American Outlaw - Jesse James [6]
——
Back in those days, my stepmom was a young chick named Joanna who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old. I can still see her now: a rosy-cheeked, naïve blonde with a bubble butt and a Little Orphan Annie perm that circled her head like a curly yellow halo.
She wasn’t a bad lady, but she wasn’t equipped to deal with an irate fucker like me.
“Jesse, it’s dinnertime. Come to the table.”
“What’d you make this time?”
“Meat loaf!” She beamed. “Where’s your dad?”
“He’s probably doing shit,” I mumbled. “Making money . . . so he can support you.”
Joanna smiled cheerily at me, like she hadn’t heard a word. In fact, she probably hadn’t. I don’t remember her being the most attentive person I’d ever met. She never heard half the stuff I said to her, probably for the best.
“How was school, Jesse?”
“It’s still summer vacation.” I stared at her like she was stupid. “Are you serious?”
“Did you learn anything new?”
“Goddamn, I said,” my voice rising, “it’s summer, you friggin’ idiot. Are you simple?”
“Hey,” my dad said, emerging from the garage. “None of that crap in the house.” He looked tired, like he was working on some big issue. My dad was a big guy who refurbished antiques and sold junk for a living. He cut an imposing figure. He was bald on top, but he had a full beard and long hair in back. “What’s for chow?”
I pointed at the pan. “This shit.”
“Don’t say shit,” my dad said, frowning. “Your stepmom just worked for a long time to make that for you.”
“All I’m saying is, why does this meat loaf have hunks of Wonder Bread in it?” I asked. “I’m just interested.”
“That’s enough,” my dad warned.
“Bread meat loaf, with a side of ketchup,” I said. “Great combination there, Joanna.”
“Shut your mouth, Jess.” My dad glared at me. “Let’s eat in peace.”
My dad worked long hours. He was always wheeling and dealing—buying up auction lots, fixing up the crap he found, turning it into salable items. He was money hungry and talented at what he did; subsequently, his life was his business. He didn’t really have interests outside of it, as far as I could tell.
“I need you to come to the swap meet with me this weekend, Jesse.” My dad helped himself to a huge serving of Joanna’s meat loaf. “Help me unload the truck. I got a good feeling about this weekend. Gonna make a shit-ton of money if everything goes right.”
“Sure,” I said. I liked working for my dad. He paid plenty of attention to me, as long as I was laboring for him. “But hey, Dad, if I do it, can you spare a couple of bucks for school clothes? School’s gonna start up in a couple of weeks and—”
“Jesse, you know how tight things are right now.” He frowned. “I can hardly keep a roof over our heads.” He motioned to Joanna. “Now, look at your stepmom. She doesn’t bother me all the time for a bunch of new shit, does she?”
“No,” Joanna agreed. “I’m happy with the way things are.”
“But I don’t have any clothes for school, Dad.”
“I said no,” my dad snapped.
I huffed angrily. “But that’s not fair—I mean, I work for you and—”
My dad slammed his fist on the table. The plates jumped. “Shut the fuck up.” He turned to look at me with deep, angry eyes. “And quit fucking asking.”
“And eat your meat loaf,” Joanna added, quietly.
——
By now, you might be wondering why I’m not in prison or dead. The answer is simple: football. If I didn’t have football, I would have never made it. I am one hundred percent sure of this fact.
Ever since I started playing, I loved football more than anything else in my life. I was just primed for it: all the hurt and anger I felt growing up pulled me to the game, like a gravitational force. I was always a big kid—other kids’ parents used to complain about me when I was eleven or twelve, because I had a goatee. More than once, I had to bring my birth certificate to prove my age.
Once, an opposing coach demanded,