American Outlaw (36 page)

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 grounded. 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.”

Of course, not everybody loved it. As permits started to come in for me and the film crew, and things started to fall more and more in line, certain powers at the Discovery Channel voiced their strong disapproval for the project. It was even insinuated that I could be fired if I went over there, for being in violation of my
Monster Garage
contract.

“How am I in violation of my contract?” I asked Sandy, that night.

“Because you’re endangering a company product, sweetie.” She patted me on the chest. “In other words, their star.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Come on.”

“Well, I understand their objections—they’re still bombing over there. It’s not that safe.”

“Well, what’s the point of doing
anything
if it’s safe?” I said. “I mean, where’s the prime-time drama in that?”

Sandy understood why I was so hyped up to go over there. She might even have gathered that part of the reason I wanted to visit the troops and participate with them was to live up to the standard she was setting. But she was still worried about me. Nonetheless, I never felt like I didn’t have her permission to head over to a war zone. In the end, it was going to be my decision, and she wouldn’t lay too much of a guilt trip on me because of it.

“Just come back,” she whispered. “Okay?”

“I promise,” I said.

I had been to Iraq with Kid Rock several years before, during 2003, on a USO stop. That had been a really fulfilling experience for me—the enthusiasm of the soldiers who’d shown up to see us
had blown me away. Things were different, now, though, and Iraq in 2005 was a hectic scene. Public support for the war in the Middle East had really waned, and that made me all the more determined to come over and make it clear that I was supportive of the kids who were putting themselves in harm’s way.

And they really were
kids.
That’s what impacted me the most. Some of these guys could barely grow whiskers on their chins, and yet here they were, wielding these crazy sniper rifles. It brought back memories of how, fifteen years earlier, during my early twenties, I’d moved to Seattle. I’d been a confused, overgrown kid who’d thought he was going to be a football hero, but instead found himself in the freezing Pacific Northwest, trying to figure out what life was all about. It was kind of compelling to observe these young men and women, still trying to get a grip on who they were, who, against all odds, now found themselves in Iraq.

We had only seven days to pull off our
Monster Garage–
style build, which, as we’d planned all along, was to transform a standard-issue Humvee into a souped-up, desert pimpmobile with giant tires and spinning rims.

“Think we’ll pull it off?” I asked Command Sergeant Major Cynthia Graham, a woman with a ton of grit.

“It’ll be a damn sight to see if we do!” she said, laughing, the lines of her face creasing appealingly. This was a woman who’d been out in the desert for a good long time. “These guys are really excited for you to be out here, Jesse. I’ll say that much.”

The whole week I was there, I was filled with a sense of purpose. We weren’t pulling off the most creative build we’d ever done; there was no beer being distilled inside of a fire truck, no PT Cruiser turning into a wood chipper. But the soldier-mechanics doing the grunt work loved the challenge. They liked the cameras, too—I’m pretty sure it was sort of appealing to think about becoming a star, if only for the briefest of moments. But most of all, I sensed that the troops involved with the build dug doing something
different
:
a mechanical project that, for once, wasn’t centered around the depressing subject of battle and death. Every day, these guys repaired jeeps that had been crushed by improvised explosive devices. To them, a week with me was a lark, a much-needed vacation.