American Outlaw (35 page)

“You kind of have to do that, huh?”

“Kind of,” she admitted. “But it’s not hard. I tend to like most people.”

“Don’t you ever wish you could just stop being famous?” I asked.

She thought about it and laughed. “Oh, I don’t know . . . only every single day, that’s all.”

I grinned. “What’s the worst thing about it?”

“Hmm,” Sandy said. “There’s so much to choose from. There was a stalker for a while. That’s a pretty big downer.”

“I just don’t comprehend stalkers,” I said. “It’s dumb.”

“You mean, you wouldn’t wait outside for twenty-four hours to steal my trash? My
goodness,
what’s wrong with you?”

“I might have tried to steal your trash,” I said, smiling. “That is, if you hadn’t agreed to go out with me.”

“Well, good thing I agreed,” Sandy said, sweetly. “Anyway, I had to see.”

“See what?” I asked.

“Well, I just wanted to know if . . .” She turned her head to look up at me. “I wanted to know if the feeling that I’d been having on the phone with you would be the same in person.”

I grinned. “And?”

“And . . . yes,” she said, laughing softly. “It’s exciting. I really like how I feel around you.”

I drove her home at the end of the night. We stopped in her driveway.

“Well, I had a lovely time,” Sandy said. “Do you think we should do this again sometime?”

“Yes,” I said instantly.

She laughed. “And when would you like that to be?”

“Tomorrow.”

We both burst out laughing.

——

Our romance grew from there, although in a much more deliberate way than I was accustomed to. I came down with the flu the next day, and I couldn’t go out. I half expected Sandy to zoom over and nurse me back to health; but no, she left town as she had planned. It became clear that Sandy wasn’t going to give her heart up easily. That wasn’t because she didn’t like me, she just wasn’t simple to win over like that. All that was cool with me, I decided. Recent experience had shown me that the chaotic, head-over-heels sensation of wild infatuation might not be the best way to begin a relationship.

Anyway, I’d always enjoyed a challenge. So I continued to court her from afar, trying to win her trust and her approval. My steadfast efforts were rewarded when, several weeks later, Sandy invited me down to Georgia, where she was working on a project.

“How about you come down and keep me company? It can get awfully lonely, way down south,” she said, laughing. “Even though I’m a Southern girl at heart.” Sandy had spent part of her childhood in Virginia and had gone to college at East Carolina University.

“Hey, my bags are packed,” I said. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

I flew down to see her, and drove a rental car out to where she was staying.

“Pretty rural,” I remarked. “What do you guys do for fun out here?”

“I’ve been running to stay in shape,” Sandy said. “These roads are really beautiful. Perhaps you’d care to join?”

We went jogging the next morning, and I couldn’t help but agree that the winding roads really were kind of pretty.

“I never do this,” I admitted. “But I have to say, it feels pretty good.”

“Gets the blood going,” Sandy gasped. “In half an hour, we’ll be ready to collapse and face the day.”

My T-shirt was soaked, and I was feeling pretty disheveled by the time we’d made our turn and headed back to Sandy’s place.

“Oh, shoot,” she remarked. “Just keep on running, okay?”

“What’s up?”

“It’s nothing,” Sandy said. “Just some photographers. They’ve been lurking around for the whole week, but I’m afraid I’ve been such a boring subject, I don’t think I’ve given them anything good. Now that I’ve got a gentleman jogging partner, they’re sure to be interested . . .”

“Are we talking about paparazzi here?” I asked, mildly amused.

“Yes, indeed,” Sandy said apologetically. “It’ll be fine. They’re minor annoyances. Just jog on by.”

When we made the last leg of our journey into Sandy’s house, I saw the small clutch of paparazzi pull out their cameras to record our entrance enthusiastically.

“I feel like I’m at the Kentucky Derby.” I laughed, as we stumbled into the house. “Photo finish.”

“It’s so stupid, isn’t it?” Sandy said. She tossed me a towel. “I’m this normal person who does acting for a living, and for some reason, these guys can make thousands of dollars selling a picture of me, I don’t know, picking my nose or something.”

“Do you really pick your nose?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, hugging me. “Ooh. I’m so sweaty. We should shower.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We should.”

It was just the best time. New romance always feels good, but there was something so wholesome and so incredibly positive about Sandy. She didn’t waste much of her time complaining, and I noticed that she seemed averse to voicing criticism, unless it was really called for. And contrary to the typical actor stereotype, I didn’t find her self-centered in the slightest. Our conversations didn’t tend to be about her, or me; instead, they were about art and film and ideas she found engrossing. Gradually, I got the sense that I was hanging out with an evolved human being. Or, perhaps a little more simply put, a grown-up.

It was kind of a laugh, because it showed me in such vivid detail how much of my life I’d been lurking around in the shadows, waiting for someone to invite me into this kind of conversation. Maybe it sounds like a load of crap, but the truth is, from the start, being around Sandy made me want to be a better guy. Whereas with Janine I was always riding that wave of her attention, watching myself reflected in her eyes, with Sandy, I saw her watching the world, and wondering how she could contribute. The better I got to know her, the more I wanted to be by her side, doing the same thing.

“Daddy, you’re in the
magazine
!” Chandler said one evening as we wheeled through an Albertson’s supermarket in Long Beach. Happily, she held open a glossy gossip magazine. “See?”

Sure enough, there I was, jogging through Georgia, alongside none other than Ms. Sandra Bullock. I scanned the caption, my eyes falling on the words “heavily tattooed biker boy toy.”

“Awesome,” I mumbled.

“Should we buy it?” Chandler giggled. “Look, you’re
sweaty.
”

“Uh, nope, that’s okay, sweetie,” I sighed. “There’ll be more where that came from.”

Sandy and I continued to see each other when our busy schedules
would allow for it. She worked very long hours, both as an actress and as a producer, and
Monster Garage
continued to keep me busy and sleep deprived. For years now, I had been shooting three weeks on, one week off. It was really starting to grind on me.

“This is just
stupid,
” I remarked, after six straight days of trying to convert an armored car into a festival dunk tank.

“Huh?” said one of the cameramen.

“It’s pointless,” I said, motioning to our almost-complete car. “I mean, it’s funny, it’s a challenge and all that . . . but would the world be a single bit worse off if we never even thought of this garbage?”

The kid just looked at me, a bit at a loss for words. “It’s . . . entertainment.”

“So’s a fucking cartoon.” I reached for my keys, walked off the set, and headed home.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I’d found myself in a relationship that was enlightening. It couldn’t help but illuminate the parts of my life where I’d been content to stagnate. I wasn’t a soap opera addict or anything like that, didn’t sit on the couch eating bonbons—far from it—but really, when was the last time that I’d tried to expand my horizons? Make myself into a well-rounded and, well, cultural dude?

“I want to confess something to you,” I said.

“Oh?”

“I’ve never been to a Broadway show.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Sandy said. “Lots of people haven’t been.”

“No, it’s not okay,” I said. “I’m hanging out with one of the greatest actresses in the world. I’d like to go to the theater with you.”

“This could be arranged,” Sandy said, grandly. “Now, what play would you like to see, Mr. James?”

“Something with Slayer,” I said.

Sandy grinned. “Uh . . .”

“Come on,” I said. “I’m kidding. Anything. Just bring me to something that I might actually
like.
”

One week later, we flew to New York, where Sandy scored us front-row tickets to
Spamalot,
the Monty Python musical. It was totally hysterical. I loved it.

“Well?” Sandy asked, grinning happily. “What do you think?”

“Dude, I’ve done Broadway!” I exulted. “Hey, did you realize there’s a whole
band
down in that pit? For the whole first act, I thought all that music was piped in.”

I broadened her horizons, too. Before she met me, Sandy had never been in a car going a hundred miles an hour.

“Are you
serious
?” I yelled, as we gained velocity, the wind from the open windows whipping at our faces.

“Why would I kid?”
Sandy screamed, her hair flying behind her.

“If I don’t go a hundred every single day,” I yelled, “there’s something wrong with my car!”

Sandy’s eyes widened as the scenery outside began to blur, and she gripped the sides of her seat with clenched hands. “Are you absolutely
sure
this is a good idea?”

“Come on,” I laughed. “You were in
Speed,
weren’t you?”

“THAT WAS A MOVIE!”
she screamed.

We were coming together. Not out of weakness or need, but as two people who genuinely liked and respected the other.

“I like the way this feels,” I confessed, during another one of our weekend getaways together.

“Me, too. When I’m alone, I laugh sometimes, thinking about us,” Sandy said. “We’re kind of like Felix and Oscar.”

“I’m Felix, right?” I said.

“Oscar.”

I caught myself looking at her hopefully. An excessive sense of wonder and deep appreciation filled me as I observed her doing small tasks, like washing dishes or typing an e-mail. Clearly, I was falling in love.

“I don’t want to promise too much,” I cautioned. “I want to warn you, I don’t like shopping. And I don’t much care for chick flicks.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll probably never pop a wheelie. Is that going to be an issue?”

“For you?” I said. “I’ll make an exception.”

Obviously, my guard was still up; it had to be. I had been hurt so badly and so recently. But Sandy was everything she appeared to be on the outside. She was a sensitive listener and a good conversationalist who was also willing to engage at a deeper level. As we slowly got to know each other more authentically, I was gradually able to admit that there were some very old hurts that I was carrying around.

“It’s been a rocky couple of years,” I admitted, laughing, late one night when we were lounging around in my living room.

“I can only imagine.”

“Janine, that whole thing . . . it was just a tornado.” I squinted, embarrassed. “The truth is, I felt like I
deserved
it. Do you understand what I mean?”

Sandy nodded. “I do.”

“I . . . I grew up in a really hard situation,” I said. “I don’t tell people about it very often.”

Sandy looked at me deeply, with real sympathy in her eyes. “I promise you, if you want to confide in me, I will never judge you for it, Jesse.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, I used to get smacked around.”

Sandy said nothing. She just watched me.

“I grew up scared shitless of my dad,” I continued. “He punched me and blacked my eye. When I was fifteen years old, he accused me of burning down our house and I got into such a big fight with him that we would literally have killed each other if we hadn’t been pulled apart.”

“Oh, Jesse.” Tears were starting to well up in Sandy’s eyes. “I had no idea.”

I was starting to cry, too. “When I was six, I was so afraid of him,” I said, my voice cracking. “He was yelling at me and I
ran away from him into the pitch-black night. I’ve never been so scared. I don’t know why anyone would do that to a kid. You know?”

“Jesse, you don’t have to . . . What happened?” Sandy asked softly.

“I tripped over a low fence. And I broke my arm.”

Sandy rose and slowly walked over to me. She embraced me in her arms, and rocked me, saying nothing.

“He
laughed
at me,” I choked, bitterly. “He heard me crying, wailing with pain, and he just laughed. ‘Why’d you trip, dummy?’ I thought he was going to kill me. But he just stood over me and he laughed.”

It was a secret I’d been carrying with me for thirty years. I wept, ashamed. I sobbed like a kid, crying into her shoulder.

——

By the summer of 2005, Sandy and I had been dating for almost six months. She was still caught up in the lawsuit surrounding her disappointing house in Austin. She was emotionally wrapped up in the case, and it was stressing her out pretty badly.

“Hey,” I said to her, “I’d like to talk to you. Do you have a second?”

We’d been getting along great. But I honestly wasn’t sure how she’d react to what I had in store for her.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Well, I . . . I just wanted to . . . I wanted to know if you’d marry me.”

She looked at me, amazed. “Are you . . . serious?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m serious. I want you to marry me.”

I had promised myself I would never get married again. But that was before I’d met Sandy. She had turned my plan upside down. She was such an impressive person from every angle—calm, stable, intelligent, beautiful, fun, articulate, compassionate. I almost couldn’t believe that one person had so many great attributes, and even more, that this person found me compelling enough to keep
around. I guess part of me looked at her and clearly envisioned just how much better she could make my life.

“Oh my God,” she said. “I . . . wow. This is a surprise.” Sandy looked like she was trying to catch her breath. “Yes.”

“Yes, as in, you’ll marry me?” I asked, nervously.

“Yes, as in
yes
!” She laughed. “Yes, I will marry you. I love you.”