American Outlaw - Jesse James [78]
The prices for a West Coast Chopper bike rose. Now I could get away with selling one of the specials for well over $100,000.
“And see, our bikes work to showcase our products, too,” I explained to Hud. He’d come by on his way home from work to grab a few beers with me and the new hangers-on, who’d posted themselves up in the corner to ride the wave of our local celebrity.
“How’s that?”
“Well, man,” I explained, “think about it. You see some fool driving around in a crazy-looking bike, with a sweet-looking custom fender, a custom gas tank, and custom air filter. Maybe you can’t afford the bike, but you could throw down for a part or two, make your own chopper look smooth.”
“Genius!” somebody said.
I nodded, proud. Slowly, I was getting caught up in the success. It felt impossible not to. I was a homemade superstar, after all; a minor-league celebrity who’d somehow managed to hit a huge home run. I could drink in local bars for free on this for the rest of my life, probably!
But the best party was at West Coast Choppers. We had crowds at all times of the day, and especially after hours. The local Harley association annually put on something they called The Love Ride. I thought it was just dumb—a bunch of yuppies with their factory Harleys with tassels on the handlebars and all that crap.
“I wanna have the No-Love Ride,” I announced. “Let’s invite all the bikers around here and have a huge kegger at the shop!”
The No-Love Ride attracted fifteen thousand people. It was just madness. I bought a hundred cases of beer and we went through them in twenty minutes. The city of Long Beach had snipers on the roof before I was able to tell the police department what was going on.
I was married to the shop, and I loved it. I sat back just like Boyd Coddington, wheeling and dealing, taking outrageous offers for custom bikes well into the evening.
“Jesse?” Melissa said. “Karla’s on the line.”
“Oh,” I said frowning. “Well, yeah, put her through.”
“Hi there, moneyman,” Karla said. “Are we going to see you, tonight?”
“What do you mean?” I said. “Sure. I’ll be home later.”
“I mean for dinner.”
“Well, no,” I said slowly. “I have to work a few more hours, Karla. Look, I’ve got about a million things to take care of . . .”
Click.
“It was nice talking with you, too,” I said to the dial tone.
Our brand had gone crazy. Motorcycle magazines began calling with offers for photo spreads.
“Jesse, we want to have you on the cover of American Iron.”
“Yeah, I’d love to have a West Coast Chopper up there,” I said. “It’d be a great honor.”
“We want to have you up there with it, Jesse. How’s that sound?”
My first thought was to refuse, but then I just shrugged. Hey, why fight it? “Yeah, sure,” I said casually. “Whatever you need.”
Within a few months, my bikes and I had graced the covers of five different motorcycle magazines. A handful of writers hailed me as the wunderkind of the chopper world. I half believed them. It was heady stuff. Heady as hell.
“Think we might sell a few more T-shirts this year down in Daytona?” Rick asked.
“Dude,” I said, “I would not be surprised.”
I wasn’t ready for the craziness, though. People were literally knocking over other vendors’ booths to get to us. It was a sea of utter biker madness, and when the smoke cleared, we’d sold $680,000 worth of T-shirts in just under three days.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Rick asked.
“Nothing would surprise me now,” I said. “Come on. Let’s celebrate.”
We headed to a bar and started slamming the brew. Straight away, I got a nice little buzz on. Everything I’ve worked for all my life is coming to fruition, I thought. I’m on the top of the heap.
“Dammit, Rick, let’s walk the strip!” I cried. “Take in all the beautiful people, those who have made us rich!”
My eyes danced. The street felt hot and humid and bright. Sweating, I walked tall through the pack of revelers, my head turning to take in the jean shorts and elastic tops, women with boa constrictors wrapped around their thin shoulders, men with ferrets perched atop their heads elbowing