American Outlaw (34 page)

But I was finally outside of the eye of the storm, and the relief
was enormous. At last, I had the solitude necessary to be able to think clearly and begin to gain my bearings. Of course, there was an incredibly painful side to the separation, which was that for a time, I wouldn’t be with my own child.

“I want to be a dad to her,” I told Karla. “Of course I do. But I know that the moment I step in, Janine will tangle herself up in my life again. And then I’ll end up involving Jesse Jr. and Chandler, too. Soon we’ll be right back where we started.”

“None of this is easy, is it?” Karla asked.

“It sucks,” I agreed.

It left a huge, guilty hole in my heart to entrust my own child to a woman I considered unstable. But I swore to myself that it would only be temporary. Someday soon, I would be in my child’s life again.

During this rebuilding period of my life,
Monster Garage
continued to chug onward. By now it had become a reality TV juggernaut in its own right. Our ratings were terrific. The fame still felt strange to me, but I felt kind of gratified that we were making mechanics and hot rodders cool again. Blue-collar dudes, messing around in their own garages at home, hopefully felt at least a little bit proud.

I yearned to do more, though. Now that I had a little showbiz capital to throw around, I wanted to do something useful. Since I had the power to do it, I figured, why not do something that would actually make a small difference in people’s lives?

In early 2004, I told the guys in my shop, “I want to go to Iraq.”

They all looked at me like I was crazy. “What for?”

“For the kids fighting over there,” I said. “To remind them that there are people stateside who support them.”

I didn’t envision doing anything all that complicated: instead of some massive USO tour, I just wanted to take a team of soldier mechanics and transform a standard Humvee into a badass custom truck with a giant engine and some gold rims. It would be like an episode of
Monster Garage,
I reasoned. Just set in the desert. You know, in the middle of a war.

I’d befriended a producer on
Monster Garage
during the third season named Hildie Katibah, and I started to bend her ear with the Iraq idea every time I saw her.

“Do you get where I’m going with this? It would just be a real simple build, but something the kids involved would remember for a real long time.”

“It’s a great idea, Jesse,” Hildie said. “I think there’s a show there. But you know that Iraq’s probably not the safest place to go right now, right?”

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, hey, if you want to brave it, I’m behind you. All I’m saying is, it might be a hard pill for Discovery to swallow.”

Hildie was right: we put out feelers at the network, and most of the people making decisions felt the mission was unnecessarily dangerous, with no real upside. Disappointed, I agreed to shelve the idea temporarily.

Instead, we continued to film
Monster Garage
right there in Southern California, where we had our silly fun. We took a 1964 Peel Trident, said to be the world’s smallest car, and gave it a face-lift using an all-midget crew. A cool ’69 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow got transformed into a Porta-Potty pumper. We even turned a fire truck into a professional-grade brewery. I had a stellar time using my brain to dream up the outlandish vehicles, and it was always an immense, fulfilling challenge to get the crew to transform them into realities. But despite all this, I couldn’t help but notice the show was beginning to outlive its usefulness in my life.

Quietly, without even realizing it, I was becoming more serious, and more inward. The fucked-up events of recent years had quenched my thirst for chaos and thrills. More and more, I found myself wanting to focus on what was really important in life: my children, meaningful work, and people who had some kind of substance to them.

So, it was while in this general state of mind that I met Sandra Bullock for the first time. And my life would be forever changed.

——

Her godson wanted to see West Coast Choppers. That’s how it started.

It was Christmastime, 2004, when I received a call at the shop.

“Jesse, my name’s Terri. I’m calling on behalf of Sandra Bullock. I’m her assistant.”

“Hi, Terri,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Well, we have a favor to ask you. Sandra’s godson is a
huge
fan of
Monster Garage—
just huge.”

“Okay.”

“And well, Sandy would like to do something special for him for Christmas. So we wanted to ask you if perhaps you’d take some time out of your day sometime this month to give Bryan a little tour.”

I sighed. “It’s a real busy time, Terri.”

“Of course,” she said. “I understand. But it would mean the
world
to Bryan. He’s such a big fan!”

“Well, all right,” I relented. “Just an hour, though, okay?”

“An hour would be
amazing,
” Terri said. “Oh, Sandra’s going to be so thrilled. Thank you, Jesse.”

They arranged to stop over at the shop later that week, and I cleared a spot in my schedule to give the movie star and her godson the grand tour. I certainly wasn’t expecting anything romantic—while I knew who Sandra Bullock was, I wasn’t a fan. The only time I could remember seeing any of her movies, I’d been half-asleep on a plane.

“Excited to meet America’s sweetheart?” Bill Dodge kidded me.

“Huh?” I asked. “No, man. I don’t really dig movie stars. She’s probably kind of stuck-up, don’t you think?”

But when she showed up at the shop, I was immediately impressed by the big star’s warmth and friendliness.

“Hi!” she beamed at me brightly. “I’m Sandy. And this is my
godson, Bryan! He’s really excited to be here. We both want to thank you so much for taking the time to show us around.”

“It’s no problem,” I said. “So, what do you think, Bryan? You want to take a look around?”

Bryan nodded quietly. He looked really nervous, and as I led him from room to room, detailing what went on in each section of the shop, he barely said a word.

“This is our paint booth,” I said, my hand on his shoulder. “That’s where all the finishing touches happen. Some of this paint costs like five hundred bucks a gallon—kinda pricey, huh?”

He just nodded.

“Over here’s our newest chopper. It’s still got a ton of work to go, or else I’d let you hop up there and see what it’s like to ride it. Do you like motorcycles?”

Bryan just blushed and toed at the ground.

“He’s pretty nervous, huh?” I whispered to Sandy.

“He’ll be fine,” she said, putting her arm around her godson. “Your shop’s really great, Jesse. It’s so intricate. And you’re in such a beautiful building, too. When was it built, do you know?”

“Actually,” I said, happy to supply her with the trivia, “this building was constructed in 1921. It’s an old laundry facility for the port of Long Beach.”

“Oh my gosh,” Sandy said. “That’s fascinating. You’re a part of history, over here.”

“We’re trying to be,” I said, smiling.

I had sort of figured that I’d feel like an indigent welder or something, talking to a big movie star, but Sandy made me feel very at home with myself. We continued to walk around the shop with Bryan, making easy conversation about Long Beach and the responsibilities that came with having a custom motorcycle business.

“And of course you have your television show to take care of, too.”

“Yeah, I’m getting kind of sick of that, though,” I admitted.

“Really? I can’t imagine why. It’s such an inventive, fun show. When Bryan told me he wanted to come visit you, I watched a few episodes—it’s really addictive.”

The more we spoke, the more under her spell I fell. Sandy was gorgeous, but in a natural, real way. And she was so authentic and easy to talk to that I found myself completely unintimidated. In fact, I was having the time of my life gabbing with her. By the time I looked up, the hour had passed without my realizing it.

“Well, okay, Bryan,” I said, somewhat regretfully. “This concludes our tour. I sure hope you had fun.”

The little boy just looked up at me and nodded.

“He had a
great
time,” Sandy said, smiling, poking her godson playfully in the side. “We both did.”

The minute Sandy and Bryan left, I went into my office and sat behind my desk, grinning like an idiot. I just couldn’t wipe that smile off my face.

“Terri?”

“Yes, may I ask who’s speaking?”

“This is Jesse James.”

“Oh, Jesse,
hi
! How did everything go with Sandra?”

“Really great,” I said. “Listen, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Is Sandra . . . well, is she dating anyone right now?”

“Not really.”

“Well,” I said, “I’d like to ask her out.”

“Fine,” Terri said. “I’ll let her know, okay? And I’ll give you a call when she makes up her mind, Jesse.”

“No,” I said, laughing a little bit. So
this
was how you did it in A-List Hollywood, huh? “With all due respect, I’d rather not ask her
assistant
to ask her out for me. I’d like to call her up myself. Do it properly.”

Terri sighed. “Jesse, you seem like such a nice guy, but I can’t give out Sandra’s number. It’s part of my job.”

“Well, how about a good old e-mail—that’s not too invasive, is it?”

“Okay,” she said, considering. “I can give you that. Got a pen handy?”

“Right here,” I said, my ballpoint poised over a fresh, clean sheet of paper. “Give it to me.”

I sent Sandy a short message that evening, telling her what a pleasure it was to meet her, and how much fun I’d had spending the afternoon with her. I mentioned, casually, that I’d love to show her around Long Beach again—and would she care to have dinner with me, sometime?

Sandy got back to me right away: she was really flattered by my invitation, she said, and absolutely, she would love to have dinner with me at some point. Right now, though, she was extremely busy and simply didn’t have much time on her hands. She asked me to please stay in touch, and we would make a date to get together at some point down the line.

I got the point. She’d said yes, in so many words, but what she was really saying was,
eh . . . not that interested.

I kind of shrugged it off, knowing that at least I’d tried. It was probably
good,
actually, that she wasn’t that into me—after all, wasn’t my goal nowadays to be the fifty-five-year-old bachelor? I’d been through hell and back with Janine. The last thing I needed was a new heartthrob.

But something wouldn’t let me forget Sandra Bullock. Simply put, she was captivating. Everything about her was attractive: her spirit, her energy, her laugh. I loved the sensation of having walked around the shop with her and feeling like we were instant friends. There was something about this woman that made me want to know more.

So I set out to woo Sandy, over e-mail. It was funny, because most of the people who saw me on
Monster Garage
probably imagined I didn’t even know how to turn on a computer. But e-mail was the only tool I had in my belt, so that’s what I went for.

I started out sending her short, funny messages, recounting random
weird events from my life, once in a while politely asking her opinion on inconsequential matters. She always responded the same day, polite and measured, seemingly always a bit surprised to hear from me again. I kept the charm coming, though, and gradually, I upped the ante to two messages a day, then to three. Soon, we were e-mailing each other all the time. It was actually lots of fun, like a secret buddy. Finally, the day came when Sandy relented and let me graduate to the phone.

“Boy,” I said, when we first spoke. “I’m moving up here!”

“I work slow,” she said, laughing. “Friends first.”

“That’s cool,” I agreed. “I like friends.”

What began as just a spark of interest evolved into a real courtship. The great thing about talking and e-mailing with Sandy is that I actually
was
interested in what she had to say. We actually
were
friends first. She was such a sweetheart, and such a real person, that I rarely felt the need to try to impress her, to be someone I wasn’t. We were just there for each other, a sympathetic ear willing to listen to whatever problems the other person was having.

Sandy wasn’t actively filming during this time. Instead, she was spending most of her time in Austin, Texas, where several years before she’d begun to have a home constructed. Her builder had done a terrible job on the construction, though, and now she was embroiled in a convoluted legal dispute with him.

“It’s a nightmare,” she confided to me. “And I hate that I am so caught up in this case! But I can’t help it. I’m losing sleep over it.”

“I think you should move back to L.A.,” I said. “Who wants to live all the way over there in Austin, anyway?”

She laughed. “Ulterior motive?”

“Oh, maybe just a little,” I said. “So, hey, seriously, when are you visiting next?”

“In about two weeks,” Sandy said. “I have business I need to take care of—rewritten scripts to read, meetings with overbearing producers . . . you know. All that glitz and glamour.”

“Will you go out to dinner with me, then?”

“Oh, I
suppose.
” She laughed. “You’ve been the perfect gentleman to this point. I think you should be rewarded.”

“Hey, all
right
!” I whooped, overjoyed.

“Okay, calm down, calm down.” Sandy laughed. “Actually, the truth is, I’d love to see you.”

As promised, she flew into Los Angeles precisely two weeks later. We made our plans to go out. The night of our date, I drove my brand-new black Porsche 996 Twin Turbo to her house to pick her up. Kind of cheeseball, I know. But I was trying hard to be classy.

“I thought we might go to Balboa’s,” I stammered nervously. “Do you like steak?”

“Yes,” Sandy said. “That’d be great.” She patted my hand. “Calm down. It’s good to see you.”

I mostly relaxed after that, and enjoyed being in the same space as she was. At the restaurant, I noticed how nice Sandy was to the hostess, to the waitress, to the guy who took our car—to everyone.