American Outlaw - Jesse James [65]
“We need another welder around here,” I continued.
“That’s very funny,” Karla said.
“What?” I said, smiling. “A little fella with a strong set of hands is just what I need out there in the garage.”
“How do you know it’s going to be a boy?” Karla asked, her hands on her hips.
I looked at her quizzically. “I’m Jesse James. Of course it’s going to be a boy.”
When I let Boyd in on the news, he grinned real big at me.
“Congrats, kid. And listen, if that girlfriend of yours wants another baby, just let me know.”
Boyd reminded me of my dad sometimes. He was a good hustler. I think out of everyone I’ve ever met, he was just the master of massaging money out of people. I can’t even count the number of times people came into the shop all pissed, threatening to sue him, because their superexpensive custom car had some imperfection in it, or wouldn’t be ready on the agreed-upon date.
“You promised!” they’d scream, red-faced, spitting into Boyd’s face.
“Listen, can I talk to you?” he’d ask them seriously. “I’d like to tell you precisely what occurred with your car; I think you’ll find it very interesting.” And he’d shoulder them into his office, like they were the last friend he had on the earth. Forty-five minutes later, the pair would walk out arm in arm, and Boyd would escort them to the parking lot, where he would bid them a respectful adieu.
“What happened?”
“Wouldn’t you know?” Boyd would say to me, shaking his head, impressed with himself. “That fucker just sprung for two more cars.”
Boyd had a softer side to him, too. He was dedicated to employing developmentally disabled adults in his shop. The whole time that I worked there, Boyd had three or four of these guys in there, working alongside his team of seasoned pros to churn out hot rods. I didn’t quite get it at first—obviously, they slowed down our production schedule to some degree, and I was always a stickler for moving fast. But after a very short while, I discovered that I loved working and learning alongside these guys. They just had the biggest hearts ever. One really special worker was named Gregory. Boyd tended to coddle Gregory, but I treated him just like any other coworker.
“Yo! Gregory. Come here for a second. I got something to tell you.”
He would put down his tools and look at me, interested.
“Hey man,” I’d whisper. “Fuck you.”
Gregory’s eyes would get all wide. “Fuck you, Jesse!”
I was never happier than when I was buying Hershey bars and Dr Pepper’s on my breaks, and trying to feed them to Gregory to get him all wired on sugar. He also loved Power Rangers, so I’d always wind him up good by starting conversations about them.
“Boy, you like those Mighty Morphins, huh, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Gregory, looking excited. “Goldar!”
“Goldar’s one of the bad guys, though, isn’t he? Are you a bad guy, Gregory?”
“Yes.” He squinted at me, giving me his best impression of an evil villain.
When Gregory celebrated his fortieth birthday, I bought him a big Power Ranger glove, one that made all these electronic sounds. Man, his eyes sure did get big when he unwrapped that glove.
“For me!” he said, cradling the glove possessively.
“Now, hold on, that glove is not for Gregory,” I said, “it’s for a badass Power Ranger, okay?”
His birthday was on a Friday. The following Monday, bright and early at seven a.m., his parents showed up with him at work. They were very old, and this morning they looked very tired.
“Are you Jesse?”
“I am,” I said.
His mother handed me back the box gently. “Thank you very much, but we’re going to have to return this to you.” She cleared her throat and looked sideways at her son. “Gregory hasn’t been to sleep yet this weekend.”
“Whoops,” I said, reddening, as I accepted the box. “Hey, Power Rangers have to sleep, too, Gregory,” I reminded him.
For a while, Boyd’s was like home for me. But then things started to get bumpy. I was making the shop a ton of money with the wheels, and Boyd started to treat me with favored son status. The grumbling started then, and it only worsened when Boyd gave