American Outlaw - Jesse James [60]
The band wailed on unrelentingly. Some punk’s boot came down smashing on my busted thumb, shooting waves of awful pain. A knee slammed into my back, and for a moment, I lost consciousness. I was twenty-four years old, and I was done with this shit.
——
When I arrived at my mom’s house the next day, I had a cast on my arm, a bandage on my head, and a perfect imprint of a Nike tennis shoe on my chest, where a doctor had stepped on me to snap my arm back into place.
“Jesse!” my mom said. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Don’t ask,” I said. My head pulsed with pain. “But I’m getting out of the security business.”
“Well, I’m glad,” she admitted. “Those people weren’t good company for you. What do you intend to do?”
“Oh,” I mumbled. “I’ve got a plan.”
I’d been working on a little shovel pan straight-leg frame-custom Harley for about a year in my mom’s garage. I’d taken my time on it, spared no expense, and in my opinion, it had come out really good. Whenever I’d take it out, people would really dig it, ask me questions about it. I decided the bike might serve me well as a kind of portfolio piece, and I started to take it around to shops to see if I could get a job on the strength of the work I’d done on it.
Performance Machine was the biggest Harley custom brake manufacturer in Long Beach. The owner, Perry Sands, knew my dad, so it was a natural that I’d ask him for a gig.
“Take a close look, man,” I said, after introducing myself and telling him what I had in mind. “This bike has Performance wheels and Performance brakes.”
“Sure,” Perry said, looking it over carefully. “I can see that. But which shop put this together for you?”
“Nobody,” I said proudly. “I did it myself, in my own garage.”
He gave me a doubtful glance. “Uh-huh. I bet you did. And I guess you painted it yourself, too?”
“Yes, I did,” I said stubbornly. “I can do all this stuff. If you give me a chance, I’ll show you. I’ll work hard as hell.”
Frowning, Perry gave me the quick up and down. “How about that busted arm?”
“I heal quick.”
Eventually, Perry offered me a job in the back of his shop, installing brakes and doing whatever dirty work needed to be done.
“Pay’s twelve dollars an hour to start. How’s that sound to you?”
“Kinda shitty,” I admitted, “but I’ll take it.”
“Good.” He laughed. “You start tomorrow.”
Performance Machine was just like the shipyard. I came in early and left late. When I was in the shop, I put my head down and worked like an animal. Soon, the great feeling that I’d had in Seattle returned. I was using my hands and my mind to make something beautiful and functional and cool. The work gave me a natural high, every single day, even though I was just pretty much a grease monkey there.
Soon, Perry and his brother Ted took a shine to me, probably because I was so serious about the whole job, especially for a kid.
“You actually like this crap, huh, Jesse?” they said.
“It’s okay,” I said nonchalantly.
“Get a load of him!” Ted said with a laugh.
Being back in Long Beach had another advantage: it helped me focus on my relationship. Karla and I were still going strong, and as each day passed, we seemed to get more serious.
“Jess, your hair is getting so long,” she said one evening, as we were drinking beers together in the hot kitchen of her cramped Huntington Beach apartment. “It’ll be longer than mine soon.”
“Just working up the nerve to apply to Captain Cream’s,” I explained.
“You are a weirdo!” said Karla, laughing. “Oh my God! I’m dating a freak.” I drew her closer to me and kissed her on her pretty, tanned shoulder. She took a long pull at my beer. “Who lives with his mom.”
“My mom’s all right,” I said, defensively.
“But as a roommate?” Karla wrinkled her nose. “You can do better than that, Jesse.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “I don’t think anyone else would put up with me.”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” Karla said quietly. She ran her fingers through my hair thoughtfully, from my scalp to the back of my neck. “I think I might be able to do a pretty good job.”
So that was that: Karla and I decided