would have done. They didn’t want to live with me any more than I wanted to live with them. Yet now that they were here, they would do their best to exploit the situation.

  We coexisted uneasily for several months. Nina and I grew no closer. However, I grew to tolerate my stepsister and stepbrother, and then to like them. The unshakable force of the dead bolt imposed a kind of boundary, and they learned to act right. We were pillars of decency in an otherwise shitty adult world: one riddled with deception, neglect, and high-sodium food products. Incredibly, despite the chaos that it grew out of, our friendship exists to this day.

  Maybe it would have been an okay family to ride out my high school years with. Nina could never have been a mom to me, but on the plus side, I probably wasn’t going to happen upon a box of nudie pictures of her. No magazine in the world would publish one of those.

  But it all turned out to be moot, when the house burned down.

  It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was down the street at a neighbor’s house, drinking beer with Bobby.

  Bobby was getting a pretty good buzz on. He could always drink, and when he was in the company of a woman, as he was now, with my neighbor Kelly, he tipped them back at double speed.

  “We’re about to be the kings of the school,” he babbled. “State champs, probably, and then of course, the NFL is my personal plan . . .”

  Suddenly I smelled something.

  “What is that?”

  “What are you babbling about, Jesse?”

  “Yeah,” Kelly said, giggling. “Are you getting weird, Jesse?”

  “Jesse’s always weird,” Bobby announced. “Ain’t you,” he said, slurping.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly, helping myself to another drink. It wasn’t exactly my style to drink in the middle of the afternoon, but hell, it was Sunday. My dad and Nina and her kids were up in the Bay Area, attending one of his auctions; I had the town all to myself. Something felt pretty good about the way these cold, watery beers were going down, too. “I just thought something smelled off.”

  “Pardon him, please, he’s retarded,” Bobby apologized for me. He tried to slip an arm around Kelly’s shoulders. She slipped out from underneath his grasp, giggling. “I’ll be happy to ask him to leave, if you like.”

  We continued partying, working on a collective buzz, listening to music.

  “You guys like Bon Jovi?” Kelly asked. “Their lead singer is such a doll.”

  Bobby laughed. “I dig their bass player.” He screwed up his face, then belched violently. “Giant teenage crush.”

  I laughed, not really listening. “Seriously, you guys don’t smell that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bobby said.

  “Hold on,” Kelly said, seriously. “I smell something, too. Doesn’t it smell like something’s—”

  “Burning,” I finished for her, my insides flushing with ice water, and we jumped to our feet and ran out the door.

  Outside, half a block down, my house was ablaze.

  As I watched, shocked, the house started igniting seemingly of its own accord. Loud, crazy explosions rocked the frame.

  “What is that?” Bobby asked, awed for maybe the first time in his life.

  “It’s my fireworks,” I said. A sinking, helpless feeling was building in the pit of my stomach.

  I’d been storing fireworks—black powder, bottle rockets, and bricks of M-15s—in the garage for years, for so long I’d forgotten they were even there. In terrible bursts, they began exploding violently. I had ammo in there, too, bullets and shells. It sounded like a war. Flames began to lick at the windows, at the walls, at the roof.

  Soon a siren’s wail could be heard. The fire engines were coming.

  Scared out of our minds, Bobby, Kelly, and I watched from the sidelines as a team of firefighters jumped down from the truck. They chopped down my door with axes and began to douse my whole house in water and chemicals.

  “This your house, son?” a fireman asked me gruffly.

  I nodded.

  “Where are your folks?”

  “They’re not here,” I said, watching over his shoulder as more and more water streamed into my garage. Everything in there that wasn’t melted in the fire would be ruined by water damage. “My dad and his wife are up in San Francisco.”

  “You better notify him,” the fireman said. “He’ll want to know.”

  So I walked back to Kelly’s and called him. I was half-drunk and totally in shock. He told me he would leave his auction immediately and come down to assess the damage. I sat down on the stoop to wait.

  All night, I waited for him to arrive. The firefighters kept working at the house, and within a few hours they had extinguished the worst of the blaze. The foundation remained intact, but the roof had completely burned off. The walls of the dining room and the living room were black and wet, with burn marks over every inch. Worst of all, the garage was gone. I’d lost everything I cared about, including a motorcycle I was working on, my first bike ever. The roll-around toolbox containing all my tools was completely melted. I felt like dying.

  Finally, at dawn, my dad and Nina showed up. None of us had slept. A small squad of firefighters was still there, dousing out hot spots.

  “Goddamn,” my dad cried, getting out of his car. He walked up to me and stood over me. “How’d this happen, Jess?”

  I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. I shrugged.

  “The place is fucked,” he said. The tone of his voice was dangerously hoarse.

  I remained silent, scared of the anger that I knew was building.

  “No one can live here anymore,” he said. He nodded slowly, as if taking in his own comment. “We don’t have a house anymore.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t mean to,” Nina said sarcastically. “He just loves that house.”

  I whirled to face her. “What are you talking about? Why would I burn the house down on purpose?”

  She shook her head at me. “How’m I supposed to know what goes on in that head? All I see is my house burned down.”

  “Your house?” I cried. “You’ve only lived here for six months!”

  My dad looked at me. “You burned this down on purpose?”

  “I didn’t burn it down!” I shouted. “I was down the street and I came out and it was on fire.”

  “Yeah, and it just caught on fire by itself?” Nina taunted.

  “What is wrong with you, Jesse?” my dad asked. “After all I’ve given you, you go and burn my fucking house?”

  “I didn’t burn it!” I yelled. “How many times do I have to say I didn’t do it?”

  “All I’m seeing,” my dad said, with blood in his eyes, his jaw clenched, “is a rotten, useless, burned-up building!” He pushed me aside. “It was your fireworks in the garage! And you have the goddamn gall to stand right i
n front of me and tell me you had nothing to do with it?”

  “Fuck you,” I whispered. It was the first time I had ever said that to my dad in my whole life.

  My father reared back and punched me in the face. His fist hit me with all the force of a grown man’s hate, and he broke my nose for me. Blood everywhere.

  In disbelief, I touched my nose and watched the blood begin to drip down all over my hand and arm.

  Years of frustration and rage coursed through me in one furious instant. I put my head down and tackled him, pinning his aging body to the floor, and with my fists and legs, I tried to kill him.

  “Get off me!” my dad cried, but I was bigger than him now, and stronger.

  We rolled over each other with our bodies, tangled in a death grip. We crashed through the living room wall, the sick smell of burned drywall and reclaimed water enveloping us.

  I hated him so much. I tried to crush him with my hands. If the firefighters hadn’t been there, I would have killed him. I remember their slick raincoats against my skin, their hats falling off their heads, as two of them tried to pull me off my father, and a third joined to help them.

  “Son!” they cried. “That’s enough! Let go! Let go of him.”

  They ripped us apart and threw me into the corner, where I lay sobbing for what seemed like a long time. My dad lay on the ground, too, ten yards away from me. He didn’t make a sound.

  Slowly, I rose to my feet, walked out of the blackened shell of the house, and got into my car. I drove away without looking back.

  3

  I was alone and homeless. So I went to Rhonda. I felt like I had no other options left.

  “Can I . . . can I stay with you for a while?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Jesse,” Rhonda said. “My mom might not like it.”

  But her mother, Linda, surprised us both. She looked at me real hard when I told her what had happened, listening to every word. Then she informed me that, if I agreed to a few conditions, I was welcome to stay.

  “First things first, Jesse,” her mom said. “There’s not going to be any bullshit going on with my daughter under this roof.”

  I blushed. “No.”

  “I mean it. We have a spare bedroom, and that’s where you’ll stay. You’re not to sleep in Rhonda’s room.” Rhonda’s mom was pretty, just like her daughter, and when she smiled you could see how they were related. However, she wasn’t smiling now. Not even a little bit. “Not on special occasions, not when I’m not around—you don’t do it. Is that understood?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “I want you to have a job. I know a couple of people who could probably use a strong kid like you to help make deliveries. How does that sound to you?”

  “It sounds good,” I said.

  “You’re to go to school,” she continued. “Every day. I mean, if you’re not trying, then I don’t see any reason I should let you live with me and my daughter. Do you?”

  “No,” I agreed.

  “Good.” Now she smiled. “And hell, if you have the energy, help me out a little around here. I hate doing the damn dishes. So far, Rhonda’s hopeless. How are you at doing dishes, kiddo?”

  I laughed, relieved. Rhonda gave me a hug. “I’m super good,” I said, too choked up to add more. My arms remained braided around her daughter’s waist. “I’m the best dishwasher in the whole world.”

  So I moved into their spare bedroom, and for the first time in my life, I was part of a family. We ate meals together every night. It was what I had dreamed of. Linda was such a great person to me—she made a point of checking in to see whether I was doing my schoolwork and whether I was actually going to my job, which turned out to be working at a furniture store. She didn’t pretend to like my dad, either. That made me appreciate her even more.

  Rhonda and I were totally in love. By necessity, we were pretty chaste, but that didn’t keep me from being one hundred percent sprung over her. She was going to turn sixteen soon, and I wanted to blow her mind with a great surprise.

  “What do you want for your birthday?” I whispered to her one night when we were cuddling together, outside the house.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Rhonda said. “Whatever you get me will be great, I just know it.” She smiled at me.

  “I’m gonna totally bowl you over,” I boasted. “I’m gonna blow your mind.”

  “Sure, Jesse.” She laughed. “Blow it!”

  I’m sure she was expecting me to spend twenty dollars at the mall jewelry store. Maybe show up with a gold-leaf necklace, one of those babies that turn your neck spinach green in two days. Instead, the day of her birthday, there appeared in her driveway a 1961 sea-foam green Volkswagen Beetle.

  “Jesse!” she exclaimed. “What . . . is this?”

  “It’s your car,” I said.

  “Oh my God!” She was so excited, she was literally dancing from foot to foot. “What?”

  “It’s your car,” I repeated, proudly. I held out a key ring to her—a single key dangled from it. “Here. Take it for a ride, if you want.”

  I still haven’t forgotten the way Rhonda’s face looked when she took that key. She was totally intoxicated on surprise and hyperexcitement. But I saw that she also looked proud. Of me, for having gotten this done for her.

  “Oh, Jesse,” Rhonda said. “You are so sweet. You are so good to me.” She gazed up at me lovingly. “How in the world did you do all this?”

  I grinned. “Don’t worry about that.”

  I hadn’t bought the car outright, of course. I was way too broke for that. I’d gotten a working engine from one guy, and a Volkswagen shell from another. The wheels and fenders came in from yet another source. Truthfully, there were a few stolen parts on it—Linda hadn’t reformed me completely. But I’d painted it myself, and done lots of body work to the car, removing every dent I could find. It looked cherry.

  “What can I do for you in return?” she said, smiling.

  “You could drive me to football practice,” I answered truthfully. “If I’m much later, coach’ll freaking kill me.”

  That year, my junior year, was when I really became a star. The coaches realized they could play me on offense and defense, as well as the special teams, and I would never ask for a breather. The whole season, I never came off the field—much to the dismay of my backup, a good-natured roly-poly kid named Mike.

  Mike had the kind of fat girth you could get away with on a football field: his shapeless bulk packed tight around an oblong skeleton. His bright red hair was complemented by freckles and a hapless expression on his doughy face.

  “Jesse,” Mike whined, “why don’t you ever get hurt, man?”

  “Built way too tough,” I explained. “Bones made of titanium, Mike.”

  “I’ll shoot him for you, Mike,” Bobby volunteered. “For the right price, he’s a dead man.”

  Tom Dixon and his gang of seniors had graduated. That meant that it was pretty much Bobby’s and my team, even though we were only juniors. We kind of battled with each other for authority. I preferred to lead by example; Bobby, by the force of psychotic bluster.

  “No FUCKING UP tonight!” he’d scream in the locker room before our games. “NO PUSSIES, NO CRYING!”

  “Let’s play smart and hard,” I announced firmly.

  “TAKE ’EM OUT AT THE KNEES AND GOUGE THEIR EYEBALLS!!” Bobby boomed.

  The kids on the team looked vaguely confused, not to mention mildly frightened by the spastic giant screaming in front of them. “It’s all about protecting the football,” I explained.

  “TAKE ’EM HARD, CUZ THEY DESERVE TO DIE!”

  “Let’s get out there and win,” I added.

  It was interesting, because I was such an angry, sick fuck on the field, but in the locker room, I was your average kid. Maybe even a little bit quieter than the rest of them. Yet under the lights, it was like a switch would turn over in me, and I was out for blood.

  Our first game that year was with Notre Dame, our riva
l high school. There had been several articles about me in the paper, referencing the good year I was coming off of. Well, the other teams didn’t like that at all. So right away, the first play of the game, Notre Dame decided to try to get into my head. Their tight end was a big white guy with an even bigger mouth.

  “Yo, Jesse James,” he yelled. “I heard your mom’s a whore! Actually, I know she is, because I put my balls in your whore mom’s mouth just last night! Hey, are you deaf, Jesse James?”

  I didn’t say anything. I was letting the hate build up in me, letting it heat my blood.

  He kept going. “You know what? Fuck you, faggot! And your whore mom, too.” His voice was harsh and loud, and he was so relentless, people up in the stands could probably hear him. “She didn’t lick my balls right! Can you finish the job?”

  No response. I just stared into the top of his skull, at the stripes that bisected his helmet, willing them to become the entire universe for me.

  “Aren’t you gonna say SHIT?” he said, just as his center hiked the ball.

  I flew off the line and punched him. It was maybe the best uppercut of my life. I punched him so hard, and in precisely the right place, that my knuckles punched up behind his sternum, and my hand disappeared beneath his rib cage.

  He gasped awfully. He dropped to the ground, and I ran over him and sacked the quarterback. As I was lying there, on top of the QB, savoring the moment, the foulmouthed kid stumbled to his feet, then jumped on my back. He wailed away at me with harmless, puny blows. “You DIRTY SON OF A BITCH!”

  I just covered up and laughed, letting him work my back. Eventually, my teammates pulled him off me and beat him down into the ground some more. Their team came to his rescue, and soon a whole bunch of heads were getting knocked, just like they should in high school games.

  “Nice punch, James,” Bobby whispered to me, out of breath, as we lined up again.

  “Maybe I should get into boxing,” I said, laughing.

  “Both of us should. There’s good money in it.”

  I wasn’t all that surprised when my dad started coming to games. I was getting press in the local papers and stuff, slowly becoming a star player. So sure enough, that’s when he started showing up. He would sit up in the stands all alone, high up, in a section all by himself, so I could be sure to see him.