American Outlaw - Jesse James [143]
“I was probably a little out of control.” I laughed. “I remember this one time, my buddy, he stole a vintage Schwinn from outside of my house. I caught up to him the next night at a party and confronted him, like, ‘Hey, man, give my bike back!’ but he wouldn’t do it, so I called him out into the street.”
The other residents smiled, and prepared for one of those “my life was so crazy way back when” stories that all AA meetings specialize in.
I was just about to indulge them, just about to conclude my story with and then I jumped on his back like a fucking monkey, and rode him into the ground. BAM, just beat the living shit out of him, there was blood flying everywhere . . .
But instead, I just burst into tears.
I sobbed, right there in front of everyone, for a long minute.
“Whoa,” I said finally, taking a huge, crazy breath. I was trembling. “Man. I’m sorry. Where the fuck did that come from?”
“It’s okay, Jesse. Take a second to tune into what’s going on inside you.”
I took in another big inhalation. I was actually really spooked; I’d never just started crying for no reason before.
“I’m . . . I was just thinking about how many times I’ve used my fists to settle things in my life,” I said. “I guess the truth is, I feel kind of bummed about it.”
“Why do you think you were in so many fights?”
“Why do you think?” I snapped. “I was a messed-up kid! That’s the only thing I knew.”
“All right, Jesse,” said Ben, our lead therapist. “Take note of what you’re feeling now. This is important.”
“I’m fucking angry,” I said. “All right? That’s how I feel.”
I stared at the faces around me in the circle. Quietly, they gazed back at me.
“You all want me to break down or something,” I complained. “Well, I’m not doing it.”
“No one wants you to do anything,” Ben assured me. “We’re here to listen. The important part is for you to . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember, concoct my own narrative, or whatever. Well, I got news for you. My narrative fucking sucks.”
“Listen,” he said. “We do a role-playing exercise here, where we have members of our group act out a pivotal scene from one person’s life. I’m wondering if that might be helpful to you today, Jesse.”
I stared at him balefully. That was about the last thing I wanted to do at this moment. All I wanted to do was run, get off the grounds, do anything but be here.
But you said you’d work as hard here as you did everywhere, a little voice inside my head reminded me.
“Aw, fuck, I guess so,” I grumbled.
“Great,” Ben said. “So first of all, you have to pick out a memory. Something that stirs up emotions in you, makes you feel sad, or outraged, when you recall it . . .”
“No problem,” I said flatly. “Got mine.”
“Okay,” Ben said. “Now, how many characters are there going to be?”
“Just me and my dad,” I said.
“How old are you?”
“I’m seven. My dad is, I don’t know, in his thirties.”
“Who wants to play seven-year-old Jesse?” asked Ben. A balding guy named Phil raised his hand. “Great. And can I have a volunteer to play his father?”
Tim raised his hand.
“Okay, great. So set the scene for us, Jesse. What are we looking at?”
I grimaced. “You really want to do this?” I breathed in deep, then began to tell my story. “Fine. Me and my dad are tossing around the football. It’s late at night, and we’re in the yard behind my house.”
Phil and Tim pantomimed passing around a football.
“We throw it around for a while, then he tosses the ball over my head. It goes into this open field right next to our house. And I’m scared of the dark, so I don’t want to go in there.”
No way, Dad. I’m not going over there.
“And my dad, he says to me, you better get your ass out there and get it. His face clenches up real bad. I can see the cords in his neck, and I get real scared. Then he starts to chase after me . . .”
The memory was coming back to me, even more vividly than when I had told Sandy. My