American Outlaw - Jesse James [34]
“James,” Johnny Pinece whispered. “I hear Zuke wants another shot at you.”
I shook my head. Just wasn’t going to happen.
Christmas came when I was in there. I remember lying in my bed during the day, feeling lonely and tired. A religious group came and handed out oversized candy bars. I chewed mine slowly, ruminating. Savoring every little piece of nougat.
I asked for more responsibility. I was given a job: floor polisher. Twice a day, I’d wheel the big silver machine into the middle of the mess hall by its plastic handlebars. Unwinding the long, blue electrical cord from around its base, I’d find an outlet in the wall. The plug was big and black and had dirt and gunk smeared onto its casing, the collected detritus of ten years of hard cleaning. But I’d jam it into the outlet enthusiastically, and then flip the switch, kick-starting the whirling machine to life.
I pushed the floor polisher for two hours every day, watching the bristles speeding in a ring-shaped orbit, until they blurred with their own purposeful velocity. Patiently, I worked every inch of grime off the cafeteria floor. I worked the machine for six weeks, every day, twice a day, until it felt like it was mine.
5
When I finally got out of the California Youth Authority, I’d missed eighty-three days of class.
“Would you like to graduate, Mr. James?” my guidance counselor asked me wearily.
“You know what?” I said. “I would.”
So it was off to summer school for me. They had some pretty cool classes in summer school in those days, gotta say. My favorite was High School Cafeteria. They tossed me an apron, jammed a white paper cap on my head, and taught me how to be a short-order cook. Not bad, not bad at all. A couple weeks in, I could flip a mean hamburger. Just add ketchup.
At nights, I was back at Golden Apple, either leafing through comics or working an event. One evening my boss motioned me to his side.
“You interested in more work, kid?”
“Always.”
“A buddy of mine needs a security guy to work a volleyball tournament. He needs someone to supervise setup and breakdown—is it okay if I give him your number?”
“Absolutely,” I answered.
“Lucky kid,” he said, shaking his head. “Chicks on the beach. Man, I wish I was you!”
The tournament was put on by the AVP, the Association of Volleyball Professionals, but they were sponsored by Miller Lite, so there were all kinds of bikini girls there. One young woman in particular caught my eye. Her dark, bobbed hair and tight little body stood out against her red swimsuit.
“Need help with anything?” I asked her, hoping for a crumb of affection.
She just sort of looked me up and down.
“No,” she said kindly, after a moment. “Thank you.”
I shrugged, moved on. I don’t know, maybe she smelled teenaged convict on me. Little did I suspect that adding to my bad-boy image would catch her eye later. Midway through the summer, I amassed enough cash to get myself a used motorcycle, a broken-down, turquoise 1976 Harley-Davidson. I know, turquoise Harley: sounds pretty wretched. But this was the eighties. It was my Duran Duran bike.
I loved that cycle dearly. It seemed so incredibly fast to me. And the sound! When I started her up, the straight pipes were like two cannons going off. BAHPAHBAPABAH!! I felt like I was going to bust windshields. It was pure bliss.
The following weekend, I had another volleyball tournament, and of course I rode my cycle all the way to Manhattan Beach. As it happened, the bikini model I had a crush on saw me getting off it.
“What’s this?” she said, smiling.
“Just my Harley,” I said casually. “It needs some work.”
“Oh, wow, I love bikes!” she exclaimed, caressing the handlebars. “Do you think you might take me for a ride sometime?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, grinning, unable to believe my luck. “Anytime you want.”
“Well, how about . . . tonight?” she said coyly. Her hand drifted from the bike to