American Outlaw Part 3

"Gonna buy buy anything this time?" anything this time?"

"Maybe," I said, rifling through the tapes as fast as I could. "You guys have that new Misfits alb.u.m?"

"Nah," the clerk sighed. "Try me later this week. Maybe you can shoplift it then."

So they were on to me. I didn't really care. I loved the music. I was going to get it any way I could. Suicidal Tendencies, D.O.A., Circle Jerks, Black Flag-it was all just full-on aggression and rage and manic energy, channeled into thrash. To people who hated the sound, I know it probably sounded like a bunch of screaming. But to those of us who loved it, it was powerful. It was a way to say that something rotten and fake and wrong was going on in the world. Punk said we'd evaluated the situation, and weren't going to nod along. manic energy, channeled into thrash. To people who hated the sound, I know it probably sounded like a bunch of screaming. But to those of us who loved it, it was powerful. It was a way to say that something rotten and fake and wrong was going on in the world. Punk said we'd evaluated the situation, and weren't going to nod along.

Punk was sort of the opposite opposite of jock in that way, actually. of jock in that way, actually.

If I was going to listen to Social Distortion, then I needed punk style. style. No punk would be caught dead with long hair, let alone Tom-Dixon-blow-dried-jock hair. I longed to shave my head, like a true hard-core, but I couldn't, because my dad wouldn't let me. I shaved my head exactly one time, and afterward, he wouldn't talk to me for a couple of weeks. He was just a d.i.c.k like that. No punk would be caught dead with long hair, let alone Tom-Dixon-blow-dried-jock hair. I longed to shave my head, like a true hard-core, but I couldn't, because my dad wouldn't let me. I shaved my head exactly one time, and afterward, he wouldn't talk to me for a couple of weeks. He was just a d.i.c.k like that.

So I settled on the flattop as a compromise. My barber was a retired military dude who'd cut hundreds of heads every week for twenty-five years running. He slapped apple pectin on my scalp, so the bristly blond strands stood straight up, looking tough.

Of the flattop, my dad approved. But it remained clear that no matter what, I'd be fending for myself when it came to school clothes. Exasperated, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Hidden under my mattress, I still had most of the cash that I'd gotten from the burger stand robbery. Gingerly, I removed the giant wad of money and flipped it through my hands carefully. Even after all this time, the faintest whiff of French-fry grease still clung to it.

The preppiest store in the Tyler Mall was GHQ. All the rich kids shopped there; the s.h.i.+rts in the windows at GHQ were precisely the same ones that the preps would be wearing in the halls on Monday mornings. Publicly, I scoffed at the f.u.c.kers, but secretly, I wished I could show up to school just once looking store-bought. I'd never had the money for it before. Looking at my wad, I knew it was time.

The heat felt stifling as I stepped out of my house. I had no wheels, so I had to hoof it over to the mall. Only a few determined strides into my journey, I was sweating hard. By the time I got to the store, my ratty s.h.i.+rt was soaked all the way through.

"Man," I muttered, disgusted, trying to peel my s.h.i.+rt off my chest. The Tyler Mall felt freezing. Blasts of air-conditioning made the wet fabric next to my skin feel like a cold blanket. I felt ridiculous, and for a moment, I considered turning back-but that would be like admitting defeat. I'd come this far. So, ducking my chin into my chest, I stumbled my way into GHQ.

"Can I help you?" A very pretty girl who appeared to be several years older than me, maybe a college freshman, was working the counter. She stood there, looking tan and cool, like she'd never sweated in her entire life.

I was still out of breath from my walk. "Yeah," I huffed, then paused to compose myself. I never quite knew what to say to really pretty girls. "I need to get some . . . s.h.i.+rts."

She smiled warmly. "We have lots of those. Do you know what kind of s.h.i.+rts you're looking for?"

I blushed, momentarily at a loss. "Something . . . with a collar?" I mumbled.

"Something . . . with a collar, collar," she said teasingly. "Hmm . . . wait, what about this?" She moved to the nearest rack and pointed her elegant hand at a long-sleeved b.u.t.ton-down Madras s.h.i.+rt.

"Yeah," I said. "That looks good."

"You know, we also have that s.h.i.+rt in red."

"Okay."

"Okay . . . to which s.h.i.+rt?" She smiled and leaned over the counter. The tiniest fraction of her bra could be seen down the front of her blouse. My pulse quickened.

"Both," I said, woozy. "In fact," I said, clearing my throat, "I'll take every color you have in that size."

"Every single color?"

"Every color," I repeated, fingering my wad of stolen money. I looked up and met her gaze fully for the first time. "And then I'd like to look at some pants."

She smiled at me. "Let's get you all set up, hon."

I walked out of GHQ half an hour later, my hands full of bags and boxes. I'd bought all the s.h.i.+rts they had in my size, plus about six pairs of nice pants, and a pair of slip-on boots with a black sole. Yeah, I was feeling like the preppiest punk in Riverside, indeed.

I threw on my new threads as soon as I got home. Primping in front of the mirror in my bathroom, I couldn't believe what I saw reflected back at me. For the first time outside of the football field, I liked the way I looked. Repeatedly, I sniffed at my s.h.i.+rt, savoring its aroma: brand new.

Grinning, I waltzed into the living room, clad in new pants, new s.h.i.+rt, and new boots. I hung out there, watching TV, feeling pretty d.a.m.n good. Then my dad came home from work. He took one look at me and frowned.

"Jesse."

"What's that?" I was watching the screen and didn't look directly at him.

"I'm gonna need you to go change."

"What are you talking about?"

He pointed at my s.h.i.+rt and my pants. "Go change out of that costume."

"What are you talking about?" I was confused. "Why?"

"Doesn't look right," he said.

"Huh?"

"You look like a f.a.ggot f.a.ggot in that!" in that!"

I stared at him, stunned.

"Go change."

And he left the room.

I sat there for a few minutes, stung. Soon Joanna hovered over me, her arms crossed. "You heard your father. Hurry up and change into your regular clothes."

"Beat it," I muttered.

She took a deep breath. "Jesse, I don't want to have to tell you again."

I stomped out, slamming the door behind me. I knew what my dad was so p.i.s.sed off about. It wasn't that he knew I'd stolen money-he wouldn't have cared about that. Rather, he'd realized I could survive without his help. I didn't have to go through him anymore.

I set off down the road to Bobby's. His house was only about ten minutes away from mine-we lived in the same s.h.i.+tty part of Riverside. I was still fuming when I got to his house.

"Jesse James, f.u.c.k me, you've gone fas.h.i.+on model!" He cackled, taking in my tacky new duds. "So, s.e.xy, what's happening?"

"Cut it out," I said. "My dad's already been giving me h.e.l.l."

"Sensitive," Bobby observed.

"My stepmom is even worse," I complained. "I hate that little b.i.t.c.h."

"No way, James," Bobby disagreed. "That stepmom of yours is cute, cute, man." man."

I groaned. "Come on, Bobby."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's disgusting."

"Disgusting?" Bobby asked. "I don't think so, my friend. That blond hair? So darn Bobby asked. "I don't think so, my friend. That blond hair? So darn cute cute. I'd do her in a heartbeat. You would, too, if you had the chance."

"You're sick."

"Were you born without a p.e.n.i.s?" Bobby said seriously. "It's okay if you were. I swear I won't tell anyone."

"Dude, come on."

"Man, that is tough. tough. But I promise, I'll never tell a soul." He kept up his serious face for about five seconds, then fell over laughing. But I promise, I'll never tell a soul." He kept up his serious face for about five seconds, then fell over laughing.

"You're an idiot."

Bobby cackled. No one could crack up Bobby like Bobby himself. "Now look, man, cheer the f.u.c.k up. cheer the f.u.c.k up. That's an order." That's an order."

"I am cheered up," I grumbled. "You've made a big difference."

"Finally," Bobby sighed. "Jesus. Can we go steal s.h.i.+t, now?"

I wasn't going to tell him the truth, of course: that in part, Joanna freaked me out because I had come across a stash of naked pictures of her when I was twelve.

I was all alone in the garage after school one day, picking through the thousand or so magazines that my dad had collected across the years at flea markets and swap meets. He'd bought up stacks and stacks of old McCall's McCall's and and Life Life magazines and magazines and Sat.u.r.day Evening Post Sat.u.r.day Evening Posts and National Geographic National Geographics on the cheap; some were valuable collector's items, others were just discolored garbage that he hadn't gotten around to throwing out. From time to time, I leafed through them idly, just for something to do.

I was methodically making my way through a stack of Post Posts when I came upon a small box with a canvas cover on it. Just for the h.e.l.l of it, I decided to open it. When I did, I found a black-and-white photograph of Joanna wearing a thin, lacy teddy. She was contorted in an awkward position that showed off most of her skinny little body.

"What the h.e.l.l . . . ?" I muttered.

I peeled the picture back, revealing another. There was a whole avalanche of them. In some, my stepmother's lips were puckered up dreamily. In others, she offered up a teasing pose. With equal parts dread and curiosity, I slowly examined each photo in the stack. A blank expression often played upon Joanna's face, as if she was receiving direction she didn't quite understand. In most, a freckled hand was atop her bare hip, awkwardly.

Joanna was small and pasty, with blunted b.r.e.a.s.t.s and an epic bush. This was the woman behind my nightly meat loaf. I felt confused, and somehow tricked. You don't want to see your stepmom naked. At least, I didn't.

I shoved the photos back underneath the stack of McCall's McCall's and left the garage, face burning. and left the garage, face burning.

Joanna left awhile after that. It had nothing to do with my discovery.

"Dad?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"Where's your wife?" About a week had pa.s.sed with no trace of my stepmom. We had eaten dinner alone together for several nights running, mostly in silence.

He took a long, slow look at me. "Joanna doesn't live here anymore."

"Uh . . . where does she live?"

"Don't know," my dad admitted. After a second, he laughed shortly. "Try asking the guy she ran away with."

I didn't quite get it, but later I concocted a theory that Joanna and my dad had been "swingers." It was the right era, and that would explain the racy pics. My dad was always a real ladies' man, with a silver-tongued kind of charm. Maybe the photographs were meant to be sent off to swingers' magazines, so on weekends they could ride out to Bakersfield or San Bernardino, taking part in wacky wife-swaps and oiled-up orgies. Of course, I had no evidence of this, but hey-I was in high school and I had a vivid imagination.

He'd posed her like a plastic love doll, but never in his wildest dreams could my father have predicted that his obedient and sedate wife of four years would suddenly spring to life, bouncing off over the Fresno horizon with another guy. Who the h.e.l.l understood women, anyway? Who the h.e.l.l understood women, anyway? And so, just a few years after she'd entered my life, Joanna was gone. And so, just a few years after she'd entered my life, Joanna was gone.

So began a brief, cautiously happy era. It was just me and my dad at home together, like a couple of bachelors. I would cook or he would. I'd watch TV and he wouldn't care what it was. I was staying up late and he didn't seem to mind. Dishes got done haphazardly. But peace reigned in the James household.

"Jess!"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Need you to work tomorrow for me."

"I have school, Dad. Tomorrow's Friday, remember?"

"Then you're just gonna have to be sick. I'm going to Pasadena for a big job, and I need you to help me out." He grinned at me. "Your old dad's getting feeble. He needs the young blood to step up and do its part."

I flushed with pride. "h.e.l.l yeah." It didn't matter to me that I had a test the next day in algebra.

The next day we both woke up at six and ate breakfast together. "You want coffee, Jess?"

"No, thanks."

He laughed. "Come on, kid. Live a little. Try coffee the way I do it: plenty of sugar and plenty of cream. A coffee made the right way can be a whole meal. Give you vitamins you need for the rest of the day!"

I grinned. "Okay. Just a little bit."

"That's what I'm talking about!" my dad bellowed. He reached out and pounded me in the chest twice. "My son is a walking beast, G.o.ddammit!"

In his better moments, my dad seemed to me like the perfect combination of Redd Foxx and George Carlin. He could make me laugh without even trying. I remember literally crying, tears running down my face, listening to swap-meet stories of his that I'd heard a million times before.

I loaded up his trucks like a madman. I tossed mattresses every which way, stacking boxes of books and antique tables next to refrigerators next to dinettes next to racks of chairs.

"Careful, careful!" my dad warned. "You're wasting room, Jess! No, no f.u.c.king way! Let's start this over. Don't half-a.s.s it. Unpack the whole thing. Start over from scratch."

Turning around on a dime, I started unloading the truck. Just like on the football field, I attacked any physical task with enthusiasm and a kind of animal rage. I was going to be the and a kind of animal rage. I was going to be the best in the world best in the world at packing up junk trucks. No one would do it faster or better or meaner than me. at packing up junk trucks. No one would do it faster or better or meaner than me.

My dad just watched, a bemused look on his face.

"Much better. f.u.c.k, kid," he said, laughing, "I should keep you out of school every day. My life just got ten times easier." better. f.u.c.k, kid," he said, laughing, "I should keep you out of school every day. My life just got ten times easier."

The swap meets became my home away from home, and molded me into an even weirder teenager than I already was. Besides Bobby, I just didn't have that many friends my own age. My peer group wasn't really kids, they were my dad's friends, Rick and Joey and Paul and Ronnie, sleazy pimplike dudes who were constantly running game, smoking cigarettes, and cutting deals, wearing three-quarter-length leather trench coats with floppy denim hats and loving every minute of it.

"Look at the milkers milkers on that one," Joey would say, motioning toward a young blond California mom pus.h.i.+ng a stroller. on that one," Joey would say, motioning toward a young blond California mom pus.h.i.+ng a stroller.

"Watch the mouth, Joe," Rick would go, laughing and motioning to me. "The kid isn't used to that kind of language."

"h.e.l.l he isn't! He's seen a pair of t.i.ts before. You know what a good rack looks like, dontcha, Jess?"