American Outlaw (30 page)

“You’re a narcissist,” Janine said, shaking her head back and forth, furious. “If the spotlight’s not on you, then you can’t function.”

“Don’t be crazy,” I said, annoyed. “That’s not it at all.”

“Jesse!” Janine cried in frustration. “Why am I dealing with your bullshit right now?”

“Exactly,” I said, exasperated. “After all, isn’t this when you’re supposed to be giving lap dances to all the johns?”

Janine stared at me balefully. “How
dare
you.”

“You know what?” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think I like strip clubs that much anymore. I’m out of here. You can take a taxi home.”

I withdrew three twenty-dollar bills from my wallet, and thrust them toward her.

“Keep your money,” Janine said quietly. A cool smile appeared on her face. “I’m about to go make my own.”

——

She came home very late that night, crawling quietly into bed. The next morning, clad in a conservative bathrobe, her hair pulled back, all traces of makeup gone from her face, she made me a big breakfast.

“I didn’t mean to get all upset at you, Jesse,” she said carefully, sausage frying in a heavy black skillet. “But I would have really appreciated it if you had come to watch me dance.”

“Well, honestly, I would have. I just didn’t know it was that important to you.”

“Just think about it!” Janine pleaded. “You’re good at so many things; I’m only good at
one
thing. Last night, that was my thing! Of course I want the most important person in my life to witness me doing it.”

“Man,” I said, feeling suddenly guilty. “I’m sorry. I guess I just didn’t see it that way at the time.”

“Well,” Janine said, sliding the sausages onto a plate and placing them before me. “It’s my fault, for not explaining it better to you.”

I got up and walked over to her. “Will you accept my apology?” I said, sheepishly.

Janine grinned. “Of course, silly.” She moved to embrace me. “You are such a sweetie, underneath all that
guff.
”

I held her happily for a moment, and kissed her on the side of her temple. “You know what?” I said, suddenly. “You and I should get ourselves a new place to live. A place where we can start over fresh.”

“Seriously?” Janine’s eyes opened wide. “Are you, like, kidding me?”

“Nope,” I said proudly. “Would you like that?”

“Oh, baby!” she cried, leaping into my arms, laughing joyously.
“Let’s live by the
beach
! My whole life, I’ve always wanted to live by the ocean!”

“If that’s what you want,” I promised, “that’s where we’re going to live.”

Janine’s highs were so high, and her exuberance so contagious, that it wasn’t merely a figure of speech to say it made me happy to make her happy. Truly, I fed off of her lightheartedness. Her love for me felt like more than just an emotion she expressed. It was a form of sustenance.

Several months later, we went to see a gorgeous house on Seal Beach, about fifteen minutes from downtown Long Beach.

“Oh, I love it, Jesse,” Janine said, as we walked across the hardwood of the empty downstairs living room. “I absolutely love it.” She smiled at me, her eyes sparkling. “This could be a wonderful house for a
family.
”

“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 doctors 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?”