American Outlaw (23 page)

“I wish to make a toast!” I cried, holding up a beer in our seedy Laughlin hotel room. “To good ol’
Skeeter
!”

“What’s his last name?” Karla asked. Chandler was cradled in her arms, and she slept soundly. “You shouldn’t toast someone without putting his last name into it.”

That stopped me. “Man,” I said. I thought as hard as I could. “I can’t remember that dude’s last name.”

Karla remained unfazed. “To Skeeter,” she announced regally.

“Hey, no!” I cried, remembering: “To Skeeter TODD!” I swigged my bottle of Coors, putting it down easy. Then, in victory, because I was feeling so good, I cracked open a fresh one.

——

The following Monday morning, I headed up to Custom Chrome to talk business with Steve Fisk, their head of distribution, a big guy who had been around forever. You didn’t get as high up in the food chain as Steve was without being sharp as hell. He was quick-talking, crude, and was said to be fluent in Mandarin and Cantonese.

“You do excellent work, Jesse,” Fisk said.

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “Skeeter was telling me you might want to buy a good number of pieces.”

“That’s right,” Fisk agreed. “I’m thinking a hundred dollars a fender, too.”

“A hundred dollars a fender seems a little low, Steve,” I told him calmly.

He shrugged. “Well, that’s your opinion, Jesse. But keep in mind that we have suppliers over in China, and they’re very capable of duplicating an oversized fender like yours.”

“No, they can’t,” I said, just as calmly.

He stared at me. “And what makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch,” I said. “I mean, why would we be standing here and having this conversation, if you could get my product in China, for less money than I want?” Keeping my voice at an even keel, I continued. “You’re trying to okeydoke me, Steve, but I’m sorry to tell you—I’m not that guy.”

Fisk said nothing for a moment. Then he spoke. “What is it you want?”

“I want three things,” I said. “I want two-fifty per fender. I want a minimum initial order of one hundred pieces of each size. And the biggest thing, I want my name on each of my fenders: Jesse James, West Coast Choppers.”

He snorted. “Why would we do
that
?”

“Cause it’s no deal if you don’t,” I said. “I’m not stupid, Steve. These fenders are gonna sell like crazy for you—they’re gonna make both of us a lot of money. And if my product’s out there, I want it advertising
my
brand, not yours.”

We stared each other down for a few moments. “You’re a cocksucker,” Fisk said.

“Yup.”

He sighed, defeated. “I’ll call the legal department. We’ll get the papers drawn up.”

From that moment on, West Coast Choppers became a recognized entity. We never looked back. Our logo was part of it. Some people thought it was like a swastika, but it wasn’t, it was a Maltese cross, a symbol of valor and strength. Besides having been popular with hot rodders and motorcycle enthusiasts for many years, the symbol happens to be on every fire truck in the nation.

I didn’t mind the controversy, though. Whatever brought us more attention, I was for it. We were a new company, and we needed brand recognition. And after a very short amount of time, it began to happen for us. My fenders sold swiftly for Custom Chrome, and soon, other distributors began to knock on the door with increasing interest. I was able to take on my first employee, a welder-fabricator friend of mine named Rick Henry. He tried to help me shoulder the increasingly large load. But demand just kept on growing.

One morning, I received a phone call from a guy named Jay Sedlicek. Jay lived in Iowa. He’d gotten to know me a few years back when he’d bought some products from Performance Machine.

“I called Perry today and asked for you,” said Jay. “He said you’d gone into business for yourself.”

“True enough,” I said. “I’m doing custom fenders, mostly. Need some?”

“Actually,” Jay said, “I need a whole
bike.
Can you do that for me?”

“Man, that sounds like fun.”

It was precisely the challenge I’d been waiting for. I’d done paint work, exhaust pipes and wheels, and of course, by this time, I had fenders down pat. But Jay Sedlicek was the first guy who wanted a whole bike made to order.

“Great,” Jay said. “What’s the deposit you need?”

“How do you mean?”

He laughed. “How much
money
do you want in advance?”

I thought it over. “If you send me a check for twenty-five thousand we can get this thing popping right away.”

To my utter surprise, he did it. Jay Sedlicek was customer number one. He wanted a flat-track Sportster, a modern XR-750 with big brakes and cool wheels. Beyond that, all the design specs would be up to me.

Hmmm,
I thought.
Let’s see . . .

I bought a used bike and tore it down completely, right down to the bare frame. From there, I began to carefully build it up from the ground, constructing a gas tank, fashioning a dual stainless exhaust system, and forming custom wheels and fenders. I even designed a shaped aluminum exhaust cover, using old-school methods: hammer and mallet. It was the first time I’d tried to make an organic shape out of metal. In the end, it looked pretty gorgeous.

Of course, me being me, I wrecked the bike on its first test drive, trying to pop a wheelie at breakneck speed.

“You freakin’ idiot,” I mumbled, lying on the ground, dazed and bleeding.

So I had to start from square one and bust my ass again to
rework it in time for the deadline. But in the end, the job got done. The check stayed cashed. Jay never knew.

The orders kept coming—at a pace that surprised even me.

“Shit, you think we can keep up?” I asked Rick.

“I don’t know, Jesse,” he said doubtfully. “If this keeps up, you gotta let
me
hire someone.”

Our turning point was the day we installed a fax machine in the office. Now distributors could simply fax me purchase orders for the parts they wanted, instead of calling up and haggling with a human being.

“Goddammit!” Rick would cry, frustrated, every time he’d hear the mechanical screech of the fax machine go off, followed by the sounds of an order being printed. “How are we ever going to get ahead?”

That thing used to go all day. Orders for tens of thousands of dollars used to stream in, hour after hour. It was almost magical. But I was working constantly, and it was wildly stressful. I was sleeping about three hours a night. Still, when I was building a crate in the driveway outside of Doyle’s to ship a $20,000 order that I did in one week, it made it all worth it, and then some. For the first time in my entire life, I truly felt successful.

“You’re looking good,” Karla told me one night when I’d finally dragged myself home to our tiny house. “Tired, but good.”

“I’m happy,” I told her.

“We’re really doing it, huh?” Karla asked.

“Yeah, I guess we are. It’s kind of amazing.” I opened up the refrigerator and took out a beer. I took a drink from it, and looked my girlfriend over for a long second. “You know, you look really good, too. I think being a mom agrees with you.”

“You really think so?”

“Definitely,” I said. “Are you the hottest mom in Long Beach?”

She socked me on the shoulder. “Jesse, you’re such a sweetheart.”

I opened up the refrigerator again and stared into the pale light. “We have anything to
eat
in here?”

“Oh,” Karla said. “I made some pasta. Chandler and I ate earlier. But I think it was mostly her eating, and me cleaning up.” She laughed. “Go on ahead and take a shower. I’ll heat it up.”

I kissed her. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

“I know,” said Karla, moving past me, lighting the gas on the stove. “Now, if you will
please
go wash yourself, I would be eternally grateful. You smell like burned tires or something.”

I kissed her on the back of her neck. In the next room, our baby daughter slept an untroubled sleep. In my heart, I knew things could never get better than this moment. Somehow, we’d made it to the top.

10
 

We just got bigger and bigger.

Orders piled up. I hired another welder, a dude from El Salvador named Eduardo. He had attitude: “I can weld all day, so just watch me.” I watched him. I purchased another planishing hammer, so me and Rick could both work on shaping metal at the same time. All day long, the pneumatic hammers would pound metal . . .
BAMBAMBAMBAM!
It was a fine orchestra: the
sssstth
of the welding torch, sending sparks flying up over Eduardo’s darkened helmet, the constant
crreeeeecch
of the fax machine . . . plus the Circle Jerks and Bad Brains and Suicidal Tendencies . . . I brought a huge Peavey amp and a pair of thousand-dollar Pioneer speakers . . . a finger touching the dial delicately . . . music smashing up against my eardrums . . . the din hurting my head . . .

“Turn off that
fucking music
!”

“Oh, sorry Doyle,” I said, laughing. “I didn’t see you there. This
is how my team works, man!” I turned down the tunes and shut down my planisher. “That better?”

“No,” he shouted. “My ears are bleeding. Your music
sucks.
”

“Aw, stop moaning, you big baby,” I said. “Hey, Doyle, I think I’m gonna need to hire some polishers soon. This is way too much for me and Rick to handle. You know anyone?”

“How much you paying? I might take the job on myself. My weight machines aren’t selling for shit,” he sniffed. “This is crazy, what’s going on here, Jesse.”

“Told you, Doyle,” I said modestly. “Didn’t I say I was gonna need more space soon?”

“Well, do you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about what direction I want to go in. This fender shit pays the bills, but I want to shift over to making whole bikes.”

“Better money?”

“Better everything,” I said. “See, I got a picture in my head of the kind of bikes I want to see. No one’s making them. Everyone’s caught up on that same old shit—”

“Grandiose fucker,” Doyle interrupted me. “Sure, I’ll rent you some more space. Take over this whole building for all I care, man.”

Shifting over to creating entire custom bikes seemed like the next natural step for West Coast Choppers. I didn’t see a future in building fenders and exhaust pipes for the rest of my life. I might be able to make a living at it, but if I limited myself to making parts, then I might as well be a machine. There was probably more money in selling customs, anyway. You involved the buyer in the decision-making process, and then charged him handsomely for the privilege of weighing in on the particulars of the design.

But even more than making a bundle, I was attracted to the idea of the bike as sculpture. Harleys were gorgeous machines, but if you bought them from a dealer, they all looked the same. You plunked
down fifteen grand as an expression of your own individual badass nature, and then you lost it in the parking lot among dozens of identical copies.

It didn’t have to be that way. I had ideas for elongated handlebars, dynamic frames, silvered gussets, and chromed-out wheels. We’d capitalize on the momentum we’d generated thus far; our guerrilla advertising and enthusiastic word of mouth would do the rest. It would take a huge amount of effort, dedication, and talent, no doubt. But I was beginning to believe that I might have enough of all three to succeed.

——

As I began to spend more and more time at the shop, Karla was not pleased.

“I never see you anymore,” she said.

“Honey,” I said, “West Coast is at a fragile point. You understand that, right?”

“No. Explain it to me.”

“I just took on two more guys,” I said. “They need my guidance.”

“You just got a pool table in there, too.”

I laughed. “Well, Doyle about rented me the whole place, and we needed to fill a room. Look, can’t I blow off some steam after I get done slaving? You know, I’m working fifteen-hour days.”

“You have a daughter, Jesse. You have responsibilities at home, too.”

“I know,” I said gently. “I will try harder to make time for all of us. I promise.”

But even as I said it, I knew I was lying. The momentum was building for West Coast Choppers, and it was just too damn exciting to be away from there even for a minute. With more employees around to work the hammers, I was freed up to do design work, and I wanted to seize on it.

“What’s that?” Rick said to me, looking over my shoulder in the small office I’d converted into a drawing studio.

“A frame I’m working on,” I said. “See how it’s gonna be all elongated and smooth?”

“You think people will want to ride like that?” asked Rick dubiously, staring at the long, curved backbone and the intricate piping I’d drawn.

“I don’t know,” I said calmly. “I guess we better build one and find out.”

I slaved over the shop jig, welding the tubes for a week, failing at the work, frustrated, then coming back time and time again to correct it. Finally the piece was born: a complicated but ultimately very functional elongated custom frame that would hopefully serve as a structural base for a beautiful motorcycle.