American Outlaw - Jesse James [71]
“Goddammit!” Rick would cry, frustrated, every time he’d hear the mechanical screech of the fax machine go off, followed by the sounds of an order being printed. “How are we ever going to get ahead?”
That thing used to go all day. Orders for tens of thousands of dollars used to stream in, hour after hour. It was almost magical. But I was working constantly, and it was wildly stressful. I was sleeping about three hours a night. Still, when I was building a crate in the driveway outside of Doyle’s to ship a $20,000 order that I did in one week, it made it all worth it, and then some. For the first time in my entire life, I truly felt successful.
“You’re looking good,” Karla told me one night when I’d finally dragged myself home to our tiny house. “Tired, but good.”
“I’m happy,” I told her.
“We’re really doing it, huh?” Karla asked.
“Yeah, I guess we are. It’s kind of amazing.” I opened up the refrigerator and took out a beer. I took a drink from it, and looked my girlfriend over for a long second. “You know, you look really good, too. I think being a mom agrees with you.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely,” I said. “Are you the hottest mom in Long Beach?”
She socked me on the shoulder. “Jesse, you’re such a sweetheart.”
I opened up the refrigerator again and stared into the pale light. “We have anything to eat in here?”
“Oh,” Karla said. “I made some pasta. Chandler and I ate earlier. But I think it was mostly her eating, and me cleaning up.” She laughed. “Go on ahead and take a shower. I’ll heat it up.”
I kissed her. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
“I know,” said Karla, moving past me, lighting the gas on the stove. “Now, if you will please go wash yourself, I would be eternally grateful. You smell like burned tires or something.”
I kissed her on the back of her neck. In the next room, our baby daughter slept an untroubled sleep. In my heart, I knew things could never get better than this moment. Somehow, we’d made it to the top.
10
We just got bigger and bigger.
Orders piled up. I hired another welder, a dude from El Salvador named Eduardo. He had attitude: “I can weld all day, so just watch me.” I watched him. I purchased another planishing hammer, so me and Rick could both work on shaping metal at the same time. All day long, the pneumatic hammers would pound metal . . . BAMBAMBAMBAM! It was a fine orchestra: the sssstth of the welding torch, sending sparks flying up over Eduardo’s darkened helmet, the constant crreeeeecch of the fax machine . . . plus the Circle Jerks and Bad Brains and Suicidal Tendencies . . . I brought a huge Peavey amp and a pair of thousand-dollar Pioneer speakers . . . a finger touching the dial delicately . . . music smashing up against my eardrums . . . the din hurting my head . . .
“Turn off that fucking music!”
“Oh, sorry Doyle,” I said, laughing. “I didn’t see you there. This is how my team works, man!” I turned down the tunes and shut down my planisher. “That better?”
“No,” he shouted. “My ears are bleeding. Your music sucks.”
“Aw, stop moaning, you big baby,” I said. “Hey, Doyle, I think I’m gonna need to hire some polishers soon. This is way too much for me and Rick to handle. You know anyone?”
“How much you paying? I might take the job on myself. My weight machines aren’t selling for shit,” he sniffed. “This is crazy, what’s going on here, Jesse.”
“Told you, Doyle,” I said modestly. “Didn’t I say I was gonna need more space soon?”
“Well, do you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about what direction I want to go in. This fender shit pays the bills, but I want to shift over to making whole bikes.”
“Better money?”
“Better everything,” I said. “See, I got a picture in my head of the kind of bikes I want to see. No one’s making them. Everyone’s caught up on that same old shit—”
“Grandiose fucker,” Doyle interrupted me. “Sure, I’ll rent you some more space. Take over this whole building for all