American Outlaw - Jesse James [94]
I wiped my hands on a rag and threw on my jacket, hustling out to the parking lot, where I hopped on my machine and headed for the highway.
Riding a motorcycle had always been my greatest comfort. It was the only place I could still go to be alone. I threw my bike into high gear. The wind tore into my face as I revved my engine, rocketing past car after car, watching as the industrial wasteland of Long Beach slowly blurred into a seamless track of colors: grays, blues, and browns. After several minutes of stinging pressure and the steady vibration of the powerful, rumbling engine, I began to feel soothed. Even capable of logical thought.
I don’t want to get divorced, I told myself. Above all else, I don’t want that to happen.
I had been through one separation already. The sense of failure had been overwhelming. To me, divorce was like giving up. And this fight didn’t seem over yet.
I knew there was someone special inside of Janine, that our connection hadn’t all been in my mind. She was a bright, vibrant woman. And there was a deep kindness to her that I felt nourished by.
She’s touchy, I thought. No doubt about that. And her temper is clearly kind of . . . unpredictable. But isn’t there some way around that?
I sunk lower in my seat and throttled the engine, slowly beginning to increase my speed. Shifting my weight subtly, hooking the big machine from one side to the other for no purpose other than to do it, I rode the intricate mass of revolving steel like a surfer rides a wave. Every muscle in my body felt tuned into the cycle’s movement, molded to its form.
Janine loved me. I was sure of it. She saw me for who I really was—a biker, a punk, a kid from a broken home—and despite all of that, she accepted me without hesitation. Didn’t I owe her the same courtesy?
I can bring out the best in her, I thought. If I’m smart about it, I can save this marriage.
The highway that I knew so well sped by me, with its dented iron railings and smooth pavement. I gazed over the drop, watching the rocky cliffs blur, all the way down into the vast black waters of Los Angeles.
——
“So what do you think about these new Softail Deuces? Cool, huh?”
“I like them. I like all Harleys, as long as they go fast.”
Tyler, the young boy with leukemia whom I had befriended several months before, hunched over a pile of motorcycle magazines I’d brought him. I sat next to him, peering over his small shoulder.
“Yeah, but how about these Yamahas?” I asked him, wrinkling my nose. “Pretty bad, huh?”
Tyler grinned. “I hate ’em!”
“What do we call them?” I prompted.
“Crotch rockets,” Tyler said.
“That’s right,” I said, laughing. “But hey, do me a favor, don’t say that around your mom. You’ll get me in trouble.”
I had taken to dropping by Tyler’s house about once a week on my way home from work. His family lived so close to the shop, it was simple for me to do. Unfortunately, his condition kept getting worse and worse.
“How’s he doing?” I asked his mom one evening after a visit, when we were outside on the lawn alone together.
“Not good,” she said, looking upset. “He may only have a few more months. That’s what the doctors say.”
“He’s an amazing kid,” I said. “Maybe he’ll prove them wrong.”
“Mom?” Tyler asked. He pushed open the screen door, joining us out on the lawn. “What are you guys talking about? I thought you were going to leave, Jesse.”
“I’m on my way,” I told him. “I was just talking to your mom for a second.”
“Do you really know Shaq?” Tyler asked, shyly. “My mom said you might know him.”
“I built a bike for him once,” I said, smiling. “I think that was the biggest bike I ever had to make.”
“Can you get me his autograph?” Tyler asked. “He’s my favorite basketball player on the Lakers.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “I better go now. Can I have a hug?”
I knelt down to give a gentle hug to the seven-year-old. As we embraced, I felt the skinniness and fragility of his body through the fabric of his T-shirt.