American Outlaw - Jesse James [77]
Some months after the crew had completed their work, Thom invited me to Los Angeles to view a rough cut of the piece. I watched with a mixture of alarm and pride as the film slowly unfolded in front of me.
The version of myself on the screen rode his motorcycle to a beachside cliff in San Pedro and overlooked the Pacific Ocean wistfully.
“I feel like I spent more than half my life trying to kick the world’s ass, fight everybody, and stuff like that . . . and I’m not even really into it anymore. I just want to trip out, make the stuff I make, hang out with my kids.”
“This is cheesy,” I said to Thom. “Cut this part, okay?”
“Hold on,” he said, shushing me. “I love this section.”
“But don’t get me wrong,” the me up on the screen continued, “I’ll still punch someone. If they start shit with me, I’ll finish it.”
Beside me, Thom laughed. “You come off so real, Jesse!”
“I don’t even remember saying that,” I complained.
“We think that’s precisely what people will enjoy about you.” He turned on the lights. “You’re spontaneous, unguarded.”
“Thom,” I said, rising to leave, “I appreciate your enthusiasm. I really do. And I apologize in advance because, dude, this thing is gonna tank.”
The next two weeks were about the most nervous weeks of my life. I felt totally exposed by the footage that was going to air, and my temper was at its absolute worst. I sheltered myself in my office, alone, as I waited for my national exposure and subsequent humiliation.
On the evening the show was to air, I was sitting in my office all by myself, my stomach clenched in a knot.
“Go home, Melissa,” I said.
“Really, Jesse? There’s some more . . .”
“I said go home, please,” I snapped.
She saw from my face that I meant business. “Uh, okay,” she said, grabbing up her bag and beating a hasty exit.
I wondered how I could have been stupid enough to allow a TV crew into my private life. How could I have been so prideful and naïve, to think that anyone would actually care what happened in the day-in, day-out life of a motorcycle shop?
Just then, the phone rang.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Is this Jesse James?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“My name is Jim Newsome. I live in Detroit. I just saw your show on TV!”
“What are you talking about?” I growled. “It hasn’t aired yet.”
“It has over on the East Coast! Man, I just had to call you—I loved it!”
“What?” I said, stunned.
“Sweet work, man! So much love going into those bikes!”
“I’m . . . glad you liked it,” I mumbled, still shocked.
“Like it? Goddamn, man! I loved it!” he exclaimed. “You know when you were on that bluff, looking out over the ocean, saying you didn’t want to fight anymore? Dude, that’s me! That’s how I feel every day.”
“Really?” I said.
“Keep on doing what you’re doing, man. You’re the best.”
As I hung up the phone, my jaw dropped slightly. There were people out there who related to me.
“Jesse,” Thom told me the next day. “The ratings are insane. They’re through the roof.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not. Look, this show went crazy. So many people checked into our website, it melted our servers.”
I laughed. “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Enjoy the success,” Thom said. “And rest up, because Discovery is going to want to work with you again. I can guarantee that.”
The aftershocks were immediate and massive. Requests for custom bikes absolutely went through the roof. In the space of one week, I had a yearlong back order, with clients from around the world begging to be included at the end of the list.
“I think I’m going to have to hire an assistant,” Melissa told me. “I can’t deal with talking on the phone this much!”
“Hey, everyone,” I announced, “my secretary needs a secretary.”
Suddenly, the activity around our shop was like a beehive. We had visitors every day, folks from the Southern California area who had seen us on TV and wanted to be part of the gang.
“So this is the scary-ass dog I saw on TV!”
“That’s Cisco,” I said proudly.