American Outlaw - Jesse James [68]
“What do you think?” Doyle asked, watching me load my tools and workbench into the space.
“It’s great,” I said, enthusiastically. “But watch out. I won’t be in just one carport for long, you can bet on that. Soon I’m gonna be taking over your whole shop, Gammel.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it, Jesse. But you’re a good kid. You remind me of your dad. Always working,” Doyle said. “He stored his antiques and furniture across the street from here, way back in the seventies, do you remember that?”
“Sure, I remember,” I said.
“Now, that was a greasy sonofabitch!” Doyle laughed. “Man, that guy had so many swindles going, it was incredible. Do you remember the time . . .”
“Doyle?” I interrupted. “Do you ever talk to him? I mean, like, these days?”
“Nope,” Doyle said. “I haven’t spoken to him in years.” He looked at me. “You guys aren’t in touch very often, then, I suppose?”
“Understatement.” I laughed bitterly.
“Well, you know, maybe there’s still hope. Reconciliations can happen at the oddest of times.”
I just shook my head. “Doyle, my girlfriend’s nine months pregnant, and he doesn’t even know her name.”
Two friends of mine from the neighborhood, Fast Eddie and Jim Lillegard, came over to keep me company at the shop on one of the first days I was there. Although the new shop was pretty tiny, it still felt vast and empty compared to my own garage. I didn’t have any orders for the day, and the shop was barren of activity. My tools, scattered all over the place, looked silly and useless to me in their inactive state.
I couldn’t help but think: Man, what if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew?
Jim leaned over to Eddie and chuckled. “He’ll be out of business in a month.”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, we’ll see,” I said, finally.
Maybe I’m a stubborn sort of guy or something, and maybe I’m a little too sensitive for my own good. But that particular comment has stayed in the front of my mind for the better part of twenty years.
I’ll show you, motherfuckers.
I had no marketing team, and West Coast Choppers had zero name recognition. My only ace in the hole was quality. If the motorcycle scene had a dirty little secret, it was this: ever since the 1950s, Harleys had used great motors in their bikes, but their accessories were just sort of shoddy. They cut corners and had as much of their manufacturing done overseas as they could possibly get away with. A few other builders had made a name for themselves producing quality peripherals, but for the most part, no one was very dedicated to making motorcycle components that looked really stunning.
“I don’t care how much this costs to make, or how high the final price is,” I told Karla at home that night. “I am gonna make bitching stuff. That’s all I care about.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, breathless.
“I’m going to put my name on it,” I promised. “Jesse James and West Coast Choppers. Hey, did I tell you, I want to use this Maltese cross as our logo? People are going to go crazy, it looks so hard-core.”
“Jesse,” Karla said, her voice taking on a warning tone that, in my enthusiasm, I completely ignored.
“I mean, if people want good stuff, they should have to pay for it,” I said. “And I think they’re gonna cough up the dough, no problem! This is the right stuff, at the right time. Don’t you think?”
“JESSE!” Karla yelled. “The baby is coming!”
We jumped in the car and sped down to Long Beach Medical. With me having quit Boyd’s, we had no health insurance, but I had fender money.
“How will you be paying for the room, sir?” a nurse said to me snidely, looking at my long greasy hair and tattooed arms. “Medicaid, sir?”
I showed her my wad. “Cash.”
Funny how good they treated us after that. Karla got the biggest room around, and when her labor continued late into the evening, I was allowed to stay there with her overnight.
“Don’t leave me, okay?” she said, gripping my hand.
“Hell, I thought you were tough,” I chided her. “Thought I had a wildcat for a girlfriend, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Don’t leave,” she whispered.
“I won’t,