American Outlaw Part 24

"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 aside brothers with gold teeth peeking out of broken mouths. A fat Jesus with a shower cap carried his cross through the mob.

"These are my people," I explained to Rick.

"I may need a few more beers to deal with them," he said.

We ducked into a strip bar, where I switched to vodka and cranberry. "Make it strong," I warned the bartender, "or I'm leaving." I frowned, watching an elderly-looking biker s.l.u.t doing a full split on the filthy, beer-stained floor. Hey, nice leather thong, Hey, nice leather thong, I thought, feeling the flush of the alcohol in my face. I thought, feeling the flush of the alcohol in my face.

We sat back in the corner, our backs pressed up against vinyl cus.h.i.+ons, progressively getting drunker and drunker. Strippers with flabby stomachs circulated through the bar, proposing lap dances. We waved them away impatiently.

"I'm feeling sick," I told Rick. "I need some dollar bills to throw at people."

Rick handed me a handful of dollars. Slowly and carefully, I folded them over, twice, then three times.

"I used to play football." I hefted them up toward the stage, one hand on my drink. "Watch me go."

Drink after drink, I drained sweet liquid through thin red bar straws, laughing, as my dollar bills. .h.i.t blond strippers on top of their hair. The grimy dollars fell to the floor, looking diseased in the purplish neon of the Daytona nightclub.

The phone in my pocket rang. I looked at the number. It was Karla.

"Hi, honey. honey."

"Where are you?" she said.

"We're at the club, baby," I said. "Me and Rick."

"What a surprise," Karla said, annoyed.

"Baby, do you know how many T-s.h.i.+rts we sold?" I began, triumphantly.

"I don't care, Jesse, I really don't," Karla said. She sounded exhausted. "Look, I'm just calling you because I need to know, are you coming back to Long Beach tomorrow, or Tuesday?"

"Call the shop." Rick goosed me in the side, pointing out a very fat dancing girl. I stifled a giggle. "Because right now, now, I just don't have any idea." I just don't have any idea."

"Yes, I'll call the shop," Karla hissed. "They'll tell me when my husband is coming home. That's just tell me when my husband is coming home. That's just great. great."

"You're killing my buzz, Karla," I said, p.r.o.nouncing every word carefully. "Murdering it." it."

"Well, I won't do that anymore," she said, furious, and hung up the phone.

I held the phone up to my face for several seconds longer, though I knew it was dead.

"Who was that?" Rick asked, not taking his eyes off the stage.

"My wife," I said. "She was curious to know if you and I are going to have another vodka and cranberry here, or move on to the next bar."

"Next bar," Rick said.

The street was a blur. We stumbled down it. For s.h.i.+ts and giggles, I pushed a big meathead-looking jock in the back.

"Watch it, douche bag!" he yelled.

"You want to throw down?" I mumbled. A sour taste came up in my mouth and I vomited in front of me, coming about an inch away from ruining my jeans.

"Let him go," the guy's girlfriend told him. "He's totally wasted."

Rick steered me into another club. We sat behind the bar and listened to heavy metal on the s.h.i.+tty speakers. I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar. A douche with leopard-spotted hair sat next to me. I waved at him in the mirror.

"Hi!" I said. "You have a lot of earrings, don't you?"

He frowned at me. "Whatever, dude."

"No, really," I cried, "your earrings go all the way up to the top of your ear! Did you even see see that? Hey Rick, get a load of this feller's s.e.xy little hoop earrings!" I laughed uproariously. that? Hey Rick, get a load of this feller's s.e.xy little hoop earrings!" I laughed uproariously.

"Calm down, Jesse," Rick said.

"I am calm," I told him, calmly. "Waitress," I said. "Oops. I mean, bartender. bartender. Barkeep! We'd like a bottle of vodka, over here." Barkeep! We'd like a bottle of vodka, over here."

"A bottle?" she said.

"An entire bottle, miss," I answered. "Your best stuff. I want to show you a secret talent of mine."

The bartender sighed. "Sure." She placed a half-filled bottle of Smirnoff's in front of me. "What's your talent?"

"This," I said. "Duck."

I picked up the bottle by its neck, and, as hard as I could, hurled it into the mirror. The mirror and the vodka bottle exploded into a spray of gla.s.s shards. Rick and I winced.

"What the f.u.c.k was that!" the bartender cried. the bartender cried.

I sat there and swayed sickly in my seat in the silence that ensued. "I'll . . . uh . . . pay for that mirror."

"Jesse," Rick said, hooking an elbow around my midsection, hoisting me to my feet. "I think it's time to go."

11.

"Sir? Sir? Sir? Is everything all right in there?" Is everything all right in there?"

Each brisk rap against the airplane's restroom door felt like an ice pick jabbing into my brain.

"Sir? Excuse me?"

In response, I vomited loudly and explosively, spattering the small stainless-steel toilet with a frightening-looking gush of phlegm and blood. Turbulence rocked the plane and, sweating, I let my forehead play back and forth against the cheap industrial mirror, trying to find some coolness there.

"He's been at it for half an hour," I heard the stewardess complain to a coworker. "It sounds like he's dying in there."

I groaned. "I'm fine," I mumbled miserably. My voice was so low, I knew no one had heard me. "Honestly."

But the saliva was building up in my mouth again, acidic and nauseating. An icy s.h.i.+ver surged through my arms and chest, and I knew what was coming next. I positioned my mouth over the toilet and once more retched convulsively, my eyes tearing up, my diaphragm clutching, tight and miserable. nauseating. An icy s.h.i.+ver surged through my arms and chest, and I knew what was coming next. I positioned my mouth over the toilet and once more retched convulsively, my eyes tearing up, my diaphragm clutching, tight and miserable.

I squinted down at the toilet. It was filled with vomit.

This isn't me, I thought. I thought. This isn't how I want to live. This isn't how I want to live.

"Excuse me." The stewardess knocked relentlessly, annoyed. "Sir, is everything all me." The stewardess knocked relentlessly, annoyed. "Sir, is everything all right right in there?" in there?"

"Yup," I gasped, leaning up against the wall. I pushed the flush b.u.t.ton with my knee, and tried to steady myself. "I'm coming right out."

"I made a decision," I told Karla on the ride home from the airport. "I'm quitting drinking."

She said nothing, just gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"Seriously," I said. "I know I can do it. Will you support me?"

She remained silent, staring instead into the thick traffic as we weaved our way down the 405 South, toward Long Beach.

"Well, h.e.l.l," I said, slightly offended. "I knew you wouldn't be happy happy to see me, but I guess I was . . ." to see me, but I guess I was . . ."

"Jesse!" Karla cried. "Shut up! Just shut up!"

My insides curled up inside me. I could tell something bad was about to happen.

Karla began crying. She sobbed softly, as she gripped the wheel, her forearms tensing.

"This traffic," she whispered finally. "It's ridiculous."

"Karla," I said. I put my hand on her knee. "Karla, please stop. What's going on? Tell me."

"I just . . ." she said. She sniffed, shaking her head. "I just can't live like this."

"But I'm going to stop boozing, I told you. I promise."

"It's not the drinking, and you know it." Her face was the picture of exhaustion and resignation. "You're not here for me. You haven't been for years." of exhaustion and resignation. "You're not here for me. You haven't been for years."

I sunk back in my seat.

"I'll try harder."

Karla shook her head. "Jesse, our marriage hasn't worked for a long, long time. You're obsessed with your business. And when you want to have fun, you choose going out with your friends over spending an evening with me, every time."

"But I can change, change," I protested. "We could go to a counselor, or something like that . . ."

She gave me a tight, sad smile. "I'm sorry-it's just too late. It's over, baby. And you know it."

I sat there in silence, absorbing the news. The wheels of our big black truck rolled across the pavement quietly, sunlight streaming into the cab, harsh and unwelcome.

Only a few days later, I moved out of the house. At first I slept at the shop, but soon I was able to find an apartment down the street from Karla and the kids. No matter what happened between us, I wanted the kids to have both of their parents nearby.

I felt awful, like I'd failed. But I knew Karla was right in ending it. I had never prioritized her needs. Though in my heart I'd known our marriage was falling apart, I'd never attempted to fix it. My own desires had always come first: work, partying, getting f.u.c.ked up with my friends. Deep down, I felt ashamed, and I promised myself I would never make that same mistake again.

I consoled myself by vowing to be a better dad-there, I could still redeem myself.

"Why are you picking me up from school, Daddy?" Chandler asked me.

"I want to spend some more time with you, honey." I gazed at her in my rearview mirror, strapped into her little car seat. "I miss you a whole bunch." her in my rearview mirror, strapped into her little car seat. "I miss you a whole bunch."

"Why aren't you sleeping at our house?" Chandler asked suddenly.

"It's kind of complicated," I began. "Mommy and I are taking some time off from each other. You know how you get mad at Jesse Jr. sometimes?"

Chandler nodded.

"And you don't want to be around him?"

Chandler nodded again. "Because he's a b.u.t.t-head."

I laughed. "Exactly. Well, that's the way that Mommy feels about me, right now."

"She thinks you're you're a b.u.t.t-head?" a b.u.t.t-head?"

"She sure does," I said.

"Did you tease her?" Chandler asked, wide-eyed.

"No," I said. "It's more like, well . . ."

"Daddy," Chandler said, tiring of the conversation, "when we get home, will you give me a ride on your bike?"

"Yeah," I said, gratefully. "We'll go real fast, sweetie."

Karla and I began to slowly strategize how best to be parents apart. It saddened me, but I knew our separation was for the best. The bond of friends.h.i.+p we'd formed over the course of our marriage would last, I was sure of it. Now the important thing was for us to stay close to each other, since we were going to be connected through our children for the rest of our lives.

Life at the shop continued at as hectic a pace as ever. Fenders, once our lifeblood, were now pretty much out of the picture, as we moved into producing our expensive custom choppers full-time. The demand was immense, so I raised my prices precipitously. You couldn't even get in the door without throwing down $60,000 to start. But instead of scaring people off, our high price tags only seemed to attract more interest.

"Dammit," I grumbled, peering at my steadily growing waiting list. "I'll be in my grave before I can make all of these bikes."

"Jesse," Melissa called, "I have a Thom Beers on the line. Will you speak to him?"