American Outlaw - Jesse James [66]
“Really, Boyd?” I said, impressed. It was a brand-new Astrovan, lowered, with cool seventeen-inch wheels. “I dig it.”
“Something to drive that hot pregnant girlfriend of yours around in,” Boyd explained.
“Gotcha,” I said, laughing.
“It’s not a fucking present,” Boyd said. “Just so you know. It’s on loan, so get that through your head. But you’re doing real good. Just look at it as a small bonus, to let you know my heart’s in the right place.”
Unfortunately, the word got around real quick that the boss had given me a car. Right away it started getting a little political and cliquey in there. Guys who’d started to open up and accept me clammed right up.
“Boy, I wish I had a new car,” one of the guys complained loudly, as he passed by my wheel station. “That’d be pretty sweet.”
“Yup,” said another guy, shooting me a hateful look. “My Jag’s about dead. I guess we’ll all have to hitch rides with Jesse James. That is, if he’ll be so kind as to pick us up in that shiny new van of his.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I complained to Karla, that evening. “Why should I be putting my energy toward a team that actually resents me for doing the best job I can?”
“Maybe you should give notice,” she suggested. “That doesn’t sound like a very healthy environment.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “But we’re not exactly doing a million in retail yet, are we?”
I’d set up a space in the garage where I could build my fat fenders, and I’d manufactured a few of them from raw material. My design was good, and my craftsmanship looked up to par; I’d put one over the rear wheel on my Harley and to me, it looked pretty damn cool. But a nagging problem remained: Who was I going to sell them to?
I was stumped. On top of the issue of sales, my problems seemed magnified by a shadow of doubt: try as I might, I couldn’t quite accept the idea that I could actually become a successful person by starting my own motorcycle business. When we were growing up, the biker world simply wasn’t respectable—it was for Hells Angels and speed freaks. Even though I loved this work, the thought of a man working steadily at this particular craft to support his family still seemed a bit foreign to me.
And I wasn’t the only one having doubts.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Karla said. “Because, I’m actually curious. But I mean, why would anyone pay so much for a motorcycle fender?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I admitted. I placed my hand on her growing belly to soothe me. “It is kind of odd, when you stop to think about it.”
“I mean, why do guys care so much about bikes in the first place?” Karla wondered, her arms folded.
“Beats me,” I said. “One of life’s greater mysteries.”
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that there was a pretty good answer to Karla’s question. Motorcycle fans saw themselves as rebels, just like punks did. Rejecting the status quo of society generally takes a certain kind of courage, but more than that, it takes style.
I was a jock turned delinquent turned bodyguard turned welder. I knew my market: men. They were ex-cons, trespassers, and reprobates; but more, they were guys who saw themselves as fitting in somewhere outside of normal. A fierce-looking chopper was their indispensable outlaw badge. When they thought about peeling out, riding into the desert, boots smoking with the speed of the ride, I wanted Jesse James and West Coast Choppers to be the first name off their lips.
“Yep, honey,” I said to Karla, affectionately running my hand over her stomach once more. “Pretty weird. I really have no idea why anyone gives a damn.”
——
So for the time being, I stayed on at Boyd’s, ignoring the dirty looks my coworkers sent my way. Fuck them, it wasn’t like Boyd had given me a Porsche. At night, I hung with my lady and teased her about being pregnant.
“Hey, you want one?” I asked, motioning to my beer.
“Real funny, Jesse,” she sniffed. “God, I wish you could be pregnant for just one day, and see how easy it is.”
“I got troubles of my own,” I cried. “I’m out there trying to start a business! Make a buck for this