American Outlaw - Jesse James [75]
“We have someone on the line who would like to speak with you about purchasing a new custom, Jesse.”
Melissa was my new secretary, a tattooed chick in her thirties who sported a Bettie Page hairdo and fit the image of our upscale-yet-down-to-earth Long Beach bike shop.
In recent months, I’d hired on more than ten new employees, including a team of polishers, two master painters, more welders, and now a woman to work the phones. Karla took care of payroll. That left me captaining the ship, which recently seemed to be sailing at a faster speed every time I looked up.
“Okay,” I said, sipping my first cup of coffee of the day, scanning over an inventory sheet. “Who is it?”
“He says he’s Tyson Beckford,” Melissa whispered. She covered the phone. “Oh my God, do you think it’s the Tyson Beckford? That man is the most beautiful human being on the planet.”
Of course, it was him. Word of mouth was beginning to make our brand well known across the United States and Europe. The custom choppers we were producing were loud and brash-looking. They often inspired a kind of double take by random passersby. “Who the hell made that for you?” they asked. Through excited discussions in parking lots and at parties, West Coast Choppers had slowly begun to amass a list of wealthy clients who were very interested in seeing if they could get one of our custom bikes.
“Tell Mr. Beckford that I’ll build him a bike, but only if he takes you out to dinner,” I joked.
Melissa blushed and handed me the phone. “You better talk to him.”
Simply put, we were rolling. The shop felt like a team, and I was the natural leader. It felt like being back on the field for La Sierra—I was so serious about what I did, people naturally fell in line behind me.
Then one afternoon, Doyle approached me and asked if we could have a little talk.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to move, Jesse.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Doyle?”
“I’m sorry, kid.” He shrugged. “But I’m selling the building.”
“Why?”
“The weight machine business is bullshit,” he said. “I’m too old for it anyway. Look, a guy gave me a real sweetheart buyout, so I have to take it while I can.” He clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder. “You need more space than I can offer, anyway.”
“But Doyle,” I said, “I have all these employees. I’m putting out thousands of dollars every week just to keep them coming in to work, and . . .”
“Hey,” he interrupted, “life is not fucking fair. The deed’s already signed. You got thirty days.”
That afternoon, I rode my bike all over Orange County. Maybe I should find an upscale location in Redondo or Manhattan Beach, I thought, rich clients might dig it. But nothing looked right to me, and after a while, I realized I would never feel comfortable in the high-income tax-bracket neighborhoods. I was a roughneck. Long Beach was my home.
After days of searching, I found an absolutely massive space in Long Beach, at 718 Anaheim.
“This is as big as a city block,” Karla said, shaking her head. “You can’t afford it.”
“Yes, I can,” I said.
“Jesse,” she said, warningly. “It’s risky. Think of the overhead.”
“I can do it,” I told her. “With more space, I’ll be able to take on more projects. I can make more bikes. We’ll manufacture more fenders.”
“Who will make them?”
“We’ll hire more staff.”
“And pay them how?” Karla cried.
“Trust me,” I snapped, annoyed. “I can pull this off.”
The building at 718 Anaheim was totally trashed when we moved in, and it took two solid weeks of cleaning and construction to get it into even rudimentary shape to support a motorcycle shop. The tension mounted. Again, I had to wonder if I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
Thank God for my son and my daughter, who brought things back to such an elemental level.
“Daddy,” Chandler said, “can you make me a toy?”
That, I could do.
“What do you want, sweetie?”
“A frog!” she announced, hugging me.
Holding Chandler in my arms or listening to my infant son’s heartbeat . . . it awed me. I had basically stumbled into having kids, but now I couldn’t imagine being