American Outlaw - Jesse James [1]
Wow, I think. Physical violence would feel amazing right now. To just dole out a single blow to someone’s greasy temple—or, even milder, to snatch a camera out of the nearest feeble grip and smash it on the curb, splintering it into black plastic glitter.
But I reproach myself. They want you to punch them. That’s their wettest dream. A paparazzo punched in the solar plexus is a bottom-feeder who never has to work another day. No more endless late nights, coffee breath, melted candy bars on the passenger seat, weaving suicidally through Saturday-night Rodeo Drive traffic because the word is, Chris Brown just left Mr. Chow’s . . .
I just grit my teeth, turn the key in the ignition, and pull away from the curb. I glance back at my three kids. Chandler and Jesse Jr. look pretty bummed out, but Sunny, mercifully, seems okay. For a second, nobody says anything.
“Want to listen to some music?” I ask, finally.
“Dad,” says Chandler. “Will those guys be at school when we get there?”
I look in my rearview mirror. “Well, they’re following us. So, yeah, I expect they will.”
“Can’t you lose them?” asks Jesse Jr.
“Not with you guys in the car.”
“How long do you think they’re going to keep following us to school?”
I glance at him through the rearview. “Don’t know.”
As I drive to the high school to drop off Chandler and Jesse, no fewer than thirty cars follow behind me closely. We arrive at the school, and I pull up to the side of the parking lot, as close to the doors as possible.
“Go ahead, hurry. Before too many of them can get out of their cars.”
They gather their things hurriedly, Chandler clutching her books to her chest, and Jesse Jr. tossing his backpack over his shoulder.
“Hey,” I warn. “If anybody at school gives you any crap, just don’t listen to them. It’s none of their business what goes on in our family.”
“Dad, come on. We’re not listening to anyone.”
“All right,” I say. “I love you guys. Go on. Hurry up. Get out of here.”
They flee into the school without looking back. I turn to the backseat, to my daughter Sunny.
“You ready to go to school, Sun?”
She nods. “Daddy?”
“Yup?”
“Where’s Sandy?”
I chew my lip as I consider my answer. Well, sweetie, the truth is, I have no idea. Daddy fucked up, real, real bad, so your stepmommy decided to disappear for a few weeks.
“She went away,” I say finally, pulling out in traffic. Instinctively, the jackals fall into pursuit formation behind me. We set out down the street toward Cubberly Elementary.
“Is she ever coming back?”
“Are you wearing your seat belt? Put on your seat belt, sweetie.”
“It’s on,” says Sunny, impatiently.
“Just making sure.”
We weave our way through the narrow streets of Long Beach, down Fourth, across Broadway, down to East Livingston. Everywhere I go, the swarm mirrors my movements. Cars swerve next to me, in front of me, buzzing me from all sides as their shutters click and their lenses refocus, retracting and extending, struggling to get a clear picture through my tinted windshield. Shooting digital is the cheapest part of the whole operation, so they roll endlessly, with infinite patience, waiting for something interesting to happen. Together, we crawl forward as a mass.
For a strange moment, I almost feel empowered by these idiots and the devotion they show for me. They’re zealots. They would follow me to the ends of the earth. I could take us on the most boring of errands, and they would follow in rapture. Just as easily, I could lead them into the belly of the beast, South Central gang territory or a cartel-run border town in northern Mexico. Tempting as that is, my daughter is with me, so I remain calm.
We make our way into the parking lot of Sunny’s school. I stop the truck and hop out of the cab, walking to the back door and opening it swiftly.
“Okay,” I say, unstrapping her from the backseat. “We’re here. Ready to be a good girl for Dad?”
“Yep. I’ll be good,” Sunny agrees.
“So what we’re gonna do,” I say, “we’re gonna walk real, real fast, and I’m gonna kind of be a shield to you, okay? I’m gonna be super big,