American Outlaw - Jesse James [48]
Meanwhile, I was enjoying being back. My cousin Dave showed up at my mom’s soon after I got back, asking me if I wanted to head into L.A. to go hang out at Golden Apple.
“Yeah, man, sounds like a plan.” I was always up for more comics.
We tooled down in his car and when we went to the store, the owner recognized me right away.
“Fuck, kid, you just keep getting bigger and bigger. You frighten the shit out of me, do you know that?”
I laughed. “Whatever, man.”
“Whatever, nothing! Listen, our security guy is shit. How’s about you come back and work some gigs for me? You were the best guy I ever had, seriously. No one stole anything on your shifts, swear to God. Not even the schmucks working the register!”
I thought about it for half a second. “Yeah, sure.”
I mean, why not? I didn’t have anything better to do. After all, it would get me out of the house, push me to be a little more social, which was probably a good thing. I didn’t want to become a total recluse at the age of nineteen.
Crossing my arms at Golden Apple wasn’t a particularly fascinating endeavor, but I tried to be responsible, and as friendly as a security guard probably can be. I must have looked all right doing it, though, because before too long, other folks started asking me to work security for them, too. And because Los Angeles is an industry town above all else, I quickly found myself around celebrities.
I met Rick Rubin through a friend, and that led to a ton of work for me. Rubin had just parted ways with Russell Simmons, the cofounder of Def Jam, and was on his way toward establishing Def American, his new label. Rick dug me a lot, and the feeling was mutual.
“Got a great job for you, Jesse,” he’d say. “How’d you like to work Sir Mix-A-Lot’s record release party? Everyone has to enter the club through a giant ass, you’ll love it.”
“Sure thing, man.”
“Jesse! We need you to follow Flava Flav around today. Please, make sure he doesn’t smoke any crack, okay?”
“I can do that.”
Anything Rick would ask, I’d do. He was hilarious and ridiculously talented as a producer. He just had that golden touch. Everything seemed fun coming from him or his crew. Rick got me a gig working as a bodyguard for Debbie Harry when she was making a comeback album at the Variety Arts Center, down on 9th and Figueroa. Downtown L.A. itself was a real entertaining shithole way back then. Crackheads ruled the street night and day. Etched into my brain is an image of a completely nude guy strolling down the street, reading a paper, right in the middle of the afternoon.
Almost against my will, a career began developing for me. I went to a Vandals show at Fender’s Ballroom in Long Beach, which was kind of like the CBGB of the West Coast. You could always count on Fender’s to supply a psychotic punk experience for you—they booked some of my favorite bands, like 7 Seconds, Uniform Choice, and Bad Religion, all super-intense, sweating, straining bands with power to spare. That night, the place was packed and rocking. You didn’t exactly have a mosh pit in Fender’s; it was more like the entire venue was just this giant, swirling mess, and if you didn’t want to be in it, well, you shouldn’t have come, you pussy.
I felt bodies smash up against me, arms whacking my face and shoulders. Their drummer was totally beating the shit out of the skins. I felt the high-energy music pump into my bloodstream, and I was enlivened by the collective energy of a thousand screaming fans. Just for the fuck of it, I pushed the giant, red-bearded monster standing next to me in the small of his back.
He stumbled forward, crushed two smaller dudes in his attempt to regain his balance, then pushed me in the chest. “FUCK ARE YOU DOING??” he bellowed.
“HAVING FUN, ASSHOLE!” I screamed, pushing the guy next to me so hard he fell on the ground and was trampled by tens of dirty