American Outlaw - Jesse James [86]
First, Jimmy Kimmel invited me on his show. Then Conan O’Brien made the call. I did the appearances, and with pleasure, but the whole time, I was kind of befuddled: Is this really happening to me?
I had to face it: I was getting famous. It was quite a bizarre realization to come to each morning, as I pulled on my T-shirt and beat-up Dickies and considered my face in the mirror. Often, it almost embarrassed me. I was just a welder. Why didn’t anybody get that?
“You know what?” I said to Bill, as I came into work. “You used to be able to scare people away by being a motorcycle dude. I mean, wasn’t that kind of the point?”
“I know, I know,” he said, shaking his head. “No one looks very frightened out there, do they?”
Seemingly overnight, West Coast Choppers had turned into Disneyland. Crowds of suburban bikehounds stationed themselves out front, ogling the shop, vying for a glimpse at the crew, their little kids crying and tugging at their hands. To capitalize on the crush of people, we set up a new retail area of the shop, where the fans could blow thirty bucks on a pink West Coast Choppers baby-tee, or a black Maltese cross ball cap. We got them coming and going.
“I can’t help but hate it,” I admitted. “It’s lucky I quit drinking, boy, or I’d tell ’em to get lost, real quick.”
“Can’t do that,” Bill said. “These people love you, man.”
“That’s exactly what I can’t stand,” I said. “I mean, it would be one thing if they loved me for doing something worthwhile, right? But I’m making mutated cars. It’s stupid.”
“Well then, why don’t you do something worthwhile?” he said, reasonably.
I thought about that for a while. When I took a big step back, I realized how lucky I was. I had two kids who I loved more than anything in the world. If I could use some of this new fame I’d accumulated to help a couple of children who’d gotten a raw deal, then at least I wouldn’t feel like such a fraud every morning when I saw the crowds.
About a week or so later, I mumbled into my phone, “Uh, is this the Make-A-Wish foundation?”
“Yes, it is. Can I help you?”
“I’m Jesse James,” I began, haltingly. “And, well . . . I run a custom motorcycle business in Long Beach, and I’d like to extend the invitation to some kids to come on by and meet us.”
Right away, I knew that I had made the right call. I was not much of a do-gooder, but I’d always genuinely dug kids, and kids who were hurting even more so. From the very first child who came by with Make-A-Wish, I was hooked and into doing anything I could for them.
“You think a lowrider that serves ice cream cones would be a good idea?”
“Yeah!”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “we haven’t got that one built yet, but if your mom says it’s okay, I can take you for a ride in my low-rider—how about that, would that be cool?”
“Yeah!”
“Better put on your seat belt,” I said, grinning. “I drive pretty fast.”
After some time of doing volunteer work, a friend of a friend contacted me and told me that her seven-year-old son, Tyler, had leukemia, diagnosed as terminal. The family lived almost across the street from our shop, so right away I made plans to meet him.
“Tyler, I heard that you dug monster cars and trucks.”
“I like bikes the most,” he said, quietly.
“Well, how about you come take a ride with me sometime?” I asked. “My bikes are right across the street. You can come any time you want.”
“Yeah, but my mom says I’m sick, so sometimes I’m too tired to get out of bed.”
My heart felt heavy. “Well, I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Maybe I can bring you some cool remote-control bikes for your room. You can screw with ’em from your bed, and not even have to move an inch.”
His eyes brightened a little. “Yeah. That’d be