American Outlaw - Jesse James [59]
Chuck Biscuit’s little brother had died of a heroin overdose. Dimwit had been a one-of-a-kinder, a great talent with a huge personality, not to mention the guy who’d hooked me up with touring in the first place. He was one of the most brutal drummers punk had ever seen, but he wasn’t invincible. The lifestyle had kicked his ass, and I saw it as a sign.
What finally pushed me over the edge, though, wasn’t the death and drugs surrounding me. Instead, it was a simple videotape.
I was working for White Zombie at the time. We were all sitting on a tour bus, headed into Detroit, when Rob Zombie leaned over to me and said, “Jesse, you like bikes, right?”
“Yes, Rob,” I said patiently. Rob knew I liked bikes. Everybody who knew me at that time understood it was all I could stand to talk about with any kind of interest. He was just giving me the needle. “Yes I do.”
“Then you’ll get a huge kick out of this.” And he flipped on the Easyriders tape.
Easyriders Video Magazine—not to be confused with the famous Peter Fonda movie of similar name—was a cheesy promotional vehicle that focused on the bearded dudes and jean-shorted chicks who inhabited the bike world. This particular episode featured some geriatric biker who apparently had done security for the Grateful Dead for about twenty-five years.
“This right here’s my baby!” said the roadie proudly, thumbing toward a decrepit Harley panhead that leaned next to a brick building, a ramshackle police-service sidecar attached clumsily to the old machine.
I squinted distrustfully at the television screen, inspecting that roadie more closely. A dirty red bandanna wrapped around his head. Beard stubble sprouted from his chin and cheeks, grizzled and irregular.
Shit, I thought to myself. Is that going to be . . . me?
Outside my window, Midwest scenery whipped by. I envisioned myself twenty years from now, with cracked teeth and flabby arms, going out on midnight runs for the band: Jess! Pick us up some speed, would ya, man? Haw haw haw! Roadies rule!
I knew I had to get out. And fast.
That night, Rob and I were screwing around backstage before the show, and he started teasing me again.
“For a big, rugged fucker, you sure are a big softy,” Rob said. “Aren’t you? I mean, tour manager? Booking rooms, are you serious?”
“I don’t have to bust heads to be a man, Rob,” I said gently.
“Scared of the crowd.” He shook his head sadly. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day!”
“Unlike your typical rock star,” I said, “I was not born with a tiny dingle.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“All I mean to say is that I have a normal-sized penis. Unlike your typical singer for White Zombie, I don’t feel the need to continually assert my masculinity in public.”
“Oh bullshit!” Rob laughed. “You’ve gone soft, Jesse. Man, you would not even stage dive now, given the chance. You old woman!”
“I’d stage dive,” I countered.
“You would not.”
“Absolutely. It’d be fun.”
“Really?” Rob said wickedly. “How about tonight?”
“How high is the stage?”
“Fifteen feet.” He laughed. “Big drop! But I mean, if that’s too high, you could wait until our gig this spring at the La Jolla Senior Center.”
“Fuck you,” I said. “Tonight’s the night.”
“When I go into ‘I Am Legend,’” Rob said, “that’s your cue. You dive right into the crowd and start surfing. That work for you?”
“I’m Jesse James,” I reminded him. “Original head-buster. In some circles, I am still ‘the man.’”
“You are so not doing this,” Rob said, laughing.
I watched the whole show excitedly, like it was my first. When White Zombie finally thrashed the opening chords to “I Am Legend,” I took a running start. My big steel-toed boots smashed hard onto the boards of the stage. At the last possible moment, I pushed off the steel lip, and, jumping as high as I could, soared directly over the crowd like a huge, ugly eagle.
Detroit fuckers aren’t stupid, though. The crowd parted like split shit, and I smashed directly down onto the concrete floor. I dislocated my elbow, shattered my radial head, broke my thumb, my nose, and my cheeks.
“Christ,” I mumbled weakly.