American Outlaw - Jesse James [136]
With morning breaking, I pulled off the highway, stopping at a gas station, my shirt soaked through with sweat. I dipped my head low, tucking my chin nearly into my chest, as I filled up the tank. Nobody better come up to me, I thought, nobody even come near me, because now is not the time.
I filled the tank without incident and settled back behind the steering wheel and gunned the engine. I ripped out of the gas station, flying off the mark, cutting against the wind, heading east toward Phoenix, racing against my own pulse calm down calm down. Then I laughed, at nothing, and the vulnerable, awkward sound I made frightened me.
Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I lowered the window and let the wind whip in at me. The coldness of the early April morning buffeted my face and neck and chest, giving me a meager sense of clarity that was gone as soon as it appeared.
I snapped on the radio, fumbling between stations. A snatch of Top 40 pop filled the front seat, somebody singing over and over imma be, imma be, imma be . . . The chorus tore at my brain, like some infant’s simple demands.
“No,” I mumbled, and pressed my thumb onto the dial, switching over to the next station, but it was even worse, something swoony and pseudo-soulful, wherever you are, whenever it’s right, you’ll come out of nowhere, and into my life . . .
“I’d rather crash into the wall again at Irwindale,” I muttered. I jabbed my thumb at the stereo again: give me something better.
“Okay, we got a great show today,” came the familiar, confident, nasal New York voice. “Listen, we got Jesse James with us today . . .”
“What the fuck?” I whispered.
“He’s a guy who first became successful when he started building motorcycles. I’ve been reading about this guy. I guess he used to be a real badass. Listen, you talk to him, Robin. Hey, Jesse, Robin wore extra cleavage for you . . .”
I sat bolt upright in my seat, unable to believe the coincidence. I’d done the Howard Stern show one year ago; and now, today, as I sped through the desert, driving myself either toward rehab or the great beyond, they were airing it again.
As the morning heated up around me, the mountains growing brighter, sharper in their cut against the sky, I listened to my voice. It was as if the show was being broadcast solely for me.
I traveled all around the world, ten times in five years . . .
. . . that whole time, all I was doing was going to motorcycle shops . . .
. . . Yup, when I was off the road, I’d just work on my bike in my mom’s garage . . .
. . . She contacted my office, and wanted to bring her godson on a tour of the shop . . .
. . . I contacted her assistant, and said I wanted to ask her out . . .
It was just almost too much to believe.
“You were married to the beautiful, stunning—who I wished I coulda had sex with—Janine Lindemulder for a while, weren’t you?” came Howard’s voice. “Boy, she must have been a monster in bed . . .”
. . . Sometimes, things aren’t what they seem . . .
“She’s one of the sexiest broads on the planet, though!”
It was surreal. I listened to myself break down the dissolution of my marriage to Janine, then go on happily to tell the story of how Sandy and I met: how she’d refused me at first; how I hadn’t stopped trying, and eventually, I’d won her over. I spoke about our relationship, about how completely different it was from any other thing I’d ever experienced.
The words sounded hollow and false. Suddenly, behind me, I saw the flashing lights of a cop car.
“Dammit, what now?”
I pulled to the side of the highway. A police officer pulled his squad car behind me and leisurely sauntered out onto the blacktop.
“License and registration.”
I handed it to him. Squinting down at the paperwork, the officer frowned, then glanced back up at me.
“What’s up?” I said.