American Outlaw - Jesse James [69]
Karla suffered through twenty-six hours of labor, through screams and grunts and sweats. And I stayed right there with her. I was by her side when the doctor helped a baby out from within her.
“It’s a girl,” he announced, holding her up for me to see.
I almost fainted. A girl? I thought. Couldn’t be.
But then a feeling came over me, the strongest feeling I’d ever felt. I looked at my baby, and it was the oddest thing: I loved her instantly. I loved her more than anyone I’d ever met in my life. I was a father. Instantly, my life had changed. I had a daughter.
——
We named our daughter Chandler. Suddenly, I had two strong new forces in my life: a new baby and a new business I was trying my damnedest to grow. The challenges of both made me very happy.
“Let’s take her up to the Laughlin River Run,” I said to Karla.
“Jesse!” she said. “She’s just an infant.”
“Yeah, but she’s a badass infant,” I said, matter-of-factly. “And I’d like her to come to a motorcycle show with her dad.”
So Karla and I drove up to Laughlin, Nevada, with Chandler in tow. She was so small that we strapped her down to a seat with a motorcycle tie-on. I was nervous on the way up: I wanted to hurry up and get our brand out there. We set up in our booth and for the entire first day, attracted very little business.
“Is this even worth the trip?” I grumbled.
“Patience, sweetie, patience,” Karla advised. But I could tell she was feeling nervous, as well.
The second day began in much the same fashion: as they passed by, customers looked with interest at the wide fenders we had out on display, but not a single soul plunked his money down to purchase one.
“This is bullshit,” I said, slamming my hand on the table. “I’m gonna break us down early. We’re heading back to Long Beach.”
But just then, a guy named Skeeter Todd, who worked for a distributor named Custom Chrome, stopped by the booth. He looked the merchandise over with a discerning eye.
“You know what?” Skeeter said, finally. “I’ll buy as many of these as you can make.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked him, laughing, unable to believe my ears.
“No, these are great. You gotta come to Morgan Hill, though, and meet the distributor, Steve.” He looked at me seriously. “I think we can make you a hell of a lot of money, Jesse.”
Custom Chrome, at the time, was the biggest motorcycle parts distributor in the world. It was a very big deal to get an appointment with them. Karla and I celebrated hard that night.
“I wish to make a toast!” I cried, holding up a beer in our seedy Laughlin hotel room. “To good ol’ Skeeter!”
“What’s his last name?” Karla asked. Chandler was cradled in her arms, and she slept soundly. “You shouldn’t toast someone without putting his last name into it.”
That stopped me. “Man,” I said. I thought as hard as I could. “I can’t remember that dude’s last name.”
Karla remained unfazed. “To Skeeter,” she announced regally.
“Hey, no!” I cried, remembering: “To Skeeter TODD!” I swigged my bottle of Coors, putting it down easy. Then, in victory, because I was feeling so good, I cracked open a fresh one.
——
The following Monday morning, I headed up to Custom Chrome to talk business with Steve Fisk, their head of distribution, a big guy who had been around forever. You didn’t get as high up in the food chain as Steve was without being sharp as hell. He was quick-talking, crude, and was said to be fluent in Mandarin and Cantonese.
“You do excellent work, Jesse,” Fisk said.
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “Skeeter was telling me you might want to buy a good number of pieces.”
“That’s right,” Fisk agreed. “I’m thinking a hundred dollars a fender, too.”
“A hundred dollars a fender seems a little low, Steve,” I told him calmly.
He shrugged. “Well, that’s your opinion, Jesse. But keep in mind that we have suppliers over in China, and they’re very capable of duplicating an oversized fender like yours.”
“No, they can’t,” I said, just as calmly.
He stared at me. “And what makes you say that?”
“Just a hunch,” I said. “I mean, why would we be standing