American Outlaw - Jesse James [114]
“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.
We were having so much fun, and the work felt so good, that I almost forgot we were in a