American Outlaw - Jesse James [3]
And suddenly, my satisfaction from winning a temporary, meaningless battle against a couple of bottom-feeding photographers turns sour in my throat. What’s the point? I think bitterly. None of this will stop the real story: my front-page failure.
I crush the gas pedal to the floor, flying through the envelope of rising earth, as if maybe, if I go fast enough, drive recklessly enough, I can disappear through the cloud, into a place where my mistakes never existed, where I had never betrayed myself so infinitely in the first place.
Go.
1
I’ve had a violent life.
When I was six, my parents split up after a crazy screaming fight in their bedroom that ended with my dad punching something and breaking his hand. When I was seven, I took my first ride on a chopper, courtesy of my mom’s drunk boyfriend. I got trashed for the first time when I was ten, on California Coolers. Pretty standard blue-collar upbringing, I suppose.
By the time I was fourteen, I’d grown into a huge, strong, confused, zit-faced punk. My main purpose in life seemed to be stealing shit from the Riverside mall, alongside my best friend, Bobby, a beefy guy with long hair and a mess of scars on his forehead, just like a WWF wrestler.
Bobby was a fearless, relentless, and almost absurdly enthusiastic thief. Not a week went by without him honing his skills.
“Let’s take us a little walk, Jesse. What do you say?”
“Aw, man,” I groaned. “Really?”
I was tired, and I was hot. It was the summer of 1983, and Riverside, California, was in the midst of yet another sticky, smoggy heat wave.
“You heard me, man! You haven’t been stealing SHIT lately. You’re getting soft. Worse than that, you’re getting lazy. Come on. Get up off your ass. We’re going to the mall. Let’s steal shit.”
Bobby led the way, strutting through the heat of the Riverside afternoon, wearing a three-quarter-length-sleeve Ozzy Osbourne Howl at the Moon baseball shirt. I followed him dutifully, dragging my large feet, squinting in the bright sunlight as I eyed the industrial crap that dotted our landscape: the brake shops, the strip-mall vet clinics, a batting range. Finally we made it down to the Tyler Mall, where we headed toward our favorite target—the RadioShack.
“Watch the master work,” I announced, as we stepped through the doors.
“Sure, fucker,” Bobby said. “Go ahead.”
As I took a slow lap around the store to divert the salesman, I checked out the merch, casually.
“Poor bastard,” I whispered to Bobby when I reached him again. “Doesn’t suspect a thing.”
“Wow,” he said, totally unimpressed. “You’re a real operator, James. I’m just so proud to know you.”
“Quiet, buddy. Watch and learn. Watch and—” I cut myself off midsentence. The clerk had turned momentarily to assist a customer, leaving his back to us. I reached out and swiped a Sony Walkman, stuffed it under my shirt and under the waistband of my jeans. I hopped out of the store in a quick beat.
My heart was amped. I racewalked to the other end of the mall. Every so often, I glanced back over my shoulder: no one was following. I was safe.
Twenty minutes had elapsed before I dared to come back to the RadioShack side of the mall. As I approached, I saw Bobby’s hulking figure appear on my horizon. In his thick arms, he appeared to be cradling an entire home stereo system.
“You still here, asshole?” He hefted a receiver, amp, and two speakers.
I stared at him, confused. “How did you . . . get that?”
“Nothing to it.” He stared right back at me. “Should we head home?”
“Bobby, man,” I said, laughing. “How’d you just walk out of RadioShack with a full system?”
He shook his head at me sadly, like I was slow. “You dumbass, I just stared the clerk dead in the eyes and walked out with it. I mad-dogged him.” Bobby grinned at me, proudly. “I got real big balls on me, James.”
Stereos were all fine and well, I guess, but I felt more badass when we were stealing cars. Second- and third-generation Camaros were ideal, because